tube of red-hot iron, to have his arms, legs, and thighs torn to
pieces with burning pincers, his bowels to be quartered, his heart to
be torn out and thrown into his face, his head to be dissevered from
his trunk and placed on a pike, his body to be cut in four pieces, and
every piece to be hung on a gibbet over one of the principal gates of
the city.
On hearing the enumeration of these horrible tortures the miserable
wretch did not flinch; he showed no sign of terror, sorrow, or
surprise. He opened his coat, bared his breast, and, fixing his
dauntless eyes on his judges, he repeated with a steady voice his
customary words, "Ecce homo!"
Was this man only a fanatic, as many believed, or a monster of
wickedness, as others held, or was he both of these inspired by a
boundless ambition?
On the next day the sentence was carried into effect. The preparations
for the execution were made before his eyes; he regarded them with
indifference. The executioner's assistant began by pounding into
pieces the pistol with which he had perpetrated the crime. At the
first blow the head of the hammer fell off and struck another
assistant on the ear. The crowd laughed, and Gerard laughed too. When
he mounted the gallows his body was already horrible to behold. He was
silent while his hand crackled and smoked in the red-hot tube; during
the time when the red-hot tongs were tearing his flesh he uttered no
cry; when the knife penetrated into his entrails he bowed his head,
murmured a few incomprehensible words, and expired.
The death of the Prince of Orange filled the country with
consternation. His body lay in state for a month, and the people
gathered round his last bed kneeling and weeping. The funeral was
worthy of a king: there were present the States General of the United
Provinces, the Council of State, and the Estates of Holland, the
magistrates, the clergy, and the princes of the house of Nassau.
Twelve noblemen bore the bier, four great nobles held the cords of the
pall, and the Prince's horse followed splendidly caparisoned and led
by his equerry. In the midst of the train of counts and barons there
was seen a young man, eighteen years of age, who was destined to
inherit the glorious legacy of the dead, to humble the Spanish arms,
and to compel Spain to sue for a truce and to recognize the
independence of the Netherlands. That young man was Maurice of Orange,
the son of William, on whom the Estates of Holland a short time after
the death of his father conferred the dignity of Stadtholder, and to
whom they afterward entrusted the supreme command of the land and
naval forces.
While Holland was mourning the death of the Prince of Orange, the
Catholic priesthood in all the cities under Spanish rule were
rejoicing over the assassination and extolling the assassin. The
Jesuits exalted him as a martyr, the University of Louvain published
his defence, the canons of Bois-le-Duc chanted a Te Deum. After a few
years the King of Spain bestowed on Gerard's family a title and the
confiscated property of the Prince of Orange in Burgundy.
The house where William was murdered is still standing: it is a
dark-looking building with arched windows and a narrow door, and forms
part of the cloister of an old cathedral consecrated to St. Agatha. It
still bears the name of Prinsenhof, although it is now used for
artillery barracks. I got permission to enter from the officer on
guard. A corporal who understood a little French accompanied me. We
crossed a courtyard full of soldiers, and arrived at the memorable
place. I saw the staircase the Prince was mounting when he was
attacked, the dark corner where Gerard hid himself, the door of the
room where the unfortunate William dined for the last time, and the
mark of the bullets on the wall in a little whitewashed space which
bears a Dutch inscription reminding one that here died the father of
his country. The corporal showed me where the assassin had fled. While
I was looking round, with that pensive curiosity that one feels in
places where great crimes have been committed, soldiers were
ascending and descending; they stopped to look at me, and then went
away singing and whistling; some near me were humming; others were
laughing loudly in the courtyard. All this youthful gayety was in
sharp and moving contrast to the sad gravity of those memories, and
seemed like a festival of children in the room where died a
grandparent whose memory we cherish.
Opposite the barracks is the oldest church in Delft. It contains the
tomb of the famous Admiral Tromp, the veteran of the Dutch navy, who
saw thirty-two naval battles, and in 1652, at the battle of the Downs,
defeated the English fleet commanded by Blake. He re-entered his
country with a broom tied to the masthead of the admiral's ship to
indicate that he had swept the English off the seas. Here also is the
tomb of Peter Heyn, who from a simple fisherman rose to be a great
admiral, and took that memorable netful of Spanish ships that had
under their hatches more than eleven million florins; also the tomb of
Leeuwenhoek, the father of the science of the infinitely small--who,
with the "divining-glass," as Parini says, "saw primitive man swimming
in the genital wave." The church has a high steeple surmounted by four
conical turrets. It is inclined like the Tower of Pisa, because the
ground has sunk beneath it. Gerard was imprisoned in one of the cells
of this tower on the night of the assassination.
[Illustration: Refectory of the Convent of St. Agatha, Delft.]
At Rotterdam I had been given a letter to a citizen of Delft asking
him to show me his house. The letter read: "He desires to penetrate
into the mysteries of an old Dutch house; lift for a moment the
curtain of the sanctuary." The house was not hard to find, and as soon
as I saw it I said to myself, "That is the house for me!"
It was a red cottage, one story in height, with a long peaked gable,
situated at the end of a street which stretched out into the country.
It stood almost on the edge of a canal, leaning a little forward, as
if it wished to see its reflection in the water. A pretty linden tree
grew in front which spread over the window like a great fan, and a
drawbridge lay before the door. Then there were the white curtains,
the green doors, the flowers, the looking-glasses--in fact, it was a
perfect little model of a Dutch house.
The road was deserted. Before I knocked at the door I waited a little
while, looking at it and thinking. That house made me understand
Holland better than all the books I had read. It was at the same time
the expression and the reason of the domestic love, of the modest
desires, and the independent nature of the Dutch people. In our
country there is no such thing as the true house: there are only
divisions in barracks, abstract habitations, which are not ours, but
in which we live hidden, but not alone, hearing a thousand noises made
by people who are strangers to us, who disturb our sorrows with the
echo of their joys and interrupt our joys with the echo of their
sorrows. The real home is in Holland--a house of one's own, quite
separate from others, modest, circumspect, and, by reason of its
retirement, unknown to mysteries and intrigues. When the inhabitants
of the house are merry, everything is bright; when they are sad, all
is serious. In these houses, with their canals and drawbridges, every
modest citizen feels something of the solitary dignity of a feudal
lord, and might imagine himself the commander of a fortress or the
captain of a ship; and indeed, as he looks from his windows, as from
those of an anchored vessel, he sees a boundless level plain, which
inspires him with just such sentiments of freedom and solemnity as are
awakened by the sea. The trees that surround his house like a green
girdle allow only a delicate broken light to enter it; boats freighted
with merchandise glide noiselessly past his door; he does not hear the
trampling of horses or the cracking of whips, or songs or street-cries;
all the activities of the life that surrounds him are silent and gentle:
all breathes of peace and sweetness, and the steeple of the church hard
by tells the hour with a flood of harmony as full of repose and constancy
as are his affections and his work.
I knocked at the door, and the master of the house opened it. He read
the letter which I gave him, regarded me critically, and bade me
enter. It is almost always thus. At the first meeting the Dutch are
apt to be suspicious. We open our arms to any one who brings us a
letter of introduction as if he were our most intimate friend, and
very often do nothing for him afterward. The Dutch, on the contrary,
receive you coldly--so coldly, indeed, that sometimes you feel
mortified--but afterward they do a thousand things for you with the
best will in the world, and without the least appearance of doing you
a kindness.
Within, the house was in perfect harmony with its outside appearance;
it seemed to be the inside of a ship. A circular wooden staircase,
shining like polished ebony, led to the upper rooms. There were mats
and carpets on the stairs, in front of the doors, and on the floors.
The rooms were as small as cells, the furniture was as clean as
possible, the door-plates, the knobs, the nails, the brass and the
other metal ornaments were as bright as if they had just left the
hands of the burnisher. Everywhere there was a profusion of porcelain
vases, of cups, lamps, mirrors, small pictures, bureaus, cupboards,
knicknacks, and small objects of every shape and for every use. All
were marvellously clean, and bespoke the thousand little wants that
the love of a sedentary life creates--the careful foresight, the
continual care, the taste for little things, the love of order, the
economy of space; in short, it was the abode of a quiet, domestic
woman.
The goddess of this temple, who could not or did not dare speak
French, was hidden in some inmost recess which I did not succeed in
discovering.
We went down stairs to see the kitchen; it was one gleam of
brightness. When I returned home I described it, in my mother's
presence, to the servant who prided herself on her cleanliness, and
she was annihilated. The walls were as white as snow; the saucepans
reflected everything like so many looking-glasses; the top of the
chimney-piece was ornamented by a sort of muslin curtain like the
curtains of a bed, bearing no trace of smoke; the wall below the
chimney was covered with square majolica tiles which were as clean as
though the fire had never been lighted; the andirons, shovel, and
tongs, the chain of the spit, all seemed to be of burnished steel. A
lady dressed for a ball could have gone round the room and into all
the corners and touched everything without getting a speck of dirt on
her spotless attire.
At this moment the maid was cleaning the room, and my host spoke of
this as follows: "To have an idea of what cleanliness means with us,"
he said, "one ought to watch the work of these women for an hour. Here
they scrub, wash, and brush a house as if it were a person. A house is
not cleaned; it has its toilette made. The girls blow between the
bricks, they rummage in the corners with their nails and with pins,
and clean so minutely that they tire their eyes no less than their
arms. Really it is a national passion. These girls, who are generally
so phlegmatic, change their character on cleaning day and become
frantic. That day we are no longer masters of our houses. They invade
our rooms, turn us out, sprinkle us, turn everything topsy-turvy; for
them it is a gala day; they are like bacchantes of cleanliness; the
madness grows as they wash." I asked him to what he attributed this
species of mania for which Holland is famous. He gave me the same
reasons that many others had given; the atmosphere of their country,
which greatly injures wood and metals, the damp, the small size of the
houses and the number of things they contain, which naturally makes it
difficult to keep them clean, the superabundance of water, which helps
the work, a something that the eye seems to require, until cleanliness
ends by appearing beautiful, and, lastly, the emulation that
everywhere leads to excess. "But," he added, "this is not the cleanest
part of Holland; the excess, the delirium of cleanliness, is to be
seen in the northern provinces."
We went out for a walk about the town. It was not yet noon; servants
were to be seen everywhere dressed just like those in Rotterdam. It is
a singular thing, all the servant-maids in Holland, from Rotterdam to
Groningen, from Haarlem to Nimeguen, are dressed in the same
color--light mauve, flowered or dotted with stars or crosses--and
while engaged in cleaning they all wear a sort of invalid's cap and a
pair of enormous white wooden shoes. At first I thought that they
formed a national association requiring uniformity in dress. They are
generally very young, because older women cannot bear the fatigue they
have to endure; they are fair and round, with prodigious posterior
curves (an observation of Diderot); in the strict sense of the word
they are not at all pretty, but their pink and white complexions are
marvellous, and they look the picture of health, and one feels that it
would be delightful to press one's cheek to theirs. Their rounded
forms and fine coloring are enhanced by their plain style of dress,
especially in the morning, when they have their sleeves turned up and
necks bare, revealing flesh as fair as a cherub's.
Suddenly I remembered a note I had made in my book before starting for
Holland, and I stopped and asked my companion this question: "Are the
Dutch servants the eternal torment of their mistresses?"
Here I must make a short digression. It is well known that ladies of a
certain age, good mothers and good housekeepers, whose social position
does not allow them to leave their servants to themselves--who, for
instance, have only one servant, who has to be both cook and lady's
maid,--it is well known that such ladies often talk for hours on this
subject. The conversations are always the same--of insupportable
defects, insolence that they have had to endure, impertinent answers,
dishonesty in buying the things needed for the kitchen, of waste,
untruthfulness, immense pretensions, of discharges, of the annoyance
of searching for new servants, and other such calamities; the refrain
always being that the honest and faithful servants, who became
attached to the family and grew old in the same service, have ceased
to exist; now one is obliged to change them continually, and there is
no way of getting back to the old order. Is this true or false? Is it
a result of the liberty and equality of classes, making service harder
to bear and the servants more independent? Is it an effect of the
relaxation of manners and of public discipline, which has made itself
felt even in the kitchen? However it may be, the fact remains that at
home I heard this subject so much discussed that one day, before I
left for Spain, I said to my mother, "If anything in Madrid can
console me in being so far from my family, it will be that I shall
hear no more of this odious subject." On my arrival at Madrid I went
into a hostelry, and the first thing the landlady said was that she
had changed her maids three times in a month, and was driven to
desperation: she did not know which saint to pray to: and so long as I
remained there the same lamentation continued. On my return home I
told my family about it; they all laughed, and my mother concluded
that there must be the same trouble in every country. "No," said I,
"in the northern countries it must be different."--"You will see that
I am right," my mother answered. I went to Paris, and of the first
housekeeper with whom I became acquainted I asked the question, "Are
the servants here the everlasting torment of their mistresses, as they
are in Italy and Spain?"--"_Ah! mon cher monsieur_," she answered,
clasping her hands and looking above her, "_ne me parlez pas de ca!_"
Then followed a long story of quarrels, and discharging of servants,
and of trials which mistresses have to endure. I wrote the news to my
mother, and she answered, "We shall see in London."
I went to London, and on the ship which was bearing me to Antwerp I
entered into conversation with an English lady. After we had exchanged
a few words, and I had explained the reason of my curiosity, I asked
the usual question. She turned away her head, put her hand to her
forehead, and then replied, emphasizing each word, "They are the
_flagellum Dei_!"
I wrote home in despair, suggesting however, that I still trusted in
Holland, which was a peaceful country, where the houses were so tidy
and clean and the home-life so sweet. My mother answered that she
thought we might possibly make an exception of Holland. But we were
both rather doubtful. My curiosity was aroused, and she was expecting
the news from me; for this reason, therefore, I put the question to my
courteous guide at Delft. It may be imagined with what impatience I
awaited his reply.
"Sir," answered the Dutchman after a moment's reflection, "I can only
give you this reply: in Holland we have a proverb which says that the
maids are the cross of our lives."
I was completely discouraged.
"First of all," he continued, "the annoyance of living in a large
house is, that we are obliged to keep two servants, one for the
kitchen and one for cleaning, since it is almost impossible, with the
mania they have of washing the very air, that one servant can do both
things. Then they have an unquenchable thirst for liberty: they insist
on staying out till ten in the evening and on having an entire holiday
every now and then. Moreover, their sweethearts must be allowed in the
house, or they come to fetch them; we must let them dance in the
streets, and they are up to all sorts of mischief during the Kirmess
festival. Moreover, when they are discharged we are obliged to wait
until they choose to go, and sometimes they delay for months. Add to
this account, wages amounting to ninety or a hundred florins a year,
as well as the payment of a certain percentage on all the bills the
master pays, tips from all invited guests, and all sorts of especial
presents of dress-goods and money from the master, and, above all and
always, patience, patience, patience!"
I had heard enough to speak with authority to my mother, and I turned
the conversation to a less distressing subject.
On passing a side street I observed a lady approach a door, read a
piece of paper attached to it, make a gesture of distress, and pass
on. A moment later another woman who was passing, also paused, read
it, and went on. I asked my companion for an explanation, and he told
me of a very curious Dutch custom. On that piece of paper was written
the notice that a certain sick person was worse. In many towns of
Holland, when any one is ill, the family posts such a bulletin on the
door every day, so that friends and acquaintances are not obliged to
enter the house to learn the news. This form of announcement is
adopted on other occasions also. In some towns they announce the birth
of a child by tying to the door a ball covered with red silk and lace,
for which the Dutch word signifies a proof of birth. If the child is a
girl, a piece of white paper is attached; if twins are born, the lace
is double, and for some days after the appearance of the symbol a
notice is posted to the effect that the mother and child are well and
have passed a good night, or the contrary if it is otherwise. At one
time, when there was the announcement of a birth on a door the
creditors of the family were not allowed to knock for nine days; but I
believe this custom has died out, although it must have had the
beneficent virtue of promoting an increase in the population.
[Illustration: Old Delft.]
In that short walk through the streets of Delft I met some gloomy
figures like those I had noticed at Rotterdam, without being able to
determine whether they were priests, magistrates, or gravediggers, for
in their dress and appearance they bore a certain resemblance to
all three. They wore three-cornered hats, with long black veils which
reached to the waist, swallow-tailed black coats, short black
breeches, black stockings, black cloaks, buckled shoes, and white
cravats and gloves, and they held in their hands sheets of paper
bordered with black. My companion explained to me that they were
called _aanspreckers_, an untranslatable Dutch word, and that their
duty was to bear the information of deaths to the relatives and
friends of the defunct and to make the announcement through the
streets. Their dress differs in some particulars in the various
provinces and also according to the religious faith of the deceased.
In some towns they wear immense hats _a la_ Don Basilio. They are
generally very neat, and are sometimes dressed with a care that
contrasts strangely with their business as messengers of death, or, as
a traveller defines them, living funeral letters.
We noticed one of these men who had stopped in front of a house, and
my companion drew my attention to the fact that the shutters were
partly closed, and observed that there must be some one dead there. I
asked who it was. "I do not know," he replied, "but, to judge from the
shutters, it cannot be any near relative to the master of the house."
As this method of arguing seemed rather strange to me, he explained
that in Holland when any one dies in a family they shut the windows
and one, two, or three of the divisions of the folding shutters
accordingly as the relationship is near or distant. Each section of
shutter denotes a degree of relationship. For a father or mother they
close all but one, for a cousin they close one only, for a brother
two, and so on. It appears that the custom is very old, and it still
continues, because in that country no custom is discontinued for
caprice; nothing is changed unless the alteration becomes a matter of
serious importance, and unless the Hollanders have been more than
persuaded that such a change is for the better.
I should like to have seen at Delft the house where was the tavern of
the artist Steen, where he probably passed those famous debauches
which have given rise to so many questions among his biographers. But
my host told me that nothing was known about it. However, apropos of
painters, he gave me the pleasing information that I was in the part
of Holland, bounded by Delft, the Hague, the sea, the town of Alkmaar,
the Gulf of Amsterdam, and the ancient Lake of Haarlem, which might be
called the fatherland of Dutch painting, both because the greatest
painters were born there, and because it presented such singularly
picturesque effects that the artists loved and studied it devotedly. I
was therefore in the bosom of Holland, and when I left Delft, I was
going into its very heart.
Before leaving I again glanced hastily over the military arsenal,
which occupies a large building, and which originally served as a
warehouse to the East India Company. It is in communication with an
artillery workshop and a great powder-magazine outside of the town. At
Delft there still remains the great polytechnic school for engineers,
the real military academy of Holland, for from it come forth the
officers of the army that defends the country from the sea, and these
young warriors of the dykes and locks, about three hundred in number,
are they who give life to the peaceful town of Grotius.