"Holland has a meteorology quite her own. The winter is long, the
summer short, the spring is only the end of the winter, but
nevertheless, you see, every now and then, even during the summer, we
have a touch of winter. We always say that in Holland the four seasons
may be seen in one day. Our sky is the most changeable in the world.
This is the reason why we are always talking of the weather, for the
atmosphere is the most variable spectacle we have. If we wish to see
something that will entertain us, we must look upward. But it is a
dull climate. The sea sends us rain on three sides: the winds break
loose over the country even on the finest days; the ground exhales
vapors that darken the horizon; for several months the air has no
transparency. You should see the winter. There are days when you would
say it would never be fine again: the darkness seems to come from
above like the light; the north-east wind brings us the icy air from
the North Pole, and lashes the sea with such fury and roaring that it
seems as though it would destroy the coasts." Here he turned to me and
said, smiling, "You are better off in Italy." Then he grew serious and
added, "However, every country has its good and bad side."
The boat left the Volkerak, passed in front of the fortress of
Willemstadt, built in 1583 by the Prince of Orange, and entered
Hollandsdiep, a wide branch of the Meuse which separates South Holland
from North Brabant. All that we saw from the ship was a wide expanse
of water, two dark stripes to the right and left, and a gray sky. A
French lady, breaking the general silence, exclaimed with a yawn,
"How beautiful is Holland!"
All of us laughed excepting the Dutch passengers.
"Ah, captain," began a little old Belgian, one of those pillars of the
coffee-house who are always thrusting their politics in the faces of
their fellows, "there is a good and a bad side to every country, and
we Belgians and Dutchmen ought to have been persuaded of this truth,
and then we should have been indulgent toward each other and have
lived in harmony. When one thinks that we are now a nation of nine
millions of inhabitants,--we with our industries and you with your
commerce, with two such capitals as Amsterdam and Brussels, and two
commercial towns like Antwerp and Rotterdam, we should count for
something in this world, eh, captain?"
The captain did not answer. Another Dutchman said:
"Yes, with a religious war twelve months in the year."
The little old Belgian, somewhat put out, now addressed his remarks to
me in a low tone: "It is a fact, sir. It was stupid, especially on our
part. You will see Holland. Amsterdam is certainly not Brussels; it is
as flat and wearisome a country as can well be; but as to prosperity
it is far beyond us. Assure yourself that they spend a florin, which
is two and a half francs, where we spend a franc. You will see it in
your hotel bills. They are twice as rich as we are. It was all the
fault of William the First, who wished to make a Dutch Belgium and has
pushed us to extremes. You know how it happened"--and so on.
In Hollandsdiep we began to see big barges, small-fishing-boats, and
some large ships that had come from Hellevoetsluis, an important
maritime port on the right bank of the Haringvliet, a branch of the
Meuse, near its mouth, where nearly every vessel from India stops. The
rain ceased. The sky, gradually, unwillingly, became serene, and on a
sudden the waters and the banks were clothed once more in fresh
glowing colors: it was summer again.
In a little while the vessel reached the village of Moerdyk, where one
of the largest bridges in the world is to be seen.
It is an iron structure a mile and a half long, over which passes the
railway to Dordrecht and Rotterdam. From a distance it looks like
fourteen enormous edifices put in line across the river: each one of
the fourteen high arches supporting the tracks is in truth a huge
edifice. In passing over it, as I did a few months later on my return
to Holland, I saw nothing but sky and water, so wide is the river at
this point, and I felt almost afraid the bridge might suddenly come to
an end, and plunge the train into the water.
[Illustration: Dordrecht--Canal with Cathedral in the Distance.]
The boat turned to the left, passing in front of the bridge, and
entered a very narrow branch of the Meuse called Dordsche Kil, which
had dykes on either side, and hence looked more like a canal than a
river. It was already the seventh turn we had made since we crossed
the frontier.
Passing down the Dordsche Kil, we began to see signs of the proximity
of a large town. There were long rows of trees on the banks, bushes,
cottages, canals to the right and left, and much moving of boats and
barges. The passengers became more animated, and here and there were
heard exclamations of "Dordrecht! we shall see Dordrecht." All seemed
preparing themselves for some extraordinary scene.
The spectacle was not long delayed, and was extraordinary indeed.
The boat turned for the eighth time, to the right, and entered the
Oude Maas or Old Meuse.
In a few moments the first houses of the suburbs around Dordrecht came
into view. It was a sudden apparition of Holland, a gratification of
our curiosity immediate and complete, a revelation of all the
mysteries which were tormenting our brains: we seemed to be in a new
world.
Immense windmills with revolving arms were to be seen on every side;
houses of a thousand extraordinary shapes were dotted along the banks:
some were like villas, others like pavilions, kiosks, cottages,
chapels, theatres,--their roofs red, their walls black, blue, pink,
and gray, their doors and windows encircled with white borders like
drifts of snow. Canals little and big were leading in every direction;
in front of the houses and along the canals were groups and rows of
trees; ships glided among the cottages and boats were moored before
the doors; sails shone in the streets--masts, pennons, and the arms of
windmills projected in confusion above the trees and roofs. Bridges,
stairways, gardens on the water, a thousand corners, little docks,
creeks, openings, crossways on the canals, hiding-places for the
boats, men, women, and children passing each other on the ways from
the river to the bank, from the canals to their houses, from the
bridges to the barges,--all these made the scene one of motion and
variety. Everywhere was water,--color, new forms, childish figures,
little details, all glossy and fresh,--an ingenuous display of
prettiness--a mixture of the primitive and the theatrical, of grace
and absurdity, which was partly European, partly Chinese, partly
belonging to no land,--and over all a delightful air of peace and
innocence.
So Dordrecht flashed upon me for the first time, the oldest and at the
same time the freshest and brightest town of Holland, the queen of
Dutch commerce in the Middle Ages--the mother of painters and
scholars. Honored in 1572 by the first meeting within its walls of the
deputies of the United Provinces, it was also at different times the
seat of memorable synods, and was particularly famous for that
meeting of the protestant theologians in 1618, the Ecumenical Council
of the Reformation, which decided the terrible religious dispute
between Arminians and Gomarists, established the form of national
worship, and gave rise to that series of disturbances and persecutions
which ended with the unfortunate murder of Barneveldt and the
sanguinary triumph of Maurice of Orange. Dordrecht, because of its
easy communication with the sea, with Belgium, and with the interior
of Holland, is still one of the most flourishing commercial towns of
the United Provinces. To Dordrecht come the immense supplies of wood
which are brought down the Rhine from the Black Forest and
Switzerland--the Rhine wines, the lime, the cement and the stone; in
its little port there is a continual movement of snowy sails and of
smoking steamers, while little flags bring greetings from Arnhem,
Bois-le-Duc, Nimeguen, Rotterdam, Antwerp, and from all their
mysterious sisters in Zealand.
The boat stopped for a few minutes at Dordrecht, and I unexpectedly
observed near by a number of fresh little cottages which were purely
Dutch, and which aroused in me the greatest desire to land and make
their acquaintance. But I conquered my curiosity by the thought that
at Rotterdam I should see many such sights. The boat started, turned
to the left (it was the ninth turning), and entered a narrow branch
of the Meuse called De Noord, one of the numerous threads of that
inextricable network of the waters which covers Southern Holland.
The captain approached me as I was looking for him to explain the
position of Dordrecht on the map, for it seemed to me very singular.
In fact, it is singular. Dordrecht is situated at the extremity of a
piece of ground separated from the continent, and forming in the midst
of the land an island crossed and recrossed by numerous streams, some
of which are natural, some the work of man, rivers made half by man,
half by nature--a bit of Holland encircled and imprisoned by the
waters, like a battalion overcome by an army. It is bounded on the
four sides by the river Merwede, the ancient Mosa, the Dordsche Kil,
and the archipelago of Bies-Bosch, and is crossed by the New Merwede,
a large artificial water-course. The imprisonment of this piece of
land on which Dordrecht lies is an episode in one of the great battles
fought by Holland with the waters. The archipelago of Bies-Bosch did
not exist before the fifteenth century. In its place there was a
beautiful plain covered with populous villages. During the night of
the 18th of November, 1431, the waters of the Waal and the Meuse broke
the dykes, destroyed more than seventy villages, drowned almost a
hundred thousand souls, and broke up the plain into a thousand
islands, leaving in the midst of this ruin one upright tower called
Merwede House, the ruins of which are still visible. Thus was
Dordrecht separated from the continent, and the archipelago of
Bies-Bosch made its appearance, which, as though to show its right of
existence, provides hay, reeds, and rushes to a little village which
hangs like a swallow's nest on one of the neighboring dykes. But this
is not all that is remarkable in the history of Dordrecht. Tradition
relates, many believe, and some uphold, that at the time of this
remarkable inundation Dordrecht--yes, the whole town of Dordrecht,
with its houses, mills, and canals--made a short journey, like an army
moving camp; that is to say, it was transported from one place to
another with its foundations intact: in consequence whereof the
inhabitants of the neighboring villages, coming to the town after the
catastrophe, found nothing where it had been. One can imagine their
consternation. This prodigy is explained by the fact that Dordrecht is
founded on a stratum of clay, which had slipped on to the mass of turf
which forms the basis of the soil. Such is the story as I heard it.
Before the vessel left the Noord Canal the hope of seeing my first
Dutch sunset was disappointed by another sudden change in the weather.
The sky was obscured, the waters became livid, and the horizon
disappeared behind a thick veil of mist.
The ship entered the Meuse, and turned for the tenth time, to the
left. At this point the Meuse is very wide, as it carries away and
imprisons the waters of the Waal, the largest branch of the Rhine, and
the waters of the Leck and Yssel also empty themselves into it. Its
banks are flanked on either side by long rows of trees, and are dotted
with houses, workshops, manufactories, and arsenals, which grow
thicker as Rotterdam is approached.
However little acquainted one may be with the physical history of
Holland, the first time one sees the Meuse and thinks of its memorable
overflowings, of the thousand calamities and innumerable victims of
that capricious and terrible river, one regards it with a sort of
uneasy curiosity, much as one looks at a famous brigand. The eye rests
on the dykes with a feeling almost of satisfaction and gratitude, as
on the brigand when he is safely handcuffed and in the hands of the
police.
While my eyes were roving in search of Rotterdam, a Dutch passenger
told how, when the Meuse is frozen, the currents, coming unexpectedly
from warmer regions, strike the ice that covers the river, break it,
upheave enormous blocks with a terrific crash, and hurl them against
the dykes, piling them in immense heaps which choke the course of the
river and make it overflow. Then begins a strange battle. The Dutch
answer the threats of the Meuse with cannonade. The artillery is
called out, volleys of grape-shot break the towers and barricades of
ice which oppose the current, into a storm of splinters and briny
hail. "We Hollanders," concluded the passenger, "are the only people
who have to take up arms against the rivers."
When we came in sight of Rotterdam it was growing dark and
drizzling. Through the thick mist I could barely see a great confusion
of ships, houses, windmills, towers, trees, and moving figures on
dykes and bridges. There were lights everywhere. It was a great city
different in appearance from any I had seen before, but fog and
darkness soon hid it from my view. By the time I had taken leave of my
fellow-travellers and had gathered my luggage together, it was night.
"So much the better," I said getting into a cab. "I shall see for the
first time a Dutch city by night; this must indeed be a novel
spectacle." In fact, Bismarck, when at Rotterdam, wrote to his wife
that at night he saw "phantoms on the roofs."
ROTTERDAM.
One cannot learn much about Rotterdam by entering it at night. The cab
passed directly over a bridge that gave out a hollow sound, and while
I believed myself to be--and, in fact, was--in the city, to my
surprise I saw on either side a row of ships which were soon lost in
the darkness. When we had crossed the bridge we drove along streets
brightly lighted and full of people, and reached another bridge, to
find ourselves between other rows of ships. So we went on for some
time, from bridge to street, from street to bridge. To increase the
confusion, there was everywhere an illumination such as I had never
seen before. There were lamps at the corners of the streets, lanterns
on the ships, beacons on the bridges, lights in the windows, and
smaller lights under the houses,--all of which were reflected by the
water. Suddenly the cab stopped in the midst of a crowd of people. I
put my head out of the window, and saw a bridge suspended in mid-air.
I asked what was the matter, and some one answered that a ship was
passing. In a moment we were again on our way, and I had a peep at a
tangle of canals crossing and recrossing each other, and of bridges
that seemed to form a large square full of masts and studded with
lights. Then, at last, we turned a corner and arrived at the hotel.
The first thing I did on entering my room was to examine it to see if
it sustained the great fame of Dutch cleanliness. It did indeed; and
this was the more to be admired in a hotel, almost always occupied by
a profane race, which has no reverence for what might be called in
Holland the worship of cleanliness. The linen was white as snow, the
windows were transparent as air, the furniture shone like crystal, the
walls were so clean that one could not have found a spot with a
microscope. Besides this, there was a basket for waste paper, a little
tablet on which to strike matches, a slab for cigar-ashes, a box for
cigar-stumps, a spittoon, a boot-jack, in short, there was absolutely
no excuse for soiling anything.
When I had surveyed my room, I spread the map of Rotterdam on the
table, and began to make my plans for the morrow.
It is a singular fact that the large towns of Holland have remarkably
regular forms, although they were built on unstable land and with
great difficulty. Amsterdam is a semicircle, the Hague is a square,
Rotterdam an equilateral triangle. The base of the triangle is an
immense dyke, protecting the town from the Meuse, and known as the
Boompjes, which in Dutch means little trees,--the name being derived
from a row of elms that were planted when the embankment was built,
and are now grown to a great size. Another large dyke, dividing the
city into two almost equal parts, forms a second bulwark against the
inundations of the river, extending from the middle of the left side
of the triangle to the opposite angle. The part of Rotterdam which
lies between the two dykes consists of large canals, islands, and
bridges: this is the modern town; the other part, lying beyond the
second dyke, is the old town. Two large canals extend along the other
two sides of the city up to the vertex, where they join and meet a
river called the Rotte, which name, prefixed to the word dam, meaning
dyke, gives Rotterdam.
When I had thus performed my duty as a conscientious traveller, and
had observed a thousand precautions against defiling, even with a
breath, the spotless purity of that jewel of a room, I entered my
first Dutch bed with the timidity of a country bumpkin.
Dutch beds--I am speaking of those to be found in the hotels--are
usually short and wide, with an enormous eider-down pillow which would
bury the head of a cyclops. In order to omit nothing, I must add that
the light is generally a copper candlestick as large as a plate, which
might hold a torch, but contains instead a short candle as thin as the
little finger of a Spanish lady.
In the morning I dressed in haste, and ran rapidly down stairs.
What streets, what houses, what a town, what a mixture of novelties
for a foreigner,--a scene how different from any to be witnessed
elsewhere in Europe!
First of all, I saw Hoog-Straat, a long straight roadway running along
the inner dyke of the city.
Most of the houses are built of unplastered brick, ranging in color
through all the shades of red from black to pink. They are only wide
enough to give room for two windows, and are but two stories in
height. The front walls overtop and conceal the roofs, running up and
terminating in blunted triangles surmounted by gables. Some of them
have pointed facades, some are elevated in two curves, and resemble a
long neck without a head; others are indented step-fashion, like the
houses children build with blocks; others look like conical pavilions;
others like country churches; others, again, like puppet-shows. These
gables are generally outlined with white lines and ornamented in
execrable taste; many have coarse arabesques painted in relief on
plaster. The windows, and the doors too, are bordered with broad white
lines; there are other white lines between the different stories of
the houses; the spaces between the house-and shop-doors are filled in
with white woodwork; so all along the street white and dark red are
the only colors to be seen. From a distance all the houses produce an
effect of black trimmed with strips of linen, and present an
appearance partly festal, partly funereal, leaving one in doubt
whether they enliven or depress. At first sight I felt inclined to
laugh: it seemed impossible that these houses were not playthings and
that serious people could live inside them. I should have said that
after the fete for which they had been constructed they must disappear
like paper frames built for a display of fireworks.
While I was vaguely regarding the street I saw a house which amazed
me. I thought I must be mistaken: I looked at it more closely,--looked
at the houses near it, compared them with the first house and then
with each other, and even then I believed that it was an optical
illusion. I turned hastily down a side street, and still I seemed to
see the same thing. At last I was persuaded that the fault was not
with my eyes, but with the entire city.
All Rotterdam is like a city that has reeled and rocked in an
earthquake, and has still remained standing, though apparently on the
verge of ruin.
All the houses--the exceptions in each street are so few they can be
counted on one's fingers--are inclined more or less, and the greater
number lean so much that the roof of one projects half a meter beyond
that of the next house if it happens to be straight or but slightly
inclined. The strangest part of it all is, that adjoining houses lean
in different directions; one will lean forward as if it were going to
topple over, another backward, some to the right, others to the left.
In some places, where six or seven neighboring houses all lean
forward, those in the middle being most inclined, they form a curve,
like a railing that is bent by the pressure of a crowd. In some places
two houses which stand close together bend toward each other, as if
for mutual support. In certain streets for some distance all the
houses lean sideways, like trees which the wind has blown one against
the other; then again, they all lean in the opposite direction, like
another row of trees bent by a contrary wind. In some places there is
a regularity in the inclination, which makes the effect less
noticeable. On certain crossways and in some of the smaller streets
there is an indescribable confusion, a real architectural riot, a
dance of houses, a disorder that seems animated. There are houses that
appear to fall forward, overcome by sleep; others that throw
themselves backward as if in fright; some lean toward each other till
their roofs almost touch, as if they were confiding secrets; some reel
against each other as though tipsy; a few lean backward between others
that lean forward, like malefactors being dragged away by policemen.
Rows of houses seem to be bowing to church-steeples; other groups are
paying attention to one house in their centre, and seem to be plotting
against some palace. I will soon let you into the secret of all this.
[Illustration: In Rotterdam.]
But it is neither the shape of the houses nor their inclination that
seemed to me the most curious thing about them.
One must observe them carefully, one by one, from top to bottom, and
in their diversity they are as interesting as a picture.