rare flower in Holland, as in all other countries; notwithstanding, in
a walk of a hundred steps in the wood at the Hague I saw many more
beautiful women than I had seen in all the pictures in the Dutch
galleries. These ladies do not possess the statuesque beauty of the
Romans, the splendid color of the English, nor the vivacity of the
Andalusians; but there is about them a refinement, a delightful
innocence and grace, a tranquil beauty, a pleasing countenance; they
have, as a French writer has rightly said, the attraction of the
valerian flower which ornaments their gardens. They are plump, and
tall rather than short, they have regular features, and smooth
brilliant complexions of a beautiful white and delicate pink--colors
which seem to have been suffused by the breath of an angel; they have
high cheek-bones; their eyes are light blue, sometimes very light, and
sometimes of a glassy appearance, which gives them a vague, wandering
look. It is said that their teeth are not good, but this I could not
confirm, as they seldom laugh. They walk more heavily than the French
and not so stiffly as the English; they dress in the Parisian mode,
and the ladies at the Hague display better taste than those at
Amsterdam, although they do not dress so richly: they all display
their masses of fair hair with considerable pride.
I was astonished to see girls who appeared to be fully grown, who in
our country would have had the airs and attire of women, still dressed
like children, with short skirts and white pantalettes. In Holland,
where life is easy and impatience an unknown experience, the girls are
in no hurry to leave off the ways and appearance of childhood, and, on
the other hand, they seem naturally to enter at a comparatively late
age that period of life when, as Alessandro Manzoni says in his
ever-admirable way, it seems as though a mysterious power enters the
soul, which soothes, adorns, and invigorates all its inclinations and
thoughts. Here a girl very rarely marries before her twentieth year. I
need not speak of the children of the Deccan, who, it is said, are
married at eight years of age, but in Holland the Italian and Spanish
girls, who marry at fourteen or fifteen, are regarded as unaccountable
persons. There, girls of fifteen years are going to school with their
hair down their backs, and nobody thinks of looking at them. I heard a
young man of the Hague spoken of with horror by his friends because he
was enamoured of a maiden of this age, for to their minds she was
considered as an infant.
Another thing one notices instantly in every Dutch city, excepting
Amsterdam, is the absence of that lower stratum of society known as
the demi-monde. There is nothing in dress or manner to indicate the
existence of such a class. "Beware," said some freethinking Dutchmen
to me; "you are in a Protestant country, and there is a great deal of
hypocrisy." This may be true, but the sore that can be hidden cannot
be very large. Equivocal society does not exist among the Hollanders;
there is no shadow of it in their life nor any hint of it in their
literature; the very language rebels against translating any of those
numberless expressions which constitute the dubious, flashy, easy
speech of that class of society in the countries where it is found. On
the other hand, neither fathers nor mothers close their eyes to the
conduct of their unmarried sons, even if they be grown men; family
discipline makes no exception of long beards; and this strict
discipline is aided by their phlegmatic nature, their habits of
economy, and their respect for public opinion.
It would be a presumption more ridiculous than impertinent to speak of
the character and life of Dutch women with an air of experience, when
I have been only a few months in Holland; so I must content myself
with letting my Dutch friends speak for themselves.
Many writers have treated Dutch women discourteously. One calls them
apathetic housekeepers; another, who shall be nameless, carried
impertinence so far as to say that, like the men, they are in the
habit of choosing their lovers from among the servant class, and that
their aspirations are necessarily low. But these are judgments
dictated by the rage of some rejected suitors. Daniel Stern (Comtesse
d'Agoult), who as a woman speaks with particular authority on this
subject, says the women of Holland are noble, loyal, active, and
chaste. A few authors venture to doubt their much-talked-of calmness
in affection. "They are still waters," wrote Esquiros, and all know
what is said of still waters. Heine said they were frozen volcanoes,
and that when they thaw--But, of all the opinions I have read, the
most remarkable seems to me that of Saint Evremont--namely, that Dutch
women are not lively enough to disturb the repose of the men, that
some of them are certainly amiable, and that prudence or the coldness
of their nature stands them in stead of virtue.
One day, in a group of young men at the Hague, I quoted this opinion
of Saint Evremont, and bluntly demanded: "Is it true?" They smiled,
looked at each other, and one answered, "It is:" another, "I think
so;" and a third, "It may be." In short, they all admitted its truth.
On another occasion I collected evidence proving that matters stand
just as they were at the time of the French writer. A group of people
were discussing an odd character. "Yet," said one, "that little man
who seems so quiet in his manner is a great ladies' man." "Does he
disturb the repose of families?" I asked. They all began to laugh, and
one answered: "What! Disturb the repose of families in Holland? It
would be one of the twelve labors of Hercules."--"We Hollanders," a
friend once said to me, "do not take the ladies by storm; we cannot do
so, because we have no school of this art. Nothing is so false in
Holland as the famous definition, matrimony is like a besieged
fortress; those who are outside wish to enter, while those who are
inside wish they were out. Here those who are inside are very happy,
and those who are outside do not think of entering." Another said to
me, "The Dutch woman does not marry the man; she espouses matrimony."
This, which is true of the Hague, an elegant city to which there comes
a great influx of French civilization, is even truer of the other
towns, where the ancient customs have been more strictly adhered to.
Yet gallant travellers write that the Hollanders are a sleepy people,
and that their domestic happiness is "_un bonheur un peu gros_." The
woman who seldom goes out, who dances little and laughs less, who
occupies herself only with her children, her husband, and her flowers,
who reads her books on theology, and surveys the street with the
looking-glass, so that she need not show herself at the window, how
much more poetical is she than--But pardon me, Andalusia! I was about
to say something rather hard on you.
Hitherto, some readers may think that I have been pretending to know
the Dutch language. I hasten to say that I do not know it, and to
excuse my ignorance. A people like the Dutch, serious and taciturn,
richer in hidden qualities than in brilliant showy ones--a people who
are, if I may so express myself, self-contained rather than
superficial, who do much and talk little, who do not pass for more
than they are worth--may be studied without a knowledge of their
language. On the other hand, the French language is generally known in
Holland. In the large cities there is scarcely an educated person who
does not speak French correctly, scarcely a shopman who cannot make
himself understood in good or bad French, and there is scarcely a boy
who is not acquainted with ten or twenty words which suffice to help a
stranger out of a dilemma. This diffusion of a language so different
from that of the country is the more to be admired when one reflects
that it is not the only foreign language generally spoken in Holland.
English and German are almost as widely known as French. The study of
these three languages is obligatory in the secondary schools. Cultured
people, like those who in Italy think it a necessity to know French,
in Holland generally read English, German, and French with equal
facility. The Dutch have an especial talent for learning languages,
and an incredible courage in speaking them. We Italians before we
attempt to speak a foreign language require to know enough about it to
avoid making great mistakes; we blush when we do make them; we avoid
the opportunities of speaking until we are sure of speaking well
enough to be complimented, and in this way we continue to lengthen the
period of our philological novitiate. In Holland one often meets
people who speak French with great effort, with a vocabulary of
perhaps a hundred words and twenty sentences; but notwithstanding they
talk, hold long conversations, and do not seem to be at all worried
about what one may think of their blunders and their audacity.
Waiters, porters, and boys, when asked if they know French, answer
with the greatest assurance, "_Oui_" or "_Un peu_," and they try in a
thousand ways to make themselves understood, laughing themselves
sometimes at the eccentric contortion of their speech, and ending
every answer with "_S'il vous plait_" or a "_Pardon, monsieur_;" which
are often said so prettily and yet are so out of place that they make
one laugh even against one's will. It is considered such a common
thing to know French that when any one is obliged to answer that he
doesn't speak French, he hesitates, ashamed, and if he is interrogated
in the street he will pretend to be busy and hurry on.
As for the Dutch language, it is a mystery to those who do not know
German, and even when one knows German and can read Dutch books with a
little study, one cannot understand Dutch when it is spoken. If I were
asked to say what impression it makes on those who do not understand
it, I should say that it seems like German spoken by people with a
hair in their throats. This effect is produced by the frequent
repetition of a guttural aspirate which is like the sound of the
Spanish _jota_. Even the Dutch themselves do not consider their
language euphonious. I was often asked, playfully, "What impression
does it make on you?" as if they understood that the impression could
not be altogether agreeable. Yet some one has written a book proving
that Adam and Eve spoke Dutch in the Garden of Eden. But, although the
Dutch speak so many foreign languages, they hold to their own, and
grow indignant when any ignorant stranger shows that he believes Dutch
to be a German dialect, this being, in truth, a theory held by many
who only know the language by name. It is almost superfluous to repeat
the history of the language.
The first inhabitants of the country spoke Teutonic in its different
dialects. These dialects were blended and formed the ancient speech of
the Netherlands, which in the Middle Ages, like the other European
languages, passed through the different Germanic, Norman, and French
phases, and ended in the present Dutch language, in which there is
still a foundation of the primitive idiom and the evidence of a slight
Latin influence. Certainly, there is a striking similarity between
Dutch and German, and, above all, there are a number of root-words
common to the two; but there is, however, a great difference in the
grammar, that of the Dutch being much simpler in construction, and the
pronunciation also is very different. This very likeness is the reason
that the Dutch generally do not speak German so well as they speak
English or French; perhaps the difficulty may be caused by the
ambiguity of words, or because it costs them so little effort to
understand the language and to speak it for their own use that they
stop there, as we often do with French, which we speak at ten years of
age and have forgotten at forty.
Now it is time to go and visit the art gallery, which is the greatest
ornament of the Hague.
On entering we find ourselves at once before the most celebrated of
all painted animals, Paul Potter's "Bull"--that immortal bull which,
as has been said, was honored at the Louvre, when the mania arose of
classifying these pictures in a sort of hierarchy of celebrity, by
being placed near the "Transfiguration" of Raphael, the "St Peter the
Martyr" of Titian, and the "Communion of St. Jerome" by Domenichino;
that bull for which England would pay a million francs, and Holland
would not sell for double that sum; the bull on which more pages have
been written than the strokes of the artist on the canvas, and about
which critics still write and dispute as if it were a real living
creation of a new animal instead of a picture.
The subject of the picture is very simple--a life-size bull, standing
with his head turned toward the spectator, a cow lying on the ground,
some sheep, a shepherd, and a distant landscape.
[Illustration: Paul Potter's Bull.]
The supreme merit of this bull may be expressed in one word: it is
alive. The serious wondering eye, which gives the impression of
vigorous vitality and savage pride, is painted with such truth that at
the first sight one feels inclined to dodge to the right or left, as
one does in a country road when one meets such animals. His moist
black nostrils seem to be smoking, and to be drawing in the air with a
prolonged breath. His hide is painted with all its folds and
wrinkles; one can see where the animal has rubbed himself against the
trees and the ground; the hairs look as though they are stuck on the
canvas. The other animals are equally fine: the head of the cow, the
fleece of the sheep, the flies, the grass, the leaves and fibres of
the plants, the moss,--everything is rendered with extraordinary
fidelity. Although the infinite care the artist must have taken is
apparent, the fatigue and patience of the copy do not appear; it seems
almost an inspired, impetuous work, in which the painter, impelled by
a thirst for truth, has not felt a moment of hesitation or weariness.
Infinite criticisms were made on this "incredible stroke of audacity
by a young man of twenty-four." The large size of the canvas was
censured, the commonplace nature of the subject, the poverty of the
light effects, for the light is equally diffused and everything is
placed in relief without the contrast of shadow,--the stiffness of the
legs of the bull, the crude coloring of the plants and animals in the
background; the mediocrity of the shepherd's figure. But, for all
this, Paul Potter's bull was crowned with glory as one of the noblest
examples of art, and Europe considers it as the greatest work of the
prince of animal-painters. An illustrious critic very rightly said
that "Paul Potter with his bull has written the true idyl of Holland."
Herein is the great merit of the Dutch animal-painters, and of Potter
above all, that they have not only depicted animals, but have revealed,
and told in the poetry of color, the delicate, attentive, almost maternal
love with which this Dutch agricultural people cherish their cattle.
Potter's animals interpret the poetry of rural life. By them he has
expressed the silence and the peace of the meadows, the pleasure of
solitude, the sweetness of repose, and the satisfaction of patient toil.
One might almost say that he had succeeded in making himself understood by
them, and that they must have put themselves in positions to be copied. He
has given them the variety and attractiveness of human beings. The
sadness, the quiet content which follows the satisfaction of physical
needs, the sensations of health and strength, of love and gratitude toward
mankind, all the glimmerings of intelligence and the stirrings of
affection, all the variety of nature--all these he has understood and
expressed with loving fidelity, and he has further succeeded in
communicating to us the feelings by which he was animated. As we look at
his pictures a strange primitive instinct of a rural life is gradually
roused in us--an innocent desire to milk, to shear, to drive these gentle
patient animals that delight the eye and heart. In this art Paul Potter is
unsurpassed. Berghem is more refined, but Potter is more natural; Van de
Velde is more graceful, but Potter is more vigorous; Du Jardin is more
amiable, but Potter is more profound.
And to think that the architect who afterward became his father-in-law
would not at first give him his daughter, because he was only a
painter of animals! and if we may believe tradition his celebrated
bull served as a sign to a butcher's shop and sold for twelve hundred
and sixty francs.
Another masterpiece in the Hague Gallery is a small painting by Gerard
Dou, the painter of the celebrated "Dropsical Woman," which hangs in the
Louvre between pictures by Raphael and Murillo. He is one of the greatest
painters of the home-life of the Dutch, and the most patient of the
patient artists of his country. The picture simply represents a woman
seated near a window, with a cradle by her side; but in this humble scene
there is such a sweet and holy air of domestic peace, a repose so
profound, a love so harmonious, that the most obstinate bachelor on earth
could not look on it without feeling an irresistible desire to be the one
for whom the wife is waiting in that quiet, clean room, or at least to
enter it secretly for a moment, even though he remain hidden in the
shadow, if so he might breathe the perfume of the innocent happiness of
this sanctuary. This picture, like all the works of Dou, is painted with
that wonderful finish which he carries almost to excess, which was
certainly carried to excess by Slingelandt, who worked three years
continuously in painting the Meerman family. This style afterward
degenerated into that smooth, affected, painful mannerism where the
figures are like ivory, the skies enamel, and the fields velvet, of which
Van der Werff is the best known representative. Among other things to be
seen in this picture by Dou is a broom-handle, the size of a pen-holder,
on which they say the artist worked assiduously for three days. This does
not seem strange when we reflect that every minute filament, the grain,
the knots, spots, dents, and finger-marks are all reproduced. Anecdotes
of his superhuman patience are recounted which are scarcely credible. It
is said he was five days in copying the hand of a Madam Spirings whose
portrait he painted. Who knows how long he was painting her head? The
unhappy creatures who wished to be painted by him were driven to madness.
It is believed that he ground his colors himself, and made his own
brushes, and that he kept everything hermetically closed, so that no
particle of dust could reach his work. When he entered his studio he
opened the door slowly, sat down with great deliberation, and then
remained motionless until the least sign of agitation produced by the
exercise had ceased. Then he began to paint, using concave glasses to
reduce the objects in size. This continual effort ended by injuring his
sight, so that he was obliged to work with spectacles. Nevertheless, his
coloring never became weakened or less vigorous, and his pictures are
equally strong whether one looks at them near by or far off. They have
been very justly compared to natural scenes reduced in photographs. Dou
was one of the many disciples of Rembrandt who divided the inheritance of
his genius. From his master he learned finish and the art of imitating
light, especially the effects of candle-light and of lamps. Indeed, as we
shall see in the Amsterdam Gallery, he equalled Rembrandt in these
respects. He possessed the rare merit among the painters of his school in
that he took no pleasure in painting ugliness and trivial subjects.
In the gallery at the Hague home-life is represented by Dou, by
Adriaen van Ostade, by Steen, and by Van Mieris the elder.
Van Ostade--called the Rembrandt of home-life, because he imitated the
great master in his powerful effects of chiaroscuro, of delicate
shading, of transparency in shadows, of rich coloring--is represented
by two small pictures which depict the inside and outside of a rustic
house. Both are full of poetry, notwithstanding the triviality of the
subjects which he has chosen in common with other painters of his
school. But he has this peculiarity, that the remarkably ugly girls in
his pictures are taken from his own family, which, according to
tradition, was a group of little monstrosities, whom he held up to the
ridicule of the world. Thus nearly all the Dutch painters chose to
paint the least handsome of the women whom they saw, as if they had
agreed to throw discredit on the feminine type of their country.
Rembrandt's "Susanna," to cite a subject which of all others required
beauty, is an ugly Dutch servant, and the women painted by Steen,
Brouwer, and others are not worth mentioning. And yet, as we have
seen, models of noble and gracious beauty were not wanting among them.
There are three fine paintings by Frans van Mieris the elder, the
first disciple of Dou, and as finished and minute a painter as his
master. He together with Metsu and Terburg, two artists eminent for
finish and coloring, belonged to that group of painters of home-life
who chose their subjects from the higher classes of society. One of
these canvases portrays the artist with his wife.
Among other paintings, Steen is represented by his favorite subject, a
doctor feeling the pulse of a lovesick girl in the presence of her
duenna. It is an admirable study of expression, of piquant, roguish
smiles. The doctor's face seems to say, "I think I understand;" the
invalid's, "Something more than your prescriptions are needed;" the
duenna's, "I know what she wants." Other pictures of home-life by
Schaleken, Tilborch, Netscher, William van Mieris represent kitchens,
shops, dinners, and the families of the artists.
Landscape and marine painting are represented by beautiful gems from
the hands of Ruysdael, Berghem, Van de Velde, Van der Neer, Bakhuisen,
and Everdingen. There are also a large number of works by Philips
Wouverman, the painter of horses and battle-pieces.
There are two pictures by Van Huysum, the great flower-painter, who
was born at a time when Holland was possessed with a mad love of
flowers and cultivated the most beautiful flowers in Europe. He
celebrated this passion with his brush and created it afresh in his
pictures. No one else has so marvellously rendered the infinite
shades, the freshness, the transparency, the softness, the grace, the
modesty, the languor, the thousand hidden beauties, all the
appearances of the noble and delicate life of the pearl of vegetation,
of the darling of nature, the flower. The Hollanders brought to him
all the miracles of their gardens that he might copy them; kings asked
him for flowers; his pictures were sold for sums that in those days
were fabulous. Jealous of his wife and his art, he worked alone,
unseen by his fellow-artists, lest they should discover the secret of
his coloring. Thus he lived and died, glorious and melancholy, in the
midst of petals and fragrance.
But the greatest work in the gallery is the celebrated "Lesson in
Anatomy" by Rembrandt.
This picture was inspired by a feeling of gratitude to Doctor Tulp,
Professor of Anatomy at Amsterdam, who protected Rembrandt in his
youth. Rembrandt portrays Tulp and his pupils grouped round a table on
which is stretched a naked corpse, whose arm has been dissected by the
anatomist's knife. The professor, who wears his hat, stands pointing
out the muscles of the arm with his scissors, and explaining them to
his pupils. Some of the scholars are seated, others stand, others lean
over the body. The light coming from left to right illuminates their
faces and a part of the dead man, leaving their garments, the table,
and the walls of the room in obscurity. The figures are life-size.