that no one spoke for the pleasure of speaking. When any one opened
his mouth it was to ask a question or to tell a piece of news or to
make an observation. That art of making a period of every idea, a
story of every fact, a question of every trifle, in which Italians,
French, and Spaniards are masters, is here totally unknown. Dutch
conversation is not an exchange of sounds, but a commerce of facts,
and nobody makes the least effort to appear learned, eloquent, or
witty. In all the time I was at the Hague I remember hearing only one
witticism, and that from a deputy, who speaking to me of the alliance
of the ancient Batavians with the Romans, said, "We have always been
the friends of constituted authority." Yet the Dutch language lends
itself to puns: in proof of this there is the incident of a pretty
foreign lady who asked a young boatman of the _trekschuit_ for a
cushion, and not pronouncing the word well, instead of cushion said
kiss, which in Dutch sounds almost the same; and she scarcely had time
to explain the mistake, for the boatman had already wiped his mouth
with the back of his hand. I had read that the Dutch are avaricious
and selfish, and that they have a habit of boring people with long
accounts of their ailments, but as I studied the Dutch character I
came to see that these charges are untrue. On the contrary, they laugh
at the Germans for their complaining disposition. To sustain the
charge of avarice somebody has brought forward the very incredible
statement that during a naval battle with the English the officers of
the Dutch fleet boarded the vessels of the enemy, who had used all
their ammunition, sold them balls and powder at exorbitant prices,
after which they continued the battle. But to contradict this
accusation there is the fact of their comfortable life, of their rich
houses, of the large sums of money spent in books and pictures, and
still more of the widespread works of charity, in which the Dutch
people certainly stand first in Europe. These philanthropic works are
not official nor do they receive any impulse from the government; they
are spontaneous and voluntary, and are carried on by large and
powerful societies that have founded innumerable institutes--schools,
prizes, libraries, popular reunions--helping and anticipating the
government in the duty of public instruction,--whose branches extend
from the large cities to the humblest villages, embracing every
religious sect, every age, every profession, and every need; in short,
a beneficence which does not leave in Holland a poor person without a
roof or a workman without work. All writers who have studied Holland
agree in saying that there probably is not another state in Europe
where, in proportion to the population, a larger amount is given in
charity by the wealthy classes to those who are in want.
It must not, however, be imagined that the Dutch people have no
defects. They certainly have them, if one may consider as defects the
lack of those qualities which ought to be the splendor and nobility of
their virtues. In their firmness we might find some obstinacy, in
their honesty a certain sordidness; we might hold that their coldness
shows the absence of that spontaneity of feeling without which it
seems impossible that there can be affection, generosity, and true
greatness of soul. But the better one knows them, the more one
hesitates to pronounce these judgments, and the more one feels for
them a growing respect and sympathy on leaving Holland. Voltaire was
able to speak the famous words: "Adieu, canaux, canards, canaille;"
but when he had to judge Holland seriously, he remembered that he had
not found in its capital "an idle person, a poor, dissipated, or
insolent man," and that he had everywhere seen "industry and modesty."
Louis Napoleon proclaimed that in no other European country is there
found so much innate good sense, justice, and reason as there is in
Holland; Descartes gave the Hollanders the greatest praise a
philosopher can give to a people when he said that in no country does
one enjoy greater liberty than in Holland; Charles V. pronounced upon
them the highest eulogy possible to a sovereign when he said that they
were "excellent subjects, but the worst of slaves." An Englishman
wrote that the Dutch inspire an esteem that never becomes affection.
Perhaps he did not esteem them highly enough.
I do not conceal the fact that one of my reasons for liking them was
the discovery that Italy is much better known in Holland than I should
have dared to hope. Not only did our revolution find a favorable echo
there, as was natural in a independent nation free and hostile to the
pope, but the Italian leaders and the events of recent times are as
familiarly known as those of France and Germany. The best newspapers
have Italian correspondents and furnish the public with the minutest
details of our affairs. In many places portraits of our most
illustrious citizens are seen. Acquaintance with our literature is no
less extended than knowledge of our politics. Putting aside the fact
that the Italian language was sung in the halls of the ancient counts
of Holland, that in the golden age of Dutch literature it was greatly
honored by men of letters, and that several of the most illustrious
poets of that period wrote Italian verses or imitated our pastoral
poetry,--the Italian language is considerably studied nowadays, and
one frequently meets those who speak it, and it is common to see our
books on ladies' tables. The "Divina Commedia," which came into vogue
especially after 1830, has been twice translated into rhymed triplets.
One version is the work of a certain Hacke van Mijnden, who devoted
all his life to the study of Dante. "Gerusalemme Liberata" has been
translated in verse by a Protestant clergyman called Ten Kate, and
there was another version, unpublished and now lost, by Maria
Tesseeschade, the great poetess of the seventeenth century, the
intimate friend of the great Dutch poet Vondel, who advised and helped
her in the translation. Of the "Pastor Fido" there are at least five
translations by different hands. Of "Aminta" there are several
translations, and, to make a leap, at least four of "Mie Prigioni,"
besides a very fine translation of the "Promessi Sposi," a novel that
few Dutch people have not read either in their own language, in
French, or in Italian. To cite another interesting fact, there is a
poem entitled "Florence," written for the last centenary of Dante by
one of the best Dutch poets of our day.
It is now in place to say something about Dutch literature.
Holland presents a singular disproportion between the expansive force
of its political, scientific, and commercial life and that of its
literary life. While the work of the Dutch in every other field
extends beyond the frontier of the land, its literature is confined
within its own borders. It is especially strange that, although
Holland possesses a most abundant literature, it has not, as other
little states, produced one book that has become European, unless we
class among literary works the writings of Spinoza, the only great
philosopher of his country, or consider as Dutch literature the
forgotten Latin treatises of Erasmus of Rotterdam. Yet if there be a
country which by its nature and history suggests subjects to inspire
the mind to the production of such poetical works as appeal to the
imagination of all nations, that country is Holland. The marvellous
transformations of the land, the terrible inundations, the fabulous
maritime expeditions,--these ought to have given birth to a poem
powerful and original even when stripped of its native form. Why did
not this occur? The nature of the Dutch genius may be adduced as a
reason, which, aiming at utility in everything, wished to turn
literature also to a practical end. Another tendency, the opposite of
this, though, perhaps derived from it, is that of soaring high above
human nature to avoid treading on the ground with the mass; a
weariness of genius which gave to judgment the ascendency over the
imagination; an innate love of all that was precise and finished,
which resulted in a prolixity in which grand ideas were diluted; the
spirit of the religious sects, which enchained within a narrow circle
talents created to survey a vast horizon. But neither these nor other
reasons can keep one from wondering that there should not be one
writer of Dutch literature who worthily represents to the world the
greatness of his country--a name to be placed between Rembrandt and
Spinoza.
However, it would be a mistake to overlook at least the three
principal figures of Dutch literature, two of whom belong to the
seventeenth and one to the nineteenth century--three original poets
who differ widely from each other, but represent in themselves Dutch
poetry in its entirety: Vondel, Catz, and Bilderdijk.
[Illustration: The Vyver, The Hague.]
Vondel, the greatest poet Holland has produced, was born in 1587 at
Cologne, where his father, a hatmaker, had taken refuge, having fled
from Antwerp to escape from the Spanish persecutions. While still a
child the future poet returned to his country on a barrow, together
with his father and mother, who followed him on foot, praying and
reciting verses from the Bible. His studies began at Amsterdam. At
fifteen years of age he was already renowned as a poet, but his
celebrated works date from 1620. At the age of thirty he knew only his
own language, but later he learned French and Latin, and applied
himself with ardor to the study of the classics; at fifty he gave
himself up to Greek. His first tragedy (for he was chiefly a
dramatist), entitled "The Destruction of Jerusalem," was not very
successful. The second, "Palamades," in which was delineated the
piteous and terrible tale of Olden Barneveldt, a victim of Maurice of
Orange, caused a criminal action to be brought against the author. He
fled, and remained in concealment until the unexpectedly mild sentence
was given which condemned him to a fine of three hundred florins. In
1627 he travelled in Denmark and Sweden, where he was received with
great honors by Gustavus Adolphus. Eleven years later he opened the
theatre at Amsterdam with a drama on a national theme, "Gilbert of
Amstel," which is still performed once a year in his memory. The last
years of his life were very unhappy. His dissipated son reduced him to
poverty, and the poor old man, tired of study and broken down with
sorrow, was obliged to beg for a miserable employment at the city
pawnbroker's. A few years before his death he embraced the Catholic
faith, and, seized with fresh inspiration, composed the tragedy of
"The Virgin" and one of his best poems entitled "The Mysteries of
the Altar." He died at a great age, and was buried in a church at
Amsterdam, where a century afterward a monument was erected in his
honor. Besides tragedies he wrote martial songs to his country, to
illustrious Dutch sailors, and to Prince Frederick Henry. But his
chief glory was the drama. An admirer of Greek tragedy, he preserved
the unities, the chorus, the supernatural, substituting Providence for
Destiny, and demons and angels (the good and evil spirits of
Christianity) for the angry and propitious gods. He drew nearly all
his subjects from the Bible. His finest work is the tragedy of
"Lucifer," which, notwithstanding the almost insuperable difficulties
of stage setting, was represented twice at the theatre in Amsterdam,
after which it was interdicted by the Protestant clergy. The subject
of the drama is the rebellion of Lucifer, and the characters are the
good and bad angels. In this as in his other plays there abound
fantastic descriptions full of splendid imagery, passages of powerful
eloquence, fine choruses, vigorous thought, solemn phrases, rich and
sonorous verse, while here and there are gleams and flashes of genius.
On the other hand, his work is pervaded by a mysticism which is
sometimes obscure and austere, by a discord between Christian ideas
and pagan forms. The lyrical element predominates over the dramatic,
good taste is often offended, and, above all, the thought and feeling,
though aiming at the sublime, rise too high above this earth, and
elude the comprehension of the human heart and mind. Nevertheless,
historical precedence, originality, ardent patriotism, and a noble and
patient life have made Vondel a great and venerated name in his
country, where he is regarded as the personification of national
genius, and is placed in the enthusiasm of affection next to the first
poets of other lands.
Vondel is the greatest, Jacob Catz is the truest, personification of Dutch
genius. He is not only the most popular poet of his nation, but his
popularity is such that it may be affirmed that there is no other writer
of any land, not excluding even Cervantes in Spain and Manzoni in Italy,
who is more generally known and more constantly read, while at the same
time there is perhaps no other poet in the world whose popularity is more
necessarily limited to the boundaries of his own country. Jacob Catz was
born in 1577 of a noble family in Brouwershaven, a town of Zealand. He
studied law, became pensionary of Middelburg, went as ambassador to
England, was Grand Pensionary of Holland, and, while he performed the
duties of these offices with zeal and rectitude, he devotedly cultivated
poetry. In the evening, after he had transacted affairs of state with the
deputies of the provinces, he would retire to his home to write verses. At
seventy-five years of age he asked to be released from further service,
and when the stadtholder told him with appreciative words that his
request had been granted, he fell on his knees in the presence of the
Assembly of the States and thanked God, who had always protected him
during the course of his long and exacting political life. A few days
later he retired to one of his villas, where he enjoyed a peaceful and
honorable old age, studying and writing up to the year 1660, when he died,
in the eighty-first year of his life, mourned by all Holland. His poems
fill several large volumes, and consist of fables, madrigals, stories from
history and mythology, abounding in descriptions, quotations, sentences,
and precepts. His work is pervaded with goodness, honesty, and sweetness,
and he writes with frank simplicity and delicate humor. His volume is the
book of national wisdom, the second Bible of the Dutch nation--a manual
which teaches how to live honestly and in peace. He has a word for
all--for boys as well as old men, for merchants as well as princes, for
mistresses as well as for maids, for the rich as well as for the poor. He
teaches how to spend, to save, to do housework, to govern a family, and to
educate children. He is at the same time a friend, a father, a spiritual
director, a master, an economist, a doctor, and a lawyer. He loves modest
nature, the gardens, the meadows; he adores his wife, does his work, and
is satisfied with himself and with other people, and would like every one
to be as contented as he is. His poems are to be found beside the Bible
in every Dutch house. There is not a peasant's cottage where the head of
the family does not read some of his verses every evening. In days of
sadness and doubt all look for comfort and find it in their old poet. He
is the intimate fireside friend, the faithful companion of the invalid;
his is the first book over which the faces of affianced lovers bend; his
verses are the first that children lisp and the last that grand-sires
repeat. No poet is so loved as he. Every Dutchman smiles when he hears his
name spoken, and no foreigner who has been in Holland can help naming it
with a feeling of sympathy and respect.
The last of the three, Bilderdijk, was born in 1756 and died in 1831: his
was one of the most marvellous intellects that have ever appeared in this
world. He was a poet, historian, philologist, astronomer, chemist, doctor,
theologian, antiquary, jurisconsult, designer, engraver--a restless,
unsettled, capricious man, whose life was nothing but an investigation, a
transformation, a perpetual battle with his vast genius. As a young man,
when he was already famous as a poet, he abandoned the Muse and entered
politics; he emigrated with the stadtholder to England, and gave lessons
in London to earn a livelihood. He tired of England and went to Germany;
bored by German romanticism, he returned to Holland, where Louis Bonaparte
overwhelmed him with favors. When Louis left the throne, Napoleon the
Great deprived the favorite of his pension, and he was reduced to
poverty. Finally he obtained a small pension from the government, and
continued studying, writing, and struggling to the last day of his life.
His works embrace more than thirty volumes of science, art, and
literature. He tried every style, and succeeded in all excepting the
dramatic. He enlarged historical criticism by writing one of the finest
national histories his country possesses. He wrote a poem, "The Primitive
World," an abstruse, gloomy composition which is very much admired in
Holland. He dealt with every possible question, confounding luminous
truths with the strangest paradoxes. He even raised the national
literature, which had fallen into decadence, and left a phalanx of chosen
disciples who followed in his steps in politics, art, and philosophy.
Holland regards him not only with enthusiasm, but with fanaticism, and
there is no doubt that after Vondel he is the greatest poet of his
country. But he was possessed by a religious frenzy, a blind hatred of new
ideas, which caused him to make poetry an instrument of sects: he
introduces theology into everything, and consequently he could not attain
to that free serene region beyond which genius cannot obtain enduring
victories and universal fame.
Round these three poets, who represent the three vices of Dutch
literature--of losing themselves in the clouds, of creeping on the ground,
of entangling themselves in the meshes of mysticism--are grouped a number
of epic, comic, satiric, and lyric poets, most of whom flourished in the
seventeenth and a few in the eighteenth century. Many of them are renowned
in Holland, but none possesses sufficient originality to attract the
attention of the passing stranger.
The present condition deserves a rapid glance. Criticism by stripping
from Dutch history the veil of poetry with which the patriotism of
writers had clothed it, has placed it on the wider and more productive
plain of justice. Philological studies are held in high honor in
Holland, and almost all the sciences are represented by men of
European fame. These are facts of which no scholar is ignorant, and a
bare mention of them is sufficient.
In pure literature the most flourishing style is the novel. Holland
has had its national novelist, its Walter Scott, in Van Lennep, who
died a few years ago, a writer of historical romances which were
received with enthusiasm by all classes of society. He was an
effective painter of customs, a learned, witty writer, and a master of
the art of dialogue and description, but, unfortunately, often prolix.
He used old artifices, adopted forced solutions, and often was not
sufficiently reticent. In his last book, "The Adventures of Nicoletta
Zevenster," while admirably describing Dutch society at the beginning
of this century, he had the unheard-of audacity to describe an
improper house at the Hague. All Holland was in an uproar. His book
was discussed, criticised, condemned, praised to the skies, and the
battle still continues. Other historical novels were written by a
certain Schimmel, a worthy rival of Van Lennep, and by a Madame
Rosboon Toussaint, an accomplished author of deep study and real
talent. Nevertheless, historical romance may be considered dead even
in Holland. The modern novels of social life and the story meet with
better fortune. Most prominent in this field is Beets, a Protestant
clergyman and a poet, the author of a celebrated book entitled "The
Dark Chamber." Koetsweldt is another of this class, and there are also
some young men of great gifts who have been prevented from rising to
any height by haste, the demon that persecutes the literature of
to-day.
Holland has still another kind of romance which is its own. It might
be called Indian romance, since it describes the habits and life of
the people of the colonies. Of late years several novels have been
published in this style, which have been received in the country with
great applause and have been translated into several languages. Among
these is the "Beau Monde of Batavia," by Professor Ten Brink, a
learned, and brilliant writer, of whom I should like to be able to
speak at length to attest in some degree my gratitude and admiration.
But _apropos_ of Indian romances, it is pleasant to notice how in
Holland at every step one hears and sees something that reminds one
of the colonies, as if a ray of the Indian sun penetrated the Dutch
winter and colored the life. The ships which bring a breath of wind
from those distant lands to the home ports, the birds, the flowers,
the countless objects, like sounds mingled with faint music, call up
in the mind images of another nature and another race. In the cities
of Holland, among the thousands of white faces, one often meets men
whose visages are bronzed by the sun, who have been born or have lived
for many years in the colonies--merchants who speak with unusual
vivacity of dark women, bananas, palm forests, and of lakes shaded by
vines and orchids; young men who are bold enough to risk their lives
amid the savages of the islands of Borneo and Sumatra; men of science
and men of letters; officers who speak of the tribes which worship
fish, of ambassadors who carry the heads of the vanquished dangling
from their girdles, of bull and tiger fights, of the frenzy of
opium-eaters, of the multitudes baptized with pomp, of a thousand
strange and wonderful incidents which produce a singular effect when
related by the phlegmatic people of this peaceful country.
Poetry, after it lost Da Costa, a disciple of Bilderdijk, a religious
poet and enthusiast, and Genestet, a satirical poet who died very
young, had few champions in the last generation, and these are now
silent or sing with enfeebled voice. The stage is in a worse
condition. The untrained, ranting Dutch actors usually appear only in
French or German dramas, comedies which are badly translated, and the
best society does not go to see them. Writers of great talent, like
Hofdijk, Schimmel, and Van Lennep, wrote comedies which were admirable
in many ways, but they never became popular enough to hold the stage.
Tragedy is in no better condition than comedy and the drama.
From what I have said it would appear that there is not at present any
great literary movement in Holland; but on the contrary, there is
great literary activity. The number of books published is incredible,
and it is marvellous with what avidity they are read. Every town,
every religious sect, every society, has its review or newspaper.
Besides this, there is a multitude of foreign books: English novels
are in the hands of all; French works of eight, ten, and twenty
volumes are translated into the national language. This is the more
remarkable in a country where all cultivated people can read the
originals, and it proves how customary it is not only to read, but to
buy, although books are a great deal more expensive in Holland than
elsewhere. But this superabundance of publications and this thirst for
reading are precisely those elements which are injuring literature.
Writers, in order to satisfy the impatient curiosity of the public,
write in too great haste, and the mania for foreign literature
smothers and corrupts the national genius. Nevertheless, Dutch
literature has still a just claim to the esteem of the country: it
has declined, but has not become perverted; it has preserved its
innocence and freshness; what is lacking in imagination, originality,
and brilliancy is compensated by wisdom, by the severe respect for
good manners and good taste, by loving solicitude for the poorer
classes, by the effective energy with which it advances charity and
civil education. The literatures of other lands are great plants
adorned with fragrant flowers; Dutch literature is a little tree laden
with fruit.
On the morning when I left the Hague, after my second visit to the
city, some of my good friends accompanied me to the railway-station.
It was raining. When we were in the waiting-room, before the train
started, I thanked my kind hosts for the courteous reception they had
given me, and, knowing that perhaps I should never see them again, I
could not help expressing my gratitude in sad and affectionate words,
to which they listened in silence. Only one interrupted me by advising
me to guard against the damp.
"I hope at least some of you will come to Italy," I continued, "if
only to give me the opportunity of showing my gratitude. Do promise me
this, so that I may feel a little consoled at my departure. I will not
leave if some one does not say he will come to Italy."
They looked into each other's faces, and one answered laconically,
"Perhaps." Another advised me not to change French gold in the shops.
At that moment the last bell rang.
"Well, then, good-bye," I said in an agitated voice, pressing their
hands. "Farewell: I shall never forget the glorious days passed at the
Hague; I shall always recall your names as the dearest remembrance of
my journey. Think of me sometimes."