It is the year of grace 1795, and the eighth of the glorious French
Revolution. For almost a century there has been friction between the
different parts of the population. A new generation has grown up in an
atmosphere of endless political debate--finally of mere political
scandal. But now the days of idle discussions are over. More than forty
years before, manifestly in the year 1745, the intelligent middle
classes began their agitation for a share in the government, a
government which during the days of great commercial prosperity has
fallen entirely into the hands of the capitalistic classes. In this
struggle, reasonable enough in itself, they have looked for guidance to
the House of Orange.
Alas! those princes who so often have led the people, who have made this
nation what it is, whose name has come to stand for the very land of
which they are the hired executives--these princes now no longer are in
direct touch with the basic part of the nation. This time they have
failed to see their manifest duty. Left to their own devices, the
reformers, the Patriots as they are commonly called, have fallen into
bad hands. They have mistaken mere rhetoric for action. They have
allowed themselves to be advised by hot-headed young men, raw boys,
filled with undigested philosophies borrowed from their
better-instructed neighbours. As their allies they have taken
experienced politicians who were willing to use this party of
enthusiasts for their own selfish purposes. More through the mistakes of
their enemies than through the virtue of their own partisans, the
Patriots have gained a victory in the Chambers of the old Estates, where
the clumsy machinery of the republican government, outworn and
ill-fitted for modern demands, rolls on like some forgotten water-wheel
in an ancient forest.
This victory, however, has been won too easily to be of any value to the
conqueror. The Patriots, believing themselves safe behind their wall of
mere words, have gone out of their way to insult the hereditary
Stadholder. What is worse, they have given offence to his wife, the
sister of the King of Prussia. Ten years before, in the last English
war, through a policy of criminal ignorance, they risked their country's
last bit of naval strength in an uneven quarrel. This time (we mean the
year 1787) they bring upon themselves the military strength of the
best-drilled country of the western world. In less than one week the
Prussians have blown together this card-house of the Dutch Patriots.
Their few untrained soldiers have fled without firing a single shot.
Stadholder William once more drives in state to his ancestral palace in
the woods, and again his clumsy fingers try to unravel the perplexing
maze of this antiquated government--with the same result as before. He
cannot do it. Truth is, that the old government is hopelessly beyond
repair. Demolition and complete reconstruction alone will save the
country from anarchy. But where is the man with the courage and the
tenacity of purpose to undertake this gigantic task? Certainly it is not
William, to whom a new cockade on the cap of his soldiers is of vastly
more importance than a reform of the legislative power. Nor can anything
be hoped from old Van den Spiegel, the Raadpensionaris, a man nearing
the seventies, who desires more the rest of his comfortable Zeeland
estate than the hopeless management of an impossible government. There
is, of course, the Princess Wilhelmina, the wife of William, a woman
possessed of all the strength and executive ability of her great-uncle
Frederick, the late King of Prussia. But just now she is regarded as the
arch-traitress, the Jezebel of the country. Alone she can do nothing,
and among the gold-laced brethren who doze in the princely anterooms
there is not a man of even mediocre ability.
For a short while a young man, trained abroad, capable observer, shrewd
in the judgment of his fellow-men, and willing to make personal
sacrifices for his principles, has supported her with vigorous counsel.
But he, too, has given up the hopeless task of inciting the Stadholder
to deeds of energy, and we shall not hear the name of Gysbrecht Karel
van Hogendorp until twenty years later, when in the quiet of his study
he shall prepare the first draft of the constitution of the new Kingdom
of the Netherlands and shall make ready for the revolution which must
overthrow the French yoke.
In Rotterdam, leading the uneventful life of a civilian director of the
almost defunct Admiralty, there is Pieter Paulus, who for a moment
promised to play the rôle of a Dutch Mirabeau. He, too, however, found
no elements with which he could do any constructive work. He has retired
to his books and vouchers, trying to solve the puzzle of how to pay
captains and sailors out of an empty treasury.
A country of a million and a half of people, a country which for more
than a century has led the destinies of Europe, cannot be devoid of
capable men in so short a time? Then--where are they? Most of them are
still within the boundaries of the old republic. But disheartened by the
disgrace of foreign invasion, by the muddling of Patriot and regent,
they sulk at home and await the things that are bound to come. Many
citizens, some say 40,000, but probably less than 30,000, have fled the
country and are exiled abroad. They fill the little Belgian cities along
the Dutch frontier. They live from hand to mouth. They petition the
government in Paris, they solicit help from the government in London,
they will appeal to everybody who may have anything to give, be he
friend or enemy. When support is not forthcoming--and usually the
petitioned party turns a deaf ear--they run up a bill at the little
political club where their credit is good, until the steward himself
shall go into bankruptcy. Then they renew their old appeals, until
finally they receive a few grudging guilders, and as barroom politicians
they await the day of vengeance and a return to the fraternal fleshpots.
Meanwhile in The Hague, where, as of old, the Stadholder plays at being
a little monarch, what is being done? Nothing!
The year 1789 comes and brings the beginning of the great French
Revolution. The government of the republic thinks of the frightful
things that might have happened if the Patriots, instead of the
Prussians, had been successful in 1787, and it draws the lines of
reaction tighter than before. At the same time a new business depression
sets in. Large banking houses fail. The West India Company of glorious
memory is dissolved and put into the receiver's hands.
Two years more and France declares war upon the republic and upon
England. The unwilling people are urged to fight, but refuse. Town after
town is surrendered without the firing of a single shot. It was the
dissension in the French camp--it was the treason of Dumouriez--which
this time saved the country, not the bravery of its soldiers. And the
moment the French had reorganized their forces, the cause of the
Stadholder was lost. In the years 1794 and 1795 new attacks followed.
Driven into a corner, with a vague feeling that this time it meant the
end of things, the defence showed a little more courage than before. Of
organization, however, there was not a vestige. In between useless
fortifications, insufficiently manned and badly defended, the French
Revolutionary armies walked straight to the well-filled coffers of rich
Amsterdam.
It was midwinter. The rivers were frozen. How often had the ice served
the invader as a welcome road into this impassable country! And just how
often had not divine Providence interfered with a timely thaw and had
changed the victorious inroad into a disastrous rout? It had happened
time and again during the rebellion against Spain. It had happened in
the year 1672 when the cowardly neglect of a Dutch commander alone had
saved the army of Louis XIV from total annihilation.
Again, in this year of grace 1795, the people expected a miracle. But
miracles do not come to those who are not prepared to help themselves.
The frost continued. For two weeks the thermometer did not rise above
the freezing point. The Maas and the Waal, large rivers which were
seldom frozen over, became solid banks of ice. Wherever the French
troops crossed them they were welcomed as deliverers. The country,
honeycombed with treason, overrun with hungry exiles hastening home to a
bed with clean linen, and a well-filled pantry, hailed the ragged
sansculottes as the bringers of a new day of light.
[Illustration: 1795. DUTCH REPUBLIC _Reproduced from Author's Sketch_]
William, among his turnip-gardens and his little bodyguard, surrounded
by his trivial court, wondered what the end was going to be. When first
he entered upon the struggle with the Patriots it was the head of old
King Charles which had haunted him in his dreams. Now he had fresh
visions of another but similar episode. Two years before his good
brother, the Citizen Capet, had climbed the scaffold for his last view
of his rebellious subjects. Since then all that was highest and finest
and noblest in the French capital had trundled down the road which led
to the Place de la Concorde.
William was not of the stock of which heroes and martyrs are made. What
was to become of him when the French should reach The Hague? The advance
guard of the invading army was now in Utrecht. One day's distance for
good cavalry separated the revolutionary soldiers from the Dutch
capital.
The jewels and other valuables of the princely family had been sent away
three months before, and were safely stored in the Castle of Brunswick.
The personal belongings of the august household had been packed and were
ready for immediate transportation. All running accounts had been
settled and closed. What ready money there was left had been carefully
collected and had been put up for convenient use by the fugitives.
Remained the all-important question, "Where would they go?" Evidently no
one at the court seems to have known. There still was a large British
auxiliary army in the eastern provinces of the republic; but at the
first approach of the French troops, the British soldiers had hastily
crossed Gelderland and Overysel and had fled eastward toward Germany, a
disorganized mob, burning and plundering as they went along to make up
for the hardships of this terrible winter. Close at their heels followed
the French army, strengthened by Dutch volunteers, guided by young
Daendels, who knew his native province of Gelderland as he did the home
town of Hattum. This time the young Patriot came as the conquering hero,
and by the capture of the fortification of Heusden he cut off the road
which connected the province of Holland with Germany.
To the north, to Helder, the road was still open. And the fleet,
assembled near Texel, was entirely dependable. But before William could
make up his mind to go northward it was too late. The sudden surrender
of Utrecht, the march of the French upon Amsterdam, cut off this second
road, too. There remained but one way: to take ship in Scheveningen and
flee to England. The only vessels now available were small fishing
smacks, not unlike in form and rigging to the craft of the early
vikings. The idea was far from inviting. The ships were bad sailers at
all times. In winter they were positively dangerous. Now, however, these
little vessels were all that was left, and to Scheveningen went the long
row of carts, loaded with the goods of the small family and their
half-dozen retainers, who were willing to follow them into exile. The
end had come. The only question now was how to leave the stage with a
semblance of dignity. William was passive to all that happened around
him, accepting his fate with religious resignation. The Princess, a very
grand lady, who would have smiled on her way to the scaffold, kept up an
appearance of cheerful contempt.
Their two sons--William, the later King of Holland, and Frederick, who
was to die four years later at the head of an Austrian army--vaguely
attempted to create some military enthusiasm among the people; offered
to blow themselves up in the last fortification. But what with ten
thousand disorganized soldiers around them clamouring for food, for
shoes, and for coats, it was no occasion for heroics. Why make
sacrifices where nothing was to be gained? Despair and despondency, a
shrugging of the shoulders and a protest, "What is the use?" met their
appeal to the ancient courage and patriotism. Old Van den Spiegel, the
last of the Raadpensionares, came nobly up to the best that was ever
expected of his high office. He stuck to his duty until the very last.
Day and night he worked. When too sick to go about he had himself
carried on a litter into the meeting hall of the Estates. There he
continued to lead the country's affairs and to give sound counsel until
the moment the French entered The Hague and threw him into prison.
[Illustration: THE ESTATES OF HOLLAND]
On January the 17th the definite news of the surrender of Utrecht, of
the imminent attack upon Amsterdam, and the approach of the French, had
reached The Hague. It was a cold and sombre day. The people in a
desultory curiosity flocked around the Stadholder's palace and the rooms
of the Estates. A special mission had been sent to Paris several days
before to offer the Committee of Public Safety a Dutch proposal of
peace. The delegates, however, who had met with the opposition of the
exiled Patriots who infested the French capital, had not made any
headway, and for a long time they had been unable to send any news. The
ordinary means of communication were cut off. The canal-boats could no
longer run on account of the ice, and travel by land was slow. Any
moment, however, their answer might be expected. But the 17th came and
the 17th went by and not a word was heard from Paris. That night, in
their ancient hall, in the dim light of flickering candles, the Estates
General met to discuss whether the country could still be saved. Van den
Spiegel was carried into the hall and reported upon the hopeless state
of affairs. A committee of members was then appointed to inquire of his
Highness whether he knew of a possible way out of the danger which was
threatening the fatherland. Late that night the Prince received the
deputies. A prolonged discussion took place. His Highness, alas! knew of
no way out of the present difficulties. Unless the thaw should suddenly
set in, unless the people should suddenly and spontaneously take up
arms, unless Providence should directly intercede, the country was lost.
The next morning came, and still the frost continued, and not a single
word of hopeful news. Panic seized the Estates. In all haste they sent
two of their members to travel east, go find the commander of the
invading army, and offer peace at any price. For when the French had
attacked the republic they had proclaimed loudly that their war was upon
the Stadholder as the tyrannous head of the nation, but not upon the
nation itself. If that were the case, the Estates reasoned, let the
nation sacrifice its ruler and escape further consequences. Wherefore,
in their articles of capitulation, they did not mention the Stadholder.
And from his side, William, who did not court martyrdom, declared nobly
that he "did not wish to stand between the country's happiness and a
continuation of the present struggle, and that he was quite ready to
offer up his own interest and leave the land." In a lengthy letter to
the Estates General he explained his point of view, took leave of his
country, and recommended the rest to God.
During the night from Saturday to Sunday, January 17-18, 1795, the
western storm which had been raging for almost a week subsided. An icy
wind made the chance for flight to the English coast a possibility.
Early in the morning the Princess Wilhelmina and her daughter-in-law,
with a two-year-old baby, prepared for flight. Inside the palace, in the
Hall of Audience, a room newly furnished at the occasion of her wedding,
the Princess took leave of her few remaining friends. Many had already
fled. Others, now that the French were within striking distance of the
residence, preferred to be indisposed and stayed at home. Silently the
Princess wished a farewell to her old companions. Outside the gate
there was a larger assembly. Tradespeople grown gray in deep respect for
their benefactors, simple folk whose political creed was contained in
the one phrase "the House of Orange," Patriots wishing to see the last
voyage of this proud woman, stood on both sides of the court's entrance.
Nothing was said. It was no occasion for political manifestations. The
two women and the baby, with a few servants following, slowly drove to
Scheveningen. Without a moment's hesitation they were embarked, and at
nine o'clock of the morning of this frightfully cold day they set sail
for England. There, sick and miserable, they landed the next afternoon.
[Illustration: FLIGHT OF WILLIAM V]
At eleven o'clock the Prince heard that his wife had left in safety. The
little palace in which he had built and rebuilt more than any of his
ancestors was practically deserted. Outside, through force of habit, the
sentinels of the Life Guard still trudged up and down and presented arms
to the foreign ambassadors who drove up to take leave. The members of
the Estates, in so far as they did not belong to the opposition, came in
for a personal handshake and a farewell.
Poor William, innocent victim of his own want of ability, during these
last scenes almost becomes a sympathetic figure. He tried to read a
farewell message, but, overcome by emotion, he could not finish. A
courtier took the paper and, with tears running down his face, read the
last passages.
At half-past one the court carriages drove up for the final journey. By
this time the whole city had made the best of this holiday and had
walked out toward the road to Scheveningen.
Slowly, as if it meant a funeral, the long procession of carriages and
carts wound its way over the famous road, once the wonder of its age,
and now lined with curious folk, gazing on in silence, asking themselves
what would happen next. In Scheveningen the shore was black with people;
and everywhere that same ominous quiet as if some great disaster were
about to happen. At two o'clock everything was ready for the departure.
The Prince, with the young Duke of Hesse-Darmstadt and four gentlemen in
waiting and his private physician, embarked in the largest ship. The
other members of their suite were divided among some twenty little
vessels, all loaded to the brim with trunks, satchels, bales of clothes,
everything, in most terrible confusion. The situation was uncomfortable.
To ride at anchor in the surf of the North Sea is no pleasure. And still
the sign of departure was not given. Hoping against hope, the Stadholder
expected to hear from the French authorities. At half-past four one of
the members of the secret committee on foreign affairs of the Estates
came galloping down to Scheveningen. News had been received from the
French. It was unfavourable. The war was to continue until the
Stadholder should have been eliminated.
[Illustration: linemap, p. 25]
The native fishermen--and they should have known what they were
talking about--declared that every hour longer on this dangerous coast
meant a greater risk. At any moment a boat manned with French troops
might leave Rotterdam and intercept the fugitives. Furthermore, the sea
was full of ice. The wind, which now was favourable, might change and
blow the ice on the shore. They all advised his Highness to give the
order to depart without further delay.
Whereupon William, in the cramped quarters of this smelly craft, in a
sprawling hand, wrote his last official document. It reads like the
excuses of a pouting child. "Really"--so he tells the
Raadpensionaris--"really, since the French refuse an armistice, since
there is no chance of reaching one or the other of the Dutch ports,
really now, you cannot expect me to remain here aimlessly floating up
and down in the sea forever." And then comes some talk of reaching
Plymouth, where there "are a number of Dutch men-of-war, and of a speedy
return to some Dutch province and to his good town of The Hague." All
very nice and very commonplace and dilatory until the very end.
At five o'clock the ship carrying the Prince hoisted her sails. Before
midnight William was well upon the high sea and out of all danger. The
next morning, sick and miserable, he landed in Harwich. There the
fishermen were paid off. Each captain received three hundred and fifty
guilders. Then William wished them Godspeed and drove off to Yarmouth to
meet his wife. It was the last time he saw so many of his countrymen.
From now on he saw only a few individuals, exiles like himself, who
visited him at his little court of Hampton and later at Brunswick,
mostly asking for help which he was unable to give.
Exit at the age of forty-seven, William V, last hereditary Stadholder of
the United Netherlands--a sad figure, intending to do the best,
succeeding only in doing the worst; victim of his own weakness and of
conditions that destroyed the strongest and the most capable. In the
quiet atmosphere of trifling details and petty etiquette of a third-rate
German princedom he ended his days. At his funeral he received all the
honours and pomp to which his exalted rank entitled him. But he never
returned to his own country.
Of all the members of the House of Orange William V is the only one
whose grave is abroad.
[Illustration: KRAYENHOFF]