my Dutch friend described the last of those students' festivals at
Delft which are celebrated once in five years. It was one of those
pageants peculiar to Holland, a sort of historical masquerade like a
reflection of the magnificence of the past, serving to remind the
people of the traditions, the personages, and illustrious events of
earlier times. A great cavalcade represented the entrance into
Arnheim, in 1492, of Charles of Egmont, Duke of Gelderland, Count of
Zutphen. He belonged to that family of Egmont which in the person of
the noble and unfortunate Count Lamoral gave the first great martyr of
Dutch liberty to the axe of the Duke of Alva. Two hundred students on
richly caparisoned horses, clothed in armor, decorated with mantles
embroidered with coats of arms, with waving plumes and large swords
proudly brandished, formed the retinue of the Duke of Gelderland. Then
came halberdiers, archers, and foot-soldiers dressed in the pompous
fashion of the fifteenth century; bands played, the city blazed with
lights, and through its streets flowed an immense crowd, which had
come from every part of Holland to enjoy this splendid vision of a
distant age.
THE HAGUE.
The boat that was to carry me to the Hague was moored near a bridge,
in a little basin formed by the canal which leads from Delft to the
Hague, and shaded by trees on the bank like a garden lake.
The boats that carry passengers from town to town are called in Dutch
_trekschuiten_. The _trekschuit_ is the traditional boat, as
emblematic of Holland as is the gondola of Venice. Esquiros defined it
as "the genius of ancient Holland floating on the waters;" and, in
fact, any one who has not travelled in a _trekschuit_ is not
acquainted with Dutch life under its most original and poetic aspect.
It is a large boat, almost entirely covered with a cabin shaped like a
stage-coach and divided into two compartments--the division near the
prow being for second-class passengers, and that near the poop for
first-class. An iron pole with a ring at the end is fastened to the
prow, through which a long rope is passed; this is tied at one end
near the rudder and at the other end is fastened a tow-horse, which is
ridden by a boatman. The windows of the cabin have white curtains; the
walls and doors are painted. In the compartment for first-class
passengers there are cushioned seats, a little table with books, a
cupboard, a mirror; everything is neat and bright. In putting down my
valise I allowed some ashes from my cigar to fall under the table; a
minute later, when I returned, these had disappeared.
I was the only passenger, and did not have to wait long; the boatman
made a sign, the tow-boy mounted his horse, and the _trekschuit_ began
to glide gently down the canal.
It was about an hour past noon and the sun was shining brightly, but
the boat passed along in the shade. The canal is bordered by two rows
of linden trees, elms, willows, and high hedges on either side, which
hide the country. It seemed as though we were sailing across a forest.
At every curve we saw green enclosed views in the distance, with
windmills here and there on the bank. The water was covered with a
carpet of aquatic plants, and in some parts strewn with white flowers,
with iris, water-lilies, and the water-lentil. The high green hedge
bordering the canal was broken here and there, allowing a glimpse, as
if through a window, of the far-off horizon of the champaign; then the
walls would close again in an instant.
Every now and then we encountered a bridge. It was pleasant to see the
rapidity with which the man on horseback and another man, who was always
on guard, handled the cords to let the _trekschuit_ pass, and how the two
conductors made room for each other when two _trekschuiten_ met, the
one passing his rope under that of the other without speaking a word,
without greeting each other even with a smile, as if gravity and silence
were obligatory. All along the way the only sound to be heard was the
whirring of the arms of the windmills.
[Illustration: On the Canal, near Delft.]
We met barges laden with vegetables, peat, stones, and barrels, and
drawn with a long tow-rope by men, who were sometimes aided by large
dogs with cords round their necks. Some were towed by a man, a woman,
and a boy, one behind the other, with the rope tied to a sort of girth
made of leather or linen. All three would be leaning forward so far
that it was hard to understand how they managed to keep their feet,
even with the help of the rope. Other boats were towed by old women
alone. On many, a woman with a child at her breast would be seen at
the rudder; other children were grouped around, and one might see a
cat sitting on a sack, a dog, a hen, pots of flowers, and bird-cages.
On some women sat knitting stockings and rocking the cradle at the
same time; on others they were cooking; sometimes all the members of
the family, excepting the one who was towing, were eating in a group.
The look of peace that beams from the faces of those people and the
tranquil appearance of those aquatic houses, of those animals which in
a certain measure have become amphibious, the serenity of that
floating life, the air of security and freedom of those wandering and
solitary families,--these are not to be described. Thus in Holland
live thousands of families who have no other houses but their boats. A
man marries, and the wedded couple buy a boat, make it their home, and
carry merchandise from one market to another. Their children are born
on the canals; they are bred and grow up on the water; the barge holds
their house-hold goods, their small savings, their domestic memories,
their affections, their past, and all their present happiness and
hopes for the future. They work, save, and after many years buy a
larger boat, and sell their old house to a poorer family or give it to
their eldest son, who from some other boat takes a wife, at whom he
has glanced for the first time in an encounter on the canal. Thus from
barge to barge, from canal to canal, life passes silently and
peacefully, like the wandering boat which shelters it and the slow
water that accompanies it.
For some time I saw only small peasants' houses on the banks; then I
began to see villas, pavilions, and cottages half hidden among the
trees, and in the shadiest corners fair-haired ladies dressed in
white, seated book in hand, or some fat gentleman enveloped in a cloud
of smoke with the contented air of a wealthy merchant. All of these
little villas are painted rose-color or azure; they have varnished
tile roofs, terraces supported by columns, little yards in front or
around them, with tidy flower-beds and neatly-kept paths; miniature
gardens, clean, closely trimmed, and well tended. Some houses stand
on the brink of the canal with their foundations in the water,
allowing one to see the flowers, the vases, and the thousand shining
trifles in the rooms. Nearly all have an inscription on the door which
is the aphorism of domestic happiness, the formula of the philosophy
of the master, as--"Contentment is Riches;" "Pleasure and Repose;"
"Friendship and Society;" "My Desires are Satisfied;" "Without
Weariness;" "Tranquil and Content;" "Here we Enjoy the Pleasures of
Horticulture." Now and then a fine black-and-white cow, lying on the
bank on a level with the water, would raise her head quietly and look
toward the boat. We met flocks of ducks, which paddled off to let us
pass. Here and there, to the right and left, there were little canals
almost covered by two high hedges, with branches intertwining overhead
which formed a green archway, under which the little boats of the
peasants darted and disappeared in the shadows. From time to time, in
the midst of all this verdure, a group of houses would suddenly come
into view, a neat many-colored little village, with its looking-glasses
and its tulips at the windows, and without a sign of life. This profound
silence would be broken by a merry chime from an unseen steeple. It was a
pastoral paradise, a landscape of idyllic beauty breathing freshness and
mystery--a Chinese Arcadia, with quaint corners, little surprises, and
innocent artifices of prettiness, all which seemed like so many low
voices of invisible beings murmuring, "We are content."
At a certain point the canal divides into two branches, of which one
hides itself amongst the trees and leads to Leyden, and the other
turns to the left and leads to the Hague. After we passed this point
the _trekschuit_ began to stop, first at a house, then at a
garden-gate, to receive parcels, letters, and verbal messages to be
carried to the Hague.
An old gentleman came on board from a villa and took a seat near me.
He spoke French, and we entered into conversation. He had been in
Italy, knew some words of Italian, and had read "I Promessi Sposi." He
asked me for particulars in regard to the death of Alessandro Manzoni.
After ten minutes I adored him. He gave me an account of the
_trekschuit_. To appreciate the poetry of this national boat it is
necessary to take long journeys in company with some Dutch people.
Then they all live just as if they were at home; the women work, the
men smoke on the roof; they dine all together, and after dinner they
loiter about on the deck to see the sun set; the conversation grows
very intimate, and the company becomes a family. Night comes on. The
_trekschuit_ passes like a shadow through villages steeped in silence,
glides along the canals bathed in the silver light of the moon, hides
itself in the thickets, reappears in the open country, grazes the
lonely houses from which beams the light of the peasant's lamp, and
meets the boats of fishermen, which dart past like phantoms. In that
profound peace, lulled by the slow and equal motion of the boat, men
and women fall asleep side by side, and the boat leaves nothing in its
wake save the confused murmur of the water and the sound of the
sleepers' breathing.
As we went on our way gardens and villas became more frequent. My
travelling companion showed me a distant steeple, and pointed out the
village of Ryswick, where in 1697 was signed the celebrated treaty of
peace between France, England, Spain, Germany, and Holland. The castle
of the Prince of Orange, where the treaty was signed, is no longer
standing. An obelisk has been erected on its site.
Suddenly the _trekschuit_ emerged from the trees, and I saw before me
an extended plain, a large woodland, and a city crowned with towers
and windmills.
It was the Hague.
The boatman asked me to pay my fare, and received the money in a
leather bag. The driver urged on the horse, and in a few minutes we
were in town. After a quarter of an hour I found myself in a spotless
room in the Hotel du Marechal de Turenne. Who knows? It may have been
the very room in which the celebrated Marshal slept as a young man
when he was in the service of the house of Orange.
The Hague--in Dutch 'SGravenhage or 'SHage--the political capital, the
Washington of Holland, whose New York is Amsterdam--is a city that is
partly Dutch and partly French. It has wide streets without canals,
vast wooded squares, grand houses, splendid hotels, and a population
composed in great part of wealthy citizens, nobles, public officers,
men of letters, and artists; in a word, a much more refined populace
than that of any of the other cities of Holland.
What most impressed me in my first walk round the city were the new
quarters where dwells the flower of the moneyed aristocracy. In no
other city, not even in the Faubourg St. Germain in Paris, had I ever
felt myself such a poor devil as in those streets. They are wide and
straight, with small palaces on either side: these are artistic in
design and harmonious in coloring, with large windows without blinds,
through which one can see the carpets, vases of flowers, and the
sumptuous furniture of the rooms on the ground floor. All the doors
were closed, and not a shop was to be seen, not an advertisement on
the walls, not a stain nor a straw could be found, if one had a
hundred eyes. When I passed through the streets there was a profound
silence. Now and then an aristocratic carriage rolled past me almost
noiselessly over the brick pavement, or I saw some stiff lackey
standing at a door, or the fair head of some lady behind a curtain. As
I walked close to the windows, I could see out of the corner of my
eye my shabby travelling-clothes reflected clearly in the large panes
of glass, and I repented not having brought my gloves, and felt a
certain sense of humiliation because I was not at least a knight by
birth. It seemed to me that now and then I could hear soft voices
saying, "Who is that beggar?"
The most noteworthy part of the old town is the Binnenhof, a group of
old buildings in different styles of architecture, which overlook two
wide squares on two sides and a large pool on the third side. In the
midst of this group of palaces, towers, and monumental doors, of a
gloomy mediaeval appearance, is a spacious courtyard which may be
entered by three bridges and three doors. In one of those buildings
the Stadtholders lived. It is now the Second Chamber of the States
General; opposite to it are located the First Chamber, the rooms of
the Ministry, and the other offices of public administration. The
Minister of the Interior has his office in a little, low, black,
gloomy tower which leans slightly toward the water of the pool.
The Binnenhof, the Buitenhof (a square extending to the west), and the
Plaats (another square on the other side of the pool, which is reached
by passing under an old door that once formed part of a prison) were
the scenes of the most bloody events in the history of Holland.
In the Binnenhof the venerable Van Olden Barneveldt was beheaded. He
was the second founder of the republic, the most illustrious victim of
the long struggle between the patrician burghers and the Stadtholders,
between the republican and monarchical principles, which so terribly
afflicted Holland. The scaffold was erected in front of the building
where sat the States General. Opposite was the tower from which, they
say, Maurice of Orange, unseen, assisted at the execution of his
enemy. In the prison between the two squares was tortured Cornelius de
Witt, who was unjustly accused of plotting against the life of the
Prince of Orange. The furious populace dragged Cornelius and John de
Witt, the Grand Pensionary, into the Plaats all wounded and bleeding,
and there they were spit upon, kicked, and slaughtered with pike and
pistol, and afterward their corpses were mutilated and defiled. In the
same square Adelaide de Poelgeest, the mistress of Albert, Count of
Holland, was stabbed on the 22d of September in the year 1392, and the
stone on which she expired is still shown.
These sad memories and those heavy low doors, that irregular group of
dark buildings, which at night, when the moon lights up the stagnant
pool, have the appearance of an enormous inaccessible castle standing
in the midst of the joyous and cultured city,--arouse a feeling of
awful sadness. At night the courtyard is lighted only by an occasional
lamp; the few people who pass through it quicken their pace as if
they are afraid. There is no sound of steps to be heard, no lighted
windows to be seen; one enters it with a vague restlessness, and
leaves it almost with pleasure.
With the exception of the Binnenhof, the Hague has no important
monuments ancient or modern. There are several mediocre statues of the
Princes of Orange, a vast, naked cathedral, and a royal palace of
modest proportions. On many of the public buildings storks are carved,
the stork being the heraldic animal of the city. Many of these birds
walk about freely in the fish-market--they are kept at the expense of
the municipality, like the bears of Berne and the eagles of Geneva.
The greatest ornament of the Hague is its forest, which is one of the
wonders of Holland and one of the most magnificent parks in the world.
It is composed of alders, oaks, and the largest beech trees to be
found in Europe. It is more than a French league in circumference, and
is situated to the east of the city, only a few steps from the last
houses. It is a really delightful oasis in the midst of the depressing
Dutch plains. When one has entered the wood and passed beyond the
fringe of pavilions, little Swiss cottages, and summer houses dotted
about among the first trees, one seems to have lost one's self in a
lonely interminable forest. The trees are as thick as a canebrake, the
avenues are lost in the dusk; there are lakes and canals almost
hidden by the verdure of the banks; rustic bridges, the crossways of
unfrequented bridle-paths, shady recesses; and over all a cool,
refreshing shade in which one seems to breathe the air of virginal
nature and to be far removed from the turmoil of the world.
They say that this wood, like that of the town of Haarlem, is the
remnant of an immense forest which in olden times covered almost the
whole of the coast of Holland, and the Dutch respect it as a monument
of their national history. Indeed, in the history of Holland there are
many references to it, proving that at all times it was preserved with
a most jealous care. Even the Spanish generals respected this national
worship and shielded the sacred wood from the hands of the soldiers.
On more than one occasion of serious financial distress, when the
government was disposed to decree the destruction of the forest for
the purpose of selling the wood, the citizens exorcised the danger by
a voluntary offering. This beloved forest is connected with a thousand
memories--records of terrible hurricanes, of the amours of princes, of
celebrated fetes, of romantic adventures. Some of the trees bear the
names of kings and emperors, others of German electors; one beech tree
is said to have been planted by the grand pensionary and poet Jacob
Catz, three others by the Countess of Holland, Jacqueline of Bavaria,
and they still point out the place where she used to rest after her
walks. Voltaire also left a record of some sort of gallant
adventure which he had with the daughter of a hair-dresser.
[Illustration: The Binnenhof, The Hague.]
In the centre of the forest, where the underbrush seems determined to
conquer everything and springs up, piling itself into heaps, climbing the
trees, creeping across the paths, extending over the water, restraining
one's steps and hiding the view on every side, as if it wished to conceal
the shrine of some forgotten sylvan divinity,--at this spot is hidden a
small royal palace, called the House-in-the-Wood, a sort of _Casa del
Labrador_ of the Villa Aranjuez. It was erected in 1647 by Princess Amalia
of Solms, in honor of her husband, Frederick Henry, the Stadtholder.
When I went to visit this palace, while my eyes were busy searching
for the visitors' door, I saw a lady with a noble and benevolent face
come out and get into her carriage. I took her for some English
traveller who had brought her visit to a close. As the carriage passed
near me, I raised my hat; the lady bowed her head and disappeared.
A moment later one of the ladies in waiting at the palace told me that
this "traveller" was no one less than Her Majesty the Queen of
Holland.
I felt my blood flow faster. The word _queen_, independently of the
person to whom it referred, has always had this effect on me, although
I cannot explain the reason of it. Perhaps because it reminds me of
certain bright, confused visions of my youth. The romantic imagination
of a boy of fifteen is sometimes content to tread the ground, and
sometimes it climbs with eager audacity to a giddy height. It dreams
of supernatural beauty, of intoxicating perfumes, of consuming love,
and imagines that all these are comprised in the mysterious and
inaccessible creatures that fortune has placed at the summit of the
social scale. And among the thousand strange, foolish, and impossible
fancies that enter his mind he dreams of scaling towering walls in the
dark with youthful agility, of passing formidable gates and deep
ditches, of opening mysterious doors, threading interminable corridors
amidst people overcome with sleep, of stepping silently through
immense saloons, of ascending aerial staircases, mounting the stones
of a tower at the risk of his life, reaching an immense height over
the tall trees of moonlit gardens, and at last of arriving, fainting
and bleeding, beneath a balcony, and hearing a superhuman voice speak
in accents of deep pity, of answering with equal tenderness, of
bursting into tears and invoking God, of leaning his forehead on the
marble and covering with desperate kisses a foot flashing with gems,
of abandoning his face in the perfumed silks, and of feeling his
reason flee and life desert him in an embrace more than human.
In this palace, called the House-in-the-Wood, besides other remarkable
things, is an octagonal room, the walls of which from floor to ceiling
are covered with paintings by the most celebrated artists of the
school of Rubens, among which is a huge allegorical painting by
Jordaens which represents the apotheosis of Frederick Henry. There is
a room filled with valuable presents from the Emperor of Japan, the
Viceroy of Egypt, and the East India Company; and an elegant little
room decorated with designs in chiaroscuro, which even when closely
examined are taken for bas-reliefs. These are the work of Jacob de
Wit, a painter who at the beginning of the last century won great fame
in this art of delusion. The other rooms are small, and handsome
without display; they are full of the treasures of a refined taste, as
becomes the great and modest house of Orange.
The custom of allowing strangers to enter the palace the moment after
the queen came out seemed strange to me, but it did not surprise me
when I learned of other customs and other popular traits, and in a
word the character of the royal family of Holland.
In Holland the sovereign is considered as a stadtholder rather than as
a king. He has in him, as a certain Spanish republican said of the
Duke of Aosta, the least quantity possible in a king. The sentiment of
the Dutch nation toward their royal family is not so much a feeling of
devotion to the family of the monarch as affection for the house of
Orange, which has shared its triumphs and taken part in its
misfortunes--which has lived its life for three centuries. At bottom,
the country is republican, and its monarchy is a sort of crowned
presidency void of regal pomp. The king makes speeches at the banquets
and at the public festivals as the ministers do with us, and he enjoys
the fame of an orator because his speeches are extemporary: his voice
is very powerful, and his eloquence has a martial ring, which arouses
great enthusiasm among the people. The crown prince, William of
Orange, studied at the University of Leyden, passed the public
examinations, and took his degree as a lawyer; Prince Alexander, the
second son, is now studying at the same university. He is a member of
the Students' Club, and invites his professors and fellow-students to
dinner. At the Hague, Prince William enters the cafes, converses with
his neighbors, and walks about the streets with his young gentlemen
friends. In the wood the queen will seat herself on a bench beside any
poor old woman, nor can one say she does this, like other princes, to
acquire popularity; for that the house of Orange can neither gain nor
lose, since there is not in the nation (although it is republican by
nature and tradition) the least sign of a faction that desires a
republic or even pronounces its name. On the other hand, the people,
who love and venerate their king, who at the festivals celebrated in
his honor will remove the horses and themselves draw his carriage, who
insist on every one wearing an orange-colored cockade in homage to the
name of Orange,--in ordinary times do not occupy themselves at all
about his affairs and family. At the Hague I had some trouble to learn
what grade the crown prince holds in the army. One of the first
librarians in the town, to whom I put my question, was astonished at
my curiosity, which to him seemed childish, and he told me that
probably I could not have found a hundred people in the Hague who
would have been able to answer my question.
The seat of the court is at the Hague, but the king passes a large
part of the summer in one of his castles in Gelderland, and every year
spends some days in Amsterdam. The people say there is a law which
obliges the king to spend ten days during the year at Amsterdam, and
the municipality of that town are obliged to pay his expenses during
those ten days. After midnight of the tenth day even a match that he
may strike to light his cigar is at his own expense.
* * * * *
On returning from the royal villa at the Hague I found the wood
enlivened by the Sunday promenade--music, carriages, a crowd of
ladies, restaurants full of people, and swarms of children everywhere.