FRIENDLY HOLLAND
Yesterday I was in Holland.
To-day I am in England.
But still in my ears I can hear the ring of scathing indignation in the
voices of all those innumerable Dutch when I put point-blank to them the
question that has been causing such unrest in Great Britain lately: "Are
the Dutch helping Germany?"
From every sort and condition of Dutchmen I received an emphatic
"never!" The people of Holland would never permit it, and in Holland the
people have an enormous voice. Nothing could have been more emphatic or
more convincing than that reply. But I pressed the point further. "Is it
not true, then, that the Dutch allowed German troops to pass through
Holland?"
The answer I received was startling.
"We have heard that story. And we cannot understand how the Allies could
believe it. We have traced the story," my informant went on, "to its
origin and we have discovered that the report was circulated by the
Germans themselves."
I pressed my interrogation further still.
"Would it be correct, then, to say that the attitude of Holland towards
England is distinctly and unmistakably friendly among all sections of
the community in Holland?"
My informant, one of the best known of Dutch advocates, paused a moment
before replying.
Then seriously and deliberately he made the following statement:--
"In the upper circles of Dutch Society--that is to say, in Court circles
and in the military set that is included in this classification--there
has been, it is true, a somewhat sentimental partiality for Germany and
the Germans. This preference originated obviously from Prince Henry's
nationality, and from Queen Wilhelmina's somewhat passive acceptance of
her husband's likes and dislikes. But the situation has lately changed.
A new emotion has seized upon Holland, and one of the first to be
affected by this new emotion was Prince Henry himself. When the million
Belgian refugees, bleeding, starving, desperate, hunted, flung
themselves over the Dutch border in the agony of their flight, we
Dutch--and Prince Henry among us--saw for ourselves for the first time
the awful horror of the German invasion."
"And so the Prince has shewed himself sympathetic towards the Allies?"
"He has devoted himself to the Belgian Cause," was the reply. "Day after
day he has taken long journeys to all the Dutch cities and villages
where the refugees are congregated. He has visited the hospitals
everywhere. He has made endless gifts. In the hospitals, by his
geniality and simplicity he completely overcame the quite natural
shrinking of the wounded Belgian soldiers from a visitor who bore the
hated name of German."
I knew it was true, too, because I had myself seen Prince Henry going in
and out of the hospitals at Bergen-op-Zoom, his face wearing an
expression of deep commiseration.
"But what about England?" I went on hurriedly. "How do you feel to us?"
"We are your friends," came the answer. "What puzzles us is how England
could ever doubt or misunderstand us on that point. Psychologically, we
feel ourselves more akin to England than to any other country. We like
the English ways, which greatly resemble our own. Just as much as we
like English manners and customs, we dislike the manners and customs of
Germany. That we should fight against England is absolutely unthinkable.
In fact it would mean one thing only, in Holland--a revolution."
Over and over again these opinions were presented to me by leading
Dutchmen.
A director of a big Dutch line of steamers was even more emphatic
concerning Holland's attitude to England.
"And we are," he said, "suffering from the War in Holland--suffering
badly. We estimate our losses at 60 per cent, of our ordinary trade and
commerce."
He pointed out to me a paragraph in a Dutch paper.
"If the export prohibition by Britain of wool, worsted, etc., is
maintained, the manufactures of woollen stuffs here will within not
a very long period, perhaps five to six weeks, have to be closed
for lack of raw material.
"A proposition of the big manufacturers to have the prohibition
raised on condition that nothing should be delivered to Germany is
being submitted to the British Government. We hope that England
will arrive at a favourable decision."
"You know," I said tentatively, "that rumour persists in attributing to
Holland a readiness to do business with Germany?"
"Let me be quite frank about that," said the director thoughtfully. "It
is true that some people have surreptitiously been doing business with
Germany. But in every community you will find that sort of people. But
our Government has now awakened to the treachery, and we shall hear no
more of such transactions in the future."
"And is it true that you are trying to change your national flag because
the Germans have been misusing it?"
"It is quite true. We are trying to adopt the ancient standard of
Holland--the orange--instead of the red, white and blue of to-day."
As an earnest of the genuine sympathy felt by the Dutch as a whole
towards the Belgian sufferers I may describe in a few words what I
saw in Holland.
[Illustration: Soup for the refugees.]
Out of the black horrors of Antwerp, out of the hell of bombs and
shells, these million people came fleeing for their lives into Dutch
territory. Penniless, footsore, bleeding, broken with terror and grief,
dying in hundreds by the way, the inhabitants of Antwerp and its
villages crushed blindly onwards till they reached the Dutch frontiers,
where they flung themselves, a million people, on the pity and mercy of
Holland, not knowing the least how they would be treated. And what did
Holland do? With a magnificent simplicity, she opened her arms as no
nation in the history of the world has ever opened its arms yet to
strangers, and she took the whole of those million stricken creatures to
her heart.
The Dutch at Bergen-op-Zoom, where the majority of the refugees were
gathered, gave up every available building to these people. They filled
all their churches with straw to make beds for them; they opened all
their theatres, their schools, their hospitals, their factories and
their private homes, and, without a murmur, indeed, with a tenderness
and gentleness beyond all description, they took upon their shoulders
the burden of these million victims of Germany's brutality.
"It is our duty," they say quietly; and sick and poor alike pour out
their offerings graciously, without ceasing.
In the Grand Place of Bergen-op-Zoom stand long lines of soup-boilers
over charcoal fires.
Behind the line of soup-boilers are stacks of bones, hundreds of bags
of rice and salt, mountains of celery and onions, all piled on the flags
of the market-place, while to add to the liveliness and picturesqueness
of the scene, Dutch soldiers in dark blue and yellow uniforms ride
slowly round the square on glossy brown horses, keeping the thousands of
refugees out of the way of the endless stream of motor cars lining the
Grand Place on its four sides, all packed to the brim with bread, meat,
milk, and cheese.
Inside the Town hall the portrait of Queen Wilhelmina in her scarlet and
ermine robes looks down on the strangest scene Holland has seen for many
a day.
The floors of the Hotel de la Ville are covered with thousands of big
red Dutch cheeses. Twenty-six thousand kilos of long loaves of brown
bread are packed up almost to the ceiling, looking exactly like enormous
wood stacks. Sacks of flour, sides of pork and bacon, cases of preserved
meat and conserved milk, hundreds of cans of milk, piles of blankets,
piles of clothing are here also, all to be given away.
The town of Bergen-op-Zoom is full of heart-breaking pictures to-day,
but to me the most pathetic of all is the writing on the walls.
It is a tremendous tribute to the good-heartedness of the Dutch that
they do not mind their scrupulously clean houses defaced for the moment
in this way.
Scribbled in white chalk all over the walls, shutters, and fences,
windows, tree-trunks, and pavements, are the addresses of the frenzied
refugees, trying to get in touch with their lost relations.
On the trees, too, little bits of paper are pinned, covered with
addresses and messages, such as "The Family Montchier can be found in
the Church of St. Joseph under the grand altar," or "Anna Decart with
Pierre and Marie and Grandmother are in the School of Music." "Les
soeurs Martell et Grandmère are in the Church of the Holy Martyrs."
"La Famille Deminn are in the fifth tent of the encampment on the
Artillery ground." "M. and Mme. Ardige and their seven children are in
the Comedy Theatre." .... So closely are the walls and shutters and the
windows and trees scribbled over by now that the million addresses are
most of them becoming indistinguishable.
While I was in Holland I came across an interesting couple whom I
speedily classified in my own mind.
One was a dark young man.
He had a peculiar accent. He told me he was an Englishman from
Northampton.
Perhaps he was.
He said the reason he wasn't fighting for his country was because he was
too fat.
Perhaps he was.
The other young man said he was American.
Perhaps he was.
He had red hair and an American accent. He had lived in Germany a great
deal in his childhood. All went well until the red-haired man made the
following curious slip.
When I was describing the way the Germans in Antwerp fled towards the
sausage, he said, "How they will roar when I tell them that in Berlin!"
Swiftly he corrected himself.
"In New York, I mean!" he said.
But a couple of hours later the Englishman left suddenly for London, and
the American left for Antwerp. As I had happened to mention that I had
left my baggage in Antwerp, I could quite imagine it being overhauled by
the Germans there, at the instigation of the red-haired young gentleman
with the pronounced American accent.
A rough estimate of the cost to the Dutch Government of maintaining the
refugees works out at something like £85,000 a week. This, of course, is
quite irrespective of the boundless private hospitality which is being
dispensed with the utmost generosity on every hand in Rotterdam,
Haarlem, Flushing, Bergen-op-Zoom, Maasstricht, Rossendal, Delft, and
innumerable other towns and villages.
Some of the military families on their meagre pay must find the call on
them a severe strain, but one never hears of complaints on this score,
and in nine cases out of ten they refuse absolutely to accept payment
for board and lodging, though many of the refugees are eager to pay for
their food and shelter.
"We can't make money out of them!" is what the Dutch say. A new reading
this, of the famous couplet of a century ago:--
In matters of this kind the fault of the Dutch,
Was giving too little and asking too much.