Delft
To Delft by canal--House-cleaning by immersion--The New
Church--William the Silent's tomb--His assassin--The story
of the crime--The tomb of Grotius--Dutch justice--The
Old Church--Admiral Tromp--The mission of the broom--The
sexton's pipe--Vermeer of Delft--Lost masterpieces--The wooden
petticoat--Modern Delft pottery and old breweries.
I travelled to Delft from Rotterdam in a little steam passenger barge,
very long and narrow to fit it for navigating the locks; which,
as it is, it scrapes. We should have started exactly at the hour
were it not that a very small boy on the bank interrupted one of the
crew who was unmooring the boat by asking for a light for his cigar,
and the transaction delayed us a minute.
It rained dismally, and I sat in the stuffy cabin, either peering at
the country through the window or talking with a young Dutchman,
the only other traveller. At one village a boy was engaged in
house-cleaning by immersing the furniture, piece by piece, bodily
in the canal. Now and then we met a barge in full sail on its way to
Rotterdam, or overtook one being towed towards Delft, the man at the
rope bent double under what looked like an impossible task.
Little guides to the tombs in both the Old and the New Church of Delft
have been prepared for the convenience of visitors by Dr. G. Morre, and
translations in English have been made by D. Goslings, both gentlemen,
I presume, being local savants. The New Church contains the more
honoured dust, for there repose not only William the Silent, who was
perhaps the greatest of modern patriots and rulers, but also Grotius.
The tomb of William the Silent is an elaborate erection, of stone and
marble, statuary and ornamentation. Justice and Liberty, Religion and
Valour, represented by female figures, guard the tomb. It seems to me
to lack impressiveness: the man beneath was too fine to need all this
display and talent. More imposing is the simplicity of the monument
to the great scholar near by. Yet remembering the struggle of William
the Silent against Spain and Rome, it is impossible to stand unmoved
before the marble figure of the Prince, lying there for all time with
his dog at his feet--the dog who, after the noble habit of the finest
of such animals, refused food and drink when his master died, and so
faded away rather than owe allegiance and affection to a lesser man.
There is an eloquent Latin epitaph in gold letters on the tomb; but a
better epitaph is to be found in the last sentence of Motley's great
history, perhaps the most perfect last sentence that any book ever had:
"As long as he lived, he was the guiding-star of a whole brave nation,
and when he died the little children cried in the streets".
Opposite the Old Church is the Gymnasium Publicum. Crossing the
court-yard and entering the confronting doorway, one is instantly on
the very spot where William the Silent, whose tomb we have just seen,
met his death on July 10th, 1584.
The Prince had been living at Delft for a while, in this house, his
purpose partly being to be in the city for the christening of his
son Frederick Henry. To him on July 8th came a special messenger
from the French Court with news of the death of the Duke of Anjou;
the messenger, a _protégé_ of the Prince's, according to his own story
being Francis Guion, a mild and pious Protestant, whose father had been
martyred as a Calvinist. How far removed was the truth Motley shall
tell: "Francis Guion, the Calvinist, son of the martyred Calvinist,
was in reality Balthazar Gérard, a fanatical Catholic, whose father
and mother were still living at Villefans in Burgundy. Before reaching
man's estate, he had formed the design of murdering the Prince of
Orange, 'who, so long as he lived, seemed like to remain a rebel
against the Catholic King, and to make every effort to disturb the
repose of the Roman Catholic Apostolic religion'. When but twenty
years of age, he had struck his dagger with all his might into a door,
exclaiming, as he did so, 'Would that the blow had been in the heart
of Orange!'"
In 1582, however, the news had gone out that Jaureguy had killed the
Prince at Antwerp, and Gérard felt that his mission was at an end. But
when the Prince recovered, his murderous enthusiasm redoubled, and
he offered himself formally and with matter-of-fact precision to the
Prince of Parma as heaven's minister of vengeance. The Prince, who had
long been seeking such an emissary, at first declined the alliance:
he had become too much the prey of soldiers of fortune who represented
themselves to be expert murders but in whom he could put no trust. In
Motley's words: "Many unsatisfactory assassins had presented themselves
from time to time, and Alexander had paid money in hand to various
individuals--Italians, Spaniards, Lorrainers, Scotchmen, Englishmen,
who had generally spent the sums received without attempting the
job. Others were supposed to be still engaged in the enterprise,
and at that moment there were four persons--each unknown to the
others, and of different nations--in the city of Delft, seeking
to compass the death of William the Silent. Shag-eared, military,
hirsute ruffians, ex-captains of free companies and such marauders,
were daily offering their services; there was no lack of them, and they
had done but little. How should Parma, seeing this obscure, undersized,
thin-bearded, runaway clerk before him, expect pith and energy from
_him_? He thought him quite unfit for an enterprise of moment, and
declared as much to his secret councillors and to the King."
Gérard, however, had supporters, and in time the Prince of Parma came
to take a more favourable view of his qualifications and sincerity,
but his confidence was insufficient to warrant him in advancing any
money for the purpose. The result was that Gérard, whose dominating
idea amounted to mania, proceeded in his own way. His first step
was to ingratiate himself with the Prince of Orange. This he did by
a series of misrepresentations and fraud, and was recommended by the
Prince to the Signeur of Schoneval, who on leaving Delft on a mission
to the Duke of Anjou, added him to his suite.
The death of the Duke gave Gérard his chance, and he obtained
permission to carry despatches to the Prince of Orange, as we have
seen. The Prince received him in his bedroom, after his wont. Motley
now relates the tragedy: "Here was an opportunity such as he (Gérard)
had never dared to hope for. The arch-enemy to the Church and to
the human race, whose death would confer upon his destroyer wealth
and nobility in this world, besides a crown of glory in the next,
lay unarmed, alone, in bed, before the man who had thirsted seven
long years for his blood.
"Balthazar could scarcely control his emotions sufficiently to answer
the questions which the Prince addressed to him concerning the death
of Anjou, but Orange, deeply engaged with the despatches, and with
the reflections which their deeply important contents suggested, did
not observe the countenance of the humble Calvinistic exile, who had
been recently recommended to his patronage by Villiers. Gérard had,
moreover, made no preparation for an interview so entirely unexpected,
had come unarmed, and had formed no plan for escape. He was obliged to
forego his prey most when within his reach, and after communicating
all the information which the Prince required, he was dismissed from
the chamber.
"It was Sunday morning, and the bells were tolling for church. Upon
leaving the house he loitered about the courtyard, furtively
examining the premises, so that a sergeant of halberdiers asked
him why he was waiting there. Balthazar meekly replied that he
was desirous of attending divine worship in the church opposite,
but added, pointing to his shabby and travel-stained attire, that,
without at least a new pair of shoes and stockings, he was unfit
to join the congregation. Insignificant as ever, the small, pious,
dusty stranger excited no suspicion in the mind of the good-natured
sergeant. He forthwith spoke of the want of Gérard to an officer,
by whom they were communicated to Orange himself, and the Prince
instantly ordered a sum of money to be given him. Thus Balthazar
obtained from William's charity what Parma's thrift had denied--a
fund for carrying out his purpose!
"Next morning, with the money thus procured he purchased a pair of
pistols, or small carabines, from a soldier, chaffering long about
the price because the vendor could not supply a particular kind of
chopped bullets or slugs which he desired. Before the sunset of the
following day that soldier had stabbed himself to the heart, and died
despairing, on hearing for what purpose the pistols had been bought.
"On Tuesday, the 10th of July, 1584, at about half-past twelve,
the Prince, with his wife on his arm, and followed by the ladies
and gentlemen of his family, was going to the dining-room. William
the Silent was dressed upon that day, according to his usual custom,
in very plain fashion. He wore a wide-leaved, loosely shaped hat of
dark felt, with a silken cord round the crown,--such as had been
worn by the Beggars in the early days of the revolt. A high ruff
encircled his neck, from which also depended one of the Beggars'
medals, with the motto, '_Fidèles au roy jusqu'à la besace_,' while
a loose surcoat of gray frieze cloth, over a tawny leather doublet,
with wide slashed underclothes completed his costume. [1]
"Gérard presented himself at the doorway, and demanded a passport. The
Princess, struck with the pale and agitated countenance of the man,
anxiously questioned her husband concerning the stranger. The Prince
carelessly observed, that 'it was merely a person who came for a
passport,' ordering, at the same time, a secretary forthwith to prepare
one. The Princess, still not relieved, observed in an undertone that
'she had never seen so villanous a countenance'. Orange, however, not
at all impressed with the appearance of Gérard, conducted himself at
table with his usual cheerfulness, conversing much with the burgomaster
of Leeuwarden, the only guest present at the family dinner, concerning
the political and religious aspects of Friesland. At two o'clock
the company rose from table. The Prince led the way, intending to
pass to his private apartments above. The dining-room, which was
on the ground-floor, opened into a little square vestibule which
communicated, through an arched passage-way, with the main entrance
into the court-yard. This vestibule was also directly at the foot of
the wooden staircase leading to the next floor, and was scarcely six
feet in width. [2]
"Upon its left side, as one approached the stairway, was an obscure
arch, sunk deep in the wall, and completely in the shadow of the
door. Behind this arch a portal opened to the narrow lane at the side
of the house. The stairs themselves were completely lighted by a large
window, half-way up the flight. The Prince came from the dining-room,
and began leisurely to ascend. He had only reached the second stair,
when a man emerged from the sunken arch, and, standing within a foot
or two of him, discharged a pistol full at his heart."
When Jaureguy had fired at the Prince two years earlier, the ball
passing through his jaw, the Prince, at he faltered under the shock,
cried, "Do not kill him--I forgive him my death!" But he had no
time to express any such plea for his assailant after Gérard's
cruel shots. "Three balls," says Motley, "entered his body, one of
which, passing quite through him, struck with violence against the
wall beyond. The Prince exclaimed in French, as he felt the wound,
'O my God, have mercy upon my soul! O my God, have mercy upon this
poor people!'
"These were the last words he ever spoke, save that when his sister,
Catherine of Schwartzburgh, immediately afterwards asked him if he
commended his soul to Jesus Christ, he faintly answered, 'Yes'."
Never has the pistol done worse work. The Prince was only fifty-one;
he was full of vigour; his character had never been stronger, his
wisdom never more mature. Had he lived a few years longer the country
would have been saved years of war and misery.
One may stand to-day exactly where the Prince stood when he was
shot. The mark of a bullet in the wall is still shown. The dining-room,
from which he had come, now contains a collection of relics of his
great career.
Let us return to the New Church, past the statue of Grotius in
the great square, in order to look again at that philosopher's
memorial. Grotius, who was born at Delft, was extraordinarily
precocious. He went to Leyden University and studied under Scaliger
when he was eleven; at sixteen he was practising as a lawyer at
The Hague. This is D. Goslings' translation of the inscription on
his tomb:--
_Sacred to Hugo Grotius_
The Wonder of Europe, the sole astonishment of the learned world,
the splendid work of nature surpassing itself, the summit of genius,
the image of virtue, the ornament raised above mankind, to whom the
defended honour of true religion gave cedars from the top of Lebanon,
whom Mars adorned with laurels and Pallas with olive branches, when
he had published the right of war and peace: whom the Thames and
the Seine regarded as the wonder of the Dutch, and whom the court
of Sweden took in its service: Here lies _Grotius_. Shun this tomb,
ye who do not burn with love of the Muses and your country.
Grotius can hardly have burned with love of the sense of justice of
his own country, for reasons with which we are familiar. His sentence
of life-long imprisonment, passed by Prince Maurice of Orange, who lies
hard by in the same church, was passed in 1618. His escape in the chest
(like General Monk in _Twenty Years After_) was his last deed on Dutch
soil. Thenceforward he lived in Paris and Sweden, England and Germany,
writing his _De Jure Belli et Pacis_ and other works. He died in 1645,
when Holland claimed him again, as Oxford has claimed Shelley.
The principal tomb in the Old Church of Delft is that of Admiral Tromp,
the Dutch Nelson. While quite a child he was at sea with his father
off the coast of Guinea when an English cruiser captured the vessel
and made him a cabin boy. Tromp, if he felt any resentment, certainly
lived to pay it back, for he was our victor in thirty-three naval
engagements, the last being the final struggle in the English-Dutch
war, when he defeated Monk off Texel in the summer of 1653, and was
killed by a bullet in his heart. The battle is depicted in bas-relief
on the tomb, but the eye searches the marble in vain for any reminder
of the broom which the admiral is said to have lashed to his masthead
as a sign to the English that it was his habit to sweep their seas. The
story may be a myth, but the Dutch sculptor who omitted to remember
it and believe in it is no friend of mine.
This is D. Goslings' translation of Tromp's epitaph:--
_For an Eternal Memorial_
You, who love the Dutch, virtue and true labour, read and mourn.
The ornament of the Dutch people, the formidable in battle, lies low,
he who never lay down in his life, and taught by his example that a
commander should die standing, he, the love of his fellow-citizens,
the terror of his enemies, the wonder of the ocean.
_Maarten Harpertszoon Tromp_, a name comprehending more praise than
this stone can contain, a stone truly too narrow for him, for whom
East and West were a school, the sea the occasion of triumph, the
whole world the scene of his glory, he, a certain ruin to pirates,
the successful protector of commerce; useful through his familiarity,
not low; after having ruled the sailors and the soldiers, a rough
sort of people, in a fatherly and efficaciously benignant manner;
after fifty battles in which he was commander or in which he played
a great part; after incredible victories, after the highest honours
though below his merits, he at last in the war against the English,
nearly victor but certainly not beaten, on the 10th of August, 1653,
of the Christian era, at the age of fifty-six years, has ceased to
live and to conquer.
The fathers of the United Netherlands have erected this memorial in
honour of this highly meritorious hero.
There lie in Delft's Old Church also Pieter Pieterzoon Hein,
Lieut.-Admiral of Holland; and Elizabeth van Marnix, wife of the
governor of Bergen-op-Zoom, whose epitaph runs thus:--
Here am I lying, I _Elizabeth_, born of an illustrious and ancient
family, wife to Morgan, I, daughter of Marnix, a name not unknown
in the world, which, in spite of time, will always remain. There is
virtue enough in having pleased one husband, which his so precious
love testifies.
The tomb of Antony van Leeuwenhoek, the inventor of the microscope, is
also to be seen in the church. "As everybody, O Wanderer," the epitaph
concludes, "has respect for old age and wonderful parts, tread this
spot with respect; here grey science lies buried with Leeuwenhoek."
Each of the little guide-books, which are given to every purchaser
of a ticket to enter the churches, is prefaced by four "Remarks,"
of which I quote the third and fourth:--
3. Visitors are requested not to bestow gifts on the sexton or his
assistants, as the former would lose his situation, if he accepted;
he is responsible for his assistants.
4. The sexton or his assistants will treat the visitors with the
greatest politeness.
I am not certain about the truth of either of these clauses,
particularly the last. Let me explain.
The sexton of the Old Church hurried me past these tombs with
some impatience. I should naturally have taken my time, but his
attitude of haste made it imperative to do so. Sextons must not be
in a hurry. After a while I found out why he chafed: he wanted to
smoke. He fumbled his pipe and scraped his boots upon the stones. I
studied the monuments with a scrutiny that grew more and more minute
and elaborate; and soon his matches were in his hand. I wanted to tell
him that if I were the only obstacle he might smoke to his heart's
content, but it seemed to be more amusing to watch and wait. My
return to the tomb of the ingenious constructor of the microscope
settled the question. Probably no one had ever spent more than half
a minute on poor Leeuwenhoek before; and when I turned round again
the pipe was alight. The sexton also was a changed man: before, he
had been taciturn, contemptuous; now he was communicative, gay. He
told me that the organist was blind--but none the less a fine player;
he led me briskly to the carved pulpit and pointed out, with some
exaltation, the figure of Satan with his legs bound. The cincture
seemed to give him a sense of security.
In several ways he made it impossible for me to avoid disregarding
Clause 3 in the little guide-books; but I feel quite sure that he
has not in consequence lost his situation.
Delft's greatest painter was Johannes Vermeer, known as Vermeer
of Delft, of whom I shall have much to say both at the Hague and
Amsterdam. He was born at Delft in 1632, he died there in 1675; and
of him but little more is known. It has been said that he studied
under Karel Fabritius (also of Delft), but if this is so the term
of pupil-age must have been very brief, for Fabritius did not reach
Delft (from Rembrandt's studio) until 1652, when Vermeer was twenty,
and he was killed in an explosion in 1654. One sees the influence of
Fabritius, if at all, most strongly in the beautiful early picture at
The Hague, in the grave, grand manner, of Diana? but the influence of
Italy is even more noticeable. Fabritius's "Siskin" is hung beneath
the new Girl's Head by Vermeer (opposite page 2 of this book),
but they have nothing in common. To see how Vermeer derived from
Rembrandt viâ Fabritius one must look at the fine head by Fabritius
in the Boymans Museum at Rotterdam, so long attributed to Rembrandt,
but possessing a certain radiance foreign to him.
How many pictures Vermeer painted between 1653, when he was admitted
to the Delft Guild as a master, and 1675, when he died, cannot now
be said; but it is reasonable to allot to each of those twenty-three
years at least five works. As the known pictures of Vermeer are very
few--fewer than forty, I believe--some great discoveries may be in
store for the diligent, or, more probably, the lucky.
I have read somewhere--but cannot find the reference again--of a ship
that left Holland for Russia in the seventeenth century, carrying a
number of paintings by the best artists of that day--particularly,
if I remember, Gerard Dou. The vessel foundered and all were lost. It
is possible that Vermeer may have been largely represented.
Only comparatively lately has fame come to him, his first prophet
being the French critic Thoré (who wrote as "W. Burger"), and his
second Mr. Henri Havard, the author of very pleasant books on Holland
from which I shall occasionally quote. Both these enthusiasts wrote
before the picture opposite page 2 was exhibited, or their ecstasies
might have been even more intense.
In the Senate House at Delft in 1641 John Evelyn the diarist saw "a
mighty vessel of wood, not unlike a butter-churn, which the adventurous
woman that hath two husbands at one time is to wear on her shoulders,
her head peeping out at the top only, and so led about the town, as
a penance". I did not see this; but the punishment was not peculiar
to Delft. At Nymwegen these wooden petticoats were famous too.
Nor did I visit the porcelain factory, having very little interest in
its modern products. But the old Delft ware no one can admire more than
I do. A history of Delft written by Dirk van Bleyswijck and published
in 1667, tells us that the rise of the porcelain industry followed the
decline of brewing. The author gives with tears a list of scores of
breweries that ceased to exist between 1600 and 1640. All had signs,
among them being:--
The Popinjay.
The Great Bell.
The White Lily.
The Three Herrings.
The Double Battle-axe.
The Three Acorns.
The Black Unicorn.
The Three Lilies.
The Curry-Comb.
The Three Hammers.
The Double Halberd.
I would rather have explored any of those breweries than the modern
Delft factory.
Ireland, by the way, mentions a whimsical sign-board which he saw
somewhere in Holland, but which I regret to say I did not find. "It
was a tree bearing fruit, and the branches filled with little, naked
urchins, seemingly just ripened into life, and crying for succour:
beneath, a woman holds up her apron, looking wistfully at the children,
as if intreating them to jump into her lap. On inquiry, I found it to
be the house of a sworn midwife, with this Dutch inscription prefixed
to her name:--
'Vang my, ik zal zoet zyn,'
that is, 'Catch me, I'll be a sweet boy'. This new mode of procreation,
so truly whimsical, pleased me," Ireland adds, "not a little."
Let me close this chapter by quoting from an essay by my friend,
Mr. Belloc, a lyrical description of the Old Church's wonderful wealth
of bells: "Thirdly, the very structure of the thing is bells. Here
the bells are more even than the soul of a Christian spire; they are
its body, too, its whole self. An army of them fills up all the space
between the delicate supports and framework of the upper parts. For
I know not how many feet, in order, diminishing in actual size and
in the perspective also of that triumphant elevation, stand ranks
on ranks of bells from the solemn to the wild, from the large to
the small, a hundred, or two hundred or a thousand. There is here
the prodigality of Brabant and Hainaut and the Batavian blood,
a generosity and a productivity in bells without stint, the man
who designed it saying: 'Since we are to have bells, let us have
bells; not measured out, calculated, expensive, and prudent bells,
but careless bells, self-answering multitudinous bells; bells without
fear, bells excessive and bells innumerable; bells worthy of the
ecstacies that are best thrown out and published in the clashing of
bells. For bells are single, like real pleasures, and we will combine
such a great number that they may be like the happy and complex life
of a man. In a word, let us be noble and scatter our bells and reap
a harvest till our town is famous in its bells,' So now all the spire
is more than clothed with them; they are more than stuff or ornament:
they are an outer and yet sensitive armour, all of bells.
"Nor is the wealth of these bells in their number only, but also in
their use--for they are not reserved in any way, out ring tunes and
add harmonies at every half and a quarter and at all the hours both
by night and by day. Nor must you imagine that there is any obsession
of noise through this; they are far too high and melodious, and (what
is more) too thoroughly a part of all the spirit of Delft to be more
than a perpetual and half-forgotten impression of continual music;
they render its air sacred and fill it with something so akin to
an uplifted silence as to leave one--when one has passed from their
influence--asking what balm that was which soothed all the harshness
of sound about one."