_HUMOUR SERIES_
EDITED BY W. H. DIRCKS
THE HUMOUR OF HOLLAND
ALREADY ISSUED
_FRENCH HUMOUR_
_GERMAN HUMOUR_
_ITALIAN HUMOUR_
_AMERICAN HUMOUR_
[Illustration:
FANCY’S FAIRY TALE.
[_See page 119._
]
THE
HUMOUR OF HOLLAND
[Illustration]
TRANSLATED, WITH AN INTRODUCTION, BY A. WERNER.
ILLUSTRATIONS BY DUDLEY HARDY AND OTHERS
LONDON
1893
WALTER SCOTT
LTD
CONTENTS.
[Illustration]
PAGE
INTRODUCTION ix
THE KING’S DREAM—_Frederick Van Eeden_ 1
THE DOMINIE—_C. K. Elout_ 6
MY HERO—_Conrad van der Liede_ 35
NEWSPAPER HUMOUR 52
A RASCALLY VALET—_Multatuli_ 55
DROOGSTOPPEL INTRODUCES HIMSELF—_Multatuli_ 77
DROOGSTOPPEL PAYS A CHARITABLE VISIT—_Multatuli_ 83
APHORISMS—_Multatuli_ 90
OF SELF-DEPRECIATION—_Multatuli_ 93
OF EDUCATION, WITH PRACTICAL ILLUSTRATIONS—_Multatuli_ 94
GOING INTO BUSINESS—_Multatuli_ 112
TWO PARABLES—_Multatuli_ 113
THERSITES AND PLATO—_Multatuli_ 115
EGOTISM—_Multatuli_ 115
THE STORY OF CHRESOS—_Multatuli_ 116
THE FAIRY TALE THAT FANCY TOLD WOUTER—_Multatuli_ 119
HALF-AN-HOUR AT THE HAIR-DRESSER’S—_Anon._ 125
IN THE LITTLE REPUBLIC—_L. H. J. Lamberts-Hurrelbrinck_ 139
NEWSPAPER HUMOUR 173
FICTION AT SEA—_A. Werumeus Buning_ 174
NEWSPAPER HUMOUR 178
FARMER GERRIT’S VISIT TO AMSTERDAM—_J. J. Cremer_ 184
NO SWORD—“_Humoristisch Album_” 197
A STUDENT’S LODGINGS SIXTY YEARS SINCE—_J. Van Lennep_ 200
A COLONIAL PRIZE-GIVING—_Annie Foore_ 205
HOW MATHIS KNOUPS TURNED “LIBERAL” AND THEN “CATHOLIC”
AGAIN—_Emile Seipgens_ 212
NEWSPAPER HUMOUR 232
THE CANDIDATE—_T. H. Hooijer_ 252
EPIGRAMS 257
THE VILLAGE ON THE FRONTIER—_Van Lennep_ 261
PROVERBS 290
A DUTCH PODSNAP—_Gerard Keller_ 293
ROUGH DRAFT OF A NEW SET OF REGULATIONS—_Uilenspiegel_ 346
THE STORY OF A BOUQUET—_Uilenspiegel_ 347
UNBIDDEN GUESTS—_Annie Foore_ 351
BIOGRAPHICAL INDEX OF WRITERS 393
INTRODUCTION.
There appears to be an idea abroad to the effect that the “Humour of
Holland” could be most satisfactorily dealt with in a chapter resembling
the famous one “Of Snakes in Ireland.” As the average English reader, in
the most favourable instances, knows little more of Dutch literature
than a name or two (Rembrandt has introduced us to “the poet Vondel,”
and if Southey were not so little read in these days Bilderdijk and Cats
would not be so unfamiliar), the subject offers a free field to the
constructive imagination. Yet even so, one would think it must be
obvious that the nation which has produced a Teniers, a Jan Steen,
and—in some of his moods—a Rembrandt, could not be entirely destitute of
humour. The estimate of its quality may be a question of taste;
but—though many people practically do adopt this form of logic—we cannot
make the fact of our not finding it to our liking a ground for denying
its existence.
Of course, before determining what the humour of a nation is like, we
need to know what is that nation’s intellectual bent as a whole, and
what forces have been at work to determine its character. On this point
we may quote a paragraph or two from a Dutch writer, J. H. Hooijer, whom
we shall meet again in the course of these pages. He is describing a
village in North Holland, in the heart of the fat meadow-lands, famous
for the production of Dutch cheeses.
“The same village which you find so depressing this November day,—so
damp, so clammy, so dripping with water,—makes a very different
impression when Spring, with full hands, has showered her blossom-snow
over the orchards, or in the autumn, when the trees are hanging full of
golden pears or rosy apples. Greener meadow-land is nowhere on earth,
unless it be in the Emerald Isle itself. The rich green pastures have
velvety lights in the sunshine, and the splendid cattle—their dappled
skins smooth and shining as silk—show out to advantage against it—colour
on colour. At such times there is a glow of colour in the whole
landscape, which, strange as it may sound, reminds one of the South,—a
glow one might almost think was stolen from the palettes of the Old
Masters. Every breath you draw is perfumed with new milk and flowers,
mingled with the salt smell of the sea. There is a fulness of outward
life—a bubbling up and overflowing of vital juices,—for which they had
an eye and a heart, those great old realists. The man who despises a
rich clover pasture, speckled here and there with white-fleeced sheep;
who cannot spare a look for the magnificent horned cattle that stand
staring at you, with dreamy, half-sad gaze, over the fence, while
Geertje’s black eyes flash at you from behind the milking-pail,—well, he
need not come to North Holland. Intellects of this sort, exclusively
devoted to the contemplation of the sublime, will find everything ugly
in these parts. To such an one our Old Masters have nothing to say; for
him, Paul Potter’s art is a mere waste of time, and many a racy bit of
Vondel trivial nonsense. Happily the cheery sun is of another mind, and
his smile falls well-pleased on the endless emerald plain. He nurses it,
feeds it, warms it,—he sweetens the blades of grass for the palate of
the pampered cow. And sometimes, just before setting, he draws along the
horizon, with purple finger, broad streaks of crimson fire, and then the
dykes flame out like ruby bands winding over the green velvet robe of
the earth, and you wish for the power of wielding the brush, so as to
throw on canvas what one might almost call these brutal effects of
colour.”
Here we have a fertile country, with the means of existence in plenty,
but not one where it is easy to live without hard work. These rich
meadow-lands have been wrung from the sea by the painful toil of
centuries, and are only held by the tenure of constant vigilance. But
the struggle for existence is not hard enough to exhaust the vital
energies, and produce a stunted careworn race. There is abundance of
rough but wholesome food, such as results in strong limbs and clear
skins; there is leisure for dancing and play—rough horse-play though it
may be—when work is done; that there is a recognised place in life for
mere beauty and luxury, is shown in the gold head-ornaments of the
women. There are no mountains to suggest the sense of remoteness and
mystery; and the grey North Sea, with its sands and mud-flats, is rather
a fact to be accepted, a foe to be struggled with, in a grim
matter-of-course way from day to day, than the weird terror that the
ocean is to more imaginative peoples. But within the narrow and
well-ordered bounds of farm and homestead, there is a richness of colour
to fire the painter’s eye; the skies and sunsets are the glorious ones
that flame over fen and marshland, and winter brings the joy of
glittering ice and ringing skates. Life is and has been less bare and
hard than of old in Scotland; but on the whole, the history of the two
nations is somewhat similar, and they have many points of character in
common.
Both learned thrift, endurance, and foresight in a hard school; both
early acquired the inconvenient habit of thinking for themselves and
dispensing with any mental spectacles save those of their own choosing;
and both displayed a bull-dog tenacity in holding by their hardly won
rights. But after the Reformation a marked difference becomes evident.
Scotland only emerged from the troubles of that epoch to encounter the
religious persecution of the Stuarts. The seventeenth century was
fruitful of heroism; it tried the national character as by fire, and
developed its sterner and deeper elements; it was not unfavourable even
to tenderness, of a rugged and undemonstrative character, but the
lighter side of life was left, for the time being, entirely in abeyance.
In the quieter time which succeeded the Union, reaction soon became
stagnation. The fiery earnestness,—call it fanaticism, if you
like,—which had been so tremendous a force in action and endurance, now
became a sour harsh bigotry, lying like a leaden weight on men’s lives.
It is one thing to be in such deadly earnest over an urgent crisis, that
you have no time or inclination to admire a picture or laugh at a joke;
it is another to forbid such enjoyment to other people, because it is
inconsistent with the attitude of mind proper to the crisis that is over
and past. We all have _les défauts de nos qualités_; and the mistakes of
reformers include a tendency to regard the conclusions at which they
have arrived as final, and an imperfect estimate of the relative value
of means and ends—in other words, the inability to see when a truth
(that is to say, any particular statement of a truth) has done its work.
This general state of flatness and dulness could only be ended by a
volcanic outburst,—and such a one came in with Burns.
To return to Holland. The shaking off of the Spanish yoke was followed
by a period of peace and prosperity. Dutch ships had for some time past
been bringing home the wealth of the Indies. Dutch admirals were finding
their way into unknown seas. Colonies sprang up in the Spice Islands,
and the money gained by trade turned the swamps reclaimed from the sea
into flower-gardens, or covered them with stately buildings. Wealthy
burghers, even of the strictest Calvinist persuasion, did not appear to
find their Protestant principles an obstacle to the encouragement of
painters and poets. Roemer Visscher and his daughters, though members of
the defeated and unpopular church, kept open house at Amsterdam for all
who loved art and letters, and assembled round them the best wits of the
time. Gerbrand Bredero, painter and poet both, belonged to a respectable
burgher family, who—though grieved by the excesses of his riotous youth,
and sorely troubled by his contemplated marriage with Alida Jansdoter,
the pretty but characterless widow who kept the Toren van Monnickendam
tavern—do not appear to have mourned over his choice of a vocation, or
regarded his plays as anything to disapprove of. Joost van den Vondel,
the tragic poet (in whose genius some have found an excuse for
belittling that of our own Milton), was a deeply religious man; and
though he seems to have suffered from the aspersions of the religious,
it was not so much on account of his poems, as because he was a Baptist,
and they Reformed Calvinists. No doubt there _was_ religious bigotry in
Holland, but there were also elements of healthy life which kept it in
check. And there was a time when thought became dull and stagnant,—when
the dead-weight of the commonplace, backed by the double sanction of
social and religious orthodoxy, forced all individuality into its own
prepared mould,—when the Dominie looked with suspicion on every
independent expression of opinion, and the “Pious” kept a watchful eye
on the Dominie,—but that time was not yet. Betje Wolff, who suffered in
her youth from Cornelia Slimpslamp and Brother Benjamin,—and never
forgot it,—came in for part of it; but the worst was not till after she
and her friend Aagje had been laid to rest side by side. That was the
darkness just before the dawn; for surely there never was such a world
of dead forms and petty conventions, such a stifling atmosphere of cant
and artificiality, as that in which Multatuli spent his childhood.
The humour of the Netherlands has, in common with that of Scotland, a
certain canniness and practical shrewdness, characteristic of men and
nations who have bought their experience at first hand and a heavy
price. But, whether for want of that touch of Celtic fire which in
Scotland has leavened the solid Teuton into a thing quite unique in the
world, or what else, there is a notable lack of that dryness and
terseness—that expressing more than the whole by means of less than the
half—which comes out in the best Scotch anecdotes and sayings. It would
be an insult to a listener of average intelligence, to explain, for
example, “It’s a puir shaw for Kirkintilloch.” We are not sure
that—supposing that the exact equivalent to this joke existed in
Dutch—the Netherlander would feel the insult deeply; we rather think he
would enjoy the story the better for a half page or so of comments in
addition to the full explanation. Of this nature are many jocular poems
by the revered Father Cats, and the “Zinne-poppen” of Roemer Visscher
and his daughter Anna.
The Netherlander likes his fun pretty obvious, and not too concentrated.
And the main characteristic of the said fun is its breadth,—or rather
what the Germans call _Breite_, for the English word by no means conveys
exactly the same idea. “Long-windedness” alone does not express it;
Coleridge’s “nimiety or too-muchness” (which he calls a characteristic
fault in the German literary temperament) is much nearer the mark. It is
long-windedness combined with infinite multiplicity of detail,—a
gossipy, good-humoured, complacent triviality, which is the essence of
boredom. Voss’s “Luise” (which poem we doubt whether any British person
now living has read through) is a shining example of the quality.
Nothing is left to the reader’s imagination—everything, and the reason
for everything, is described and explained at full length, till the best
ideas are swamped in floods of formless verbiage. In Holland, this kind
of writing flourished most extensively in the seventeenth and eighteenth
centuries, and Father Cats, already referred to, exhibits it in an
excessive degree. He also shows an overpowering desire to be
improving,—another point common to the Scot and the Batavian,—and the
two things together made him, for two centuries, out and out the most
popular writer in Holland.
As to “broad” farce, in the other sense of the word, Dutch literature
possesses a good deal of it, of such extreme latitude, indeed, as to be
for the most part entirely unavailable for this volume. Besides, it is
not amusing. The _Sotternieën_, or farces, of the Middle Ages, were of
an extremely rough and ready type, to say no more, though Dr Jan Ten
Brink accords them the praise of “accurate observation of Flemish low
life, and a real comic gift.” They mostly turn on matrimonial
difficulties, in which a foolish husband gets the worst of it. More or
less of the same kind, though of a somewhat higher type, were the farces
(_Kluchten_) of what we may call the Dutch Renaissance (c. 1550–1650).
They mostly turn on rough or even disgusting practical jokes; they are
written in clumsy, lumbering verse, which has the effect of encouraging
and intensifying the author’s natural diffuseness; in short, whatever
laugh-provoking power they may once have had, most of them are now quite
intolerably dull. The best known are those of Coster, Vos, Jan Starter,
Hooft, Huygens (who made one excursion in this direction—_Trijntje
Cornelis_), and, above all, Gerbrand Bredero, whose genius had not yet
reached its highest point, when his short and stormy life came to an
end.
GERBRAND ADRIAENSZEN BREDERO was born at Amsterdam in 1585. His father
was a wealthy tradesman, at first a shoemaker, and afterwards farmer of
the taxes on wines and spirits. Adriaen Bredero was a generous patron of
art, and intended his son to become a painter; but the latter, though he
studied for a time, and appears to have shown some degree of talent,
preferred to devote himself to literature. He became a member of the
chamber, _In Liefde Bloeiende_,[1] and soon formed the acquaintance of
Spieghel, the didactic poet, and the genial Roemer Visscher, the
scholarly author of the “Zinne-poppen” and “Brabbeling.” An unhappy love
for Roemer’s younger daughter, Tesselschade, probably wrecked his life,
the greater part of which was spent in noisy dissipation, alternating
with intervals of deep depression. His work was both lyric and dramatic;
his principal plays are the tragicomedies of “Roderick and Alphonsus”
(1611), “Griane” (1612), and “The Dumb Knight” (1618), to which may be
added the unfinished play “Het daghet uyt den Oosten,” the farces of the
“Cow” (1612), the “Miller” and “Symen sonder Soeticheyt” (1613), and the
regular comedies of “The Moor” (1615), and “The Spanish Brabanter”
(1618). The last-named, his masterpiece, was intended to satirise (under
the name of Jerolimo) the Chevalier Theodor Rodenburgh, his rival in
literature and in a second unhappy love affair. From this bitter
disappointment Bredero never recovered. He died at the age of
thirty-three, after a lingering illness, tended with devoted care by his
mother, and comforted by the friendship of the gentle and earnesthearted
Vondel, whose religion was of a type to find easier access to the stormy
soul than the gloomy Calvinism of Bredero’s relations. For further
particulars of the poet’s life the reader is referred to the works of Dr
Jan Ten Brink, among others an interesting historical novel (founded on
contemporary documents) entitled “De Bredero’s,” which has appeared in
“Elsevier’s Geïllustreerd Maandschrift” for 1891 and 1892. Bredero’s
farces are rough, and even coarse—a defect from which his more elevated
work, such as the “Spanish Brabanter,” is not free; but this is a fault
common to the comic literature of all countries at that epoch. He was no
scholar, and though acquainted with French, did not know Latin, a
circumstance for which his writing is probably none the worse. His
comedy, “Het Moortje” (“The Little Moor”), is an adaptation of a French
version of Terence’s “Eunuchus,” and far inferior to the “Spanish
Brabanter,” which, though not absolutely original (the plot is to a
great extent taken from the Spanish novel “Lazarillo de Tormes”), is as
much so as most of Shakespeare’s, and full of life and vigour. It is
perhaps somewhat verbose, and the irregular kind of ballad-metre in
which it is written lends itself to indefinite _longueurs_; but the
character-painting is excellent. Indeed, Bredero’s chief merit is the
strong human sympathy shown in his broad, vivid pictures of popular
life. He gives us the life of the street in Amsterdam as he knew it—the
beggars, the scolding wives, the money-lender, the poor gentleman with
his frayed velvet doublet and rapier showing through its worn sheath,
the gossiping sexton, the boys playing at marbles. It is evident that
Bredero was on the right track, and, had he lived, might have produced
even better work than this play,—perhaps founded a new dramatic school,
which might have repeated in Holland the triumphs of our Elizabethan
writers. Dr Ten Brink compares him in his riotous enjoyment of life and
noisy excesses to Greene, Marlowe, and Massinger. It is difficult to
extract any single scene from the “Spaansche Brabander,” far and away
his best work; and, as, in fact, almost any attempt at translation could
reproduce only the faults of the original, it seemed better to avoid
courting inevitable failure.
English influence made itself felt in Holland during the seventeenth
century in more ways than one. Huygens, who repeatedly visited England,
and knew Donne, shows traces of the “Caroline” manner in his poems and
epigrams. Intercourse between the two countries was frequent, and the
connection, of course, became closer still with their temporary union
under one sovereign. During the eighteenth century, Dutch literature
appeared to be on the wane. Foreign works—English and French—were
admired and read, and educated persons took a certain pride in
neglecting their native language as a barbarous and uncultivated tongue.
It was in a passionate impulse of patriotism that Mevrouw Betje Wolff
and Mejuffrouw Aagje Deken determined to enter into competition with the
universally popular Richardson, and prove to the reading public of
Holland that a Dutch novel, showing Dutch characters amid the everyday
surroundings of Amsterdam, Utrecht, or the Hague, might be quite as
interesting as any foreign importation. The result was the publication,
in 1782, of the “History of Mejuffrouw Sara Burgerhart,” which ran into
a third edition in 1786.
ELIZABETH WOLFF and AGATHA DEKEN were two friends, affectionately spoken
of by their compatriots as Betje and Aagje, who lived and wrote
together, and collaborated so harmoniously that it is impossible to
distinguish their respective shares in the works jointly issued by them.
Elizabeth Bekker, born at Flushing, July 24, 1738, is described as “a
little delicate woman, with penetrating dark eyes, twinkling with
humorous mischief.” Her lively spirit maintained a hard struggle against
the harsh old-fashioned Calvinism of her Zeeland home, as represented by
her elder brother Laurens. It was probably to escape from this that, at
twenty, she married a “dominie” of fifty-two—the Predikant Adriaen
Wolff. In the quiet of the country parsonage she lived, happily enough,
from 1759 to 1777, devoted to her elderly husband, and with abundant
leisure for literature. During this period she wrote chiefly in verse,
and published several collections of poems; but, when left a widow in
1777, she invited her friend Agatha Deken to live with her. Agatha,
three years younger than her friend, was an orphan, brought up in the
Amsterdam “Weeshuis,” who had been living as companion with an invalid
lady named Maria Bosch, also given to poetry. The two friends first
essayed themselves in prose, by publishing “Letters on Various
Subjects,” in 1780, after which they gradually developed the idea of a
novel in letters, after the manner of Richardson. “The History of
Mejuffrouw Sara Burgerhart,” in spite of its somewhat repellent
epistolary form, remains capital reading to the present day. The book is
not so very long-winded, considering the epoch at which it was written;
the characters are clearly conceived and sympathetically drawn; and
there is a delicate humour which might almost be compared with Jane
Austen’s, but has a distinct flavour of its own. The portraiture of
Sara’s aunt, Mejuffrouw Hofland, and the designing parasites who make
her their prey—Cornelia Slimpslamp, and Brother Benjamin, the butcher’s
man turned preacher—reminds us of Betje Bekker’s bitterness against the
fanatical precisians (called by themselves “vromen,” or pious, and by
others “fijnen,” or subtle) who had darkened her youth. “Sara
Burgerhart,” published in 1782, was followed by a longer work, “Historie
van den Heer Willem Leevend,” which in some respects surpasses it. In
1788 the friends left Holland, in consequence of political changes, and
settled at Trevoux in Burgundy, where they remained till 1795, writing
“Letters of Abraham Blankaart,” and their third novel, “Cornelia
Wildschut.” Betje was robbed of her small property by a rascally man of
business; and, at the time of the Terror, narrowly escaped the
guillotine, being looked on as an aristocrat by the republicans of
Trevoux. They returned to Holland in 1795, settled at the Hague, and set
themselves to translating for a bare living. Their last years were spent
amid great financial difficulties and privations, borne with their usual
cheerfulness, and one cherished wish was granted them at last,—Betje
died November 5, 1804, and Aagje only survived her nine days.
It is a pity that these books are not of a kind to show to advantage in
extracts. To be appreciated, they must be taken in bulk, as the
character-drawing, which is their chief attraction, only comes out
indirectly, and point by point, in the course of the letters. Which of
the two collaborators should be credited with the quiet humour—of the
type recognised as peculiarly feminine—which flashes through them, is a
disputed point, but it is usually attributed to Betje Wolff. Internal
evidence, and especially the history of her early life, seem to point to
her as having originated the character of Sara herself, the bright,
lovable, merry-hearted girl, so willing to submit to loving guidance,
but impatient of the gloomy restraint of Aunt Susanna’s house, which
called out all that was worst in her nature. Agatha Deken, we are told,
was a large, fair person, of calm aspect and portly presence—somewhat
prosaic and matter-of-fact—yet the description does not exclude the
possibility of a certain “pawkiness,”—and probably there is no hard and
fast distinction to be drawn between the two, as regards the humorous
element. And, however that may be, “Sara Burgerhart” is a charming book,
and deserves to be much more widely known than it is. Lovers of
“Evelina” would delight in its old-time quaintness, and even those
without an especial _parti-pris_ for the eighteenth century could not
fail to appreciate the delicately finished pictures of Dutch life. Some
points in this latter suggest the question whether many things which we
have been accustomed to consider as purely American manners did not
originate in the Dutch ancestry of the New-Yorkers. The comings and
goings of the young ladies at the Amsterdam boarding-house, under the
friendly (but to contemporary English notions very inadequate)
supervision of the Widow Spilgoed, _née_ Buigzaam, is one of those.
Others suggest themselves to an attentive reader of the book. But this
is only in passing. Decidedly, an English version of “Sara” with a
loving and appreciative introduction by a capable hand, would be an
addition to the pleasures of life.
It is no part of the plan of this brief sketch—which aims throughout
at being suggestive rather than exhaustive—to furnish a comprehensive
introduction to Dutch literature, or even to that part of it to which
these pages are exclusively devoted. There is one point, however,
which we must not overlook. This is not the place—and perhaps, indeed,
the time has not fully come—to discuss the position which Multatuli
holds, or ought to hold, in his country’s literature; but it cannot
fail to strike any reader of this volume, that a large—perhaps
disproportionately large—number of pages is assigned to the work of a
writer cast in as un-Dutch, or even anti-Dutch, a mould as it is
possible to imagine. In fact, Multatuli stands as much alone among the
Dutch, as Heine does among the Germans; and, by the same token, we
might add, he is their only real humorist, in the highest sense. This
apartness is not to be accounted for in Douwes Dekker’s case, by
difference of race; but then, he was partly the product of reaction,
and there were, after all, strong race-affinities in the deeper parts
of his character. He had every quality calculated to jar upon the
feelings of the Amsterdam _petits bourgeois_ of his day: he had other
ideals than theirs; he would not be content to make money and abstain
from shocking the neighbours; he was nervous and imaginative in a
stolid and prosaic generation—lavishly extravagant in a prudent, not
to say parsimonious, one; but his passionate love of freedom, his
intolerance of shams, his resolute refusal to utter the shibboleths of
the age or bow before the idols of the market-place, proved him of one
blood with William of Orange and Marnix de Sainte-Aldegonde. And, had
he been as altogether isolated as he seems at first sight, he could
hardly have become the force in national life that he now is. His “Max
Havelaar” was like a volcanic outburst breaking up the crust of
convention which had been slowly stiffening over Holland; but it gave
voice to a cry which had been stifled in thousands of hearts. He
spoke, and the younger generation answered him as one man. To-day, in
Holland, Multatuli is a name to conjure with—a synonym for life,
thought, progress, revolt against convention—for everything that may
be called modernity.
He was a crude, formless, unmethodical writer. “Max Havelaar” is one of
the most exasperatingly inartistic books ever written, and it must
always remain matter for regret that he never seriously took in hand to
complete and give artistic unity to the brilliant fragments that form
the unfinished history of “Woutertje Pieterse.” But there is life and
red blood in everything he wrote—and that counts for far more than dead
correctness of form,—though, of course, the perfect form _enshrining_
the vitality gives it a chance to last longer.
There is something in “Wouter” that reminds one curiously of the “Story
of an African Farm.” Not that we would infer that the latter was
suggested by the former—it may well be that its author was, at the time,
quite unaware of Multatuli’s existence; and the agonies of isolated
childhood are the same all the world over. But there are certain points
of resemblance which make us think that a similar environment—the
compound of dead Calvinism, Dutch pseudo-propriety, and crass
ignorance—produced similar results. Though, perhaps it was natural that
poor Wouter, dreaming on the bridge by the saw-mill at Amsterdam, should
have less lofty visions than Waldo, dreaming on the open veldt under the
stars.
Wouter began his career in the story with a crime. He wanted very much
to read a book in the circulating library, but he had not the necessary
twopence. His mother thought little boys had no use for pocket-money.
Besides, circulating libraries did not enter into Juffrouw Pieterse’s
calculations from any point of view. But it was so deadly dull at home,
where there were no interesting books left unread—and no one was
supposed to want to read at all, except Stoffel, the elder brother, who
was a pupil-teacher, and preparing for an examination,—and he did long,
with an unspeakable longing, for the “History of Glorioso the Brigand.”
So he sold his Bible, with the paraphrases at the end, to a book-stall
man on the Old Bridge (this particular is never forgotten in subsequent
references to the misdemeanour, as though it had been an aggravation
thereof), trusting to the fact that the volume was not likely to be
inquired after on a week-day, to escape scot-free till Sunday. Which he
did; but with Sunday came discovery and swift retribution. But Wouter
did not mind that,—he had had his “Glorioso,” and was willing to pay the
price. That was not all, however;—this piece of juvenile depravity had
far-reaching consequences; but what they were will be discovered from
the extracts given in the text.
There is infinite humour, as well as infinite pathos, in the description
of the poor, starved child-soul, to which even a trashy sensational
novel could give some sort of outlook into the ideal—for that was what
Wouter’s (after all very innocent) glorification of crime practically
amounted to. No better proof of the hold which Multatuli has over the
hearts of his countrymen could be given than the fact that many of his
characters have passed into proverbs. Juffrouw Laps, Dominie Pennewip,
the Hallemans,—“who were so very particularly respectable,”—and others,
are constantly to be met with in current literature.
And yet, curiously enough, his views are almost entirely negative. He is
a preacher of revolt—a revolt often blind, illogical, inconsistent with
itself, and which, from our point of view, seems curiously out of
date—so that one is apt to forget he has only been dead six years,—and
he is seldom, if ever, a teacher of anything else. It proves how greatly
the revolt was needed, and what was the power of that Dagon of
convention against which he directed his blows.
One word about the drama[2] from which an extract has been given. It was
one of his earliest works, being written at Padang (Sumatra) in 1843,
when he was little more than a youth; and he himself in later years, was
sarcastic enough at the expense of its “lachrymose sentiment” and
emotional idealism. Perhaps it does err by excess in this direction,
especially in Holm’s interminable monologues,—perhaps, also, the comic
scenes force the note a little, and are not free from the trick of
catch-words,—but the play, as a whole, is a capital one, and was, we
believe, very successful on the stage. He wrote another serious drama,
in verse, the “Vorstenschool,” which has never been acted, but perhaps
for political rather than dramatic reasons. It seems a pity that he did
not make more sustained efforts in this style of writing, which would
have chastened the formlessness above alluded to as marring his work;
but he seems to have been too impatient in getting his thoughts on paper
to submit to the necessary restraints.
It will be noticed that this selection includes specimens from both
Dutch and Belgian writers. The fact is that Belgium, from a literary
point of view, scarcely exists. The written language is the same for
both countries, the differences being mainly local and dialectical.
After Brabant and Flanders had ceased to be Spanish provinces, and prior
to the Revolution of 1830, the two portions were respectively known as
Noord and Zuid Nederland. After 1830, the national language was, for a
time, entirely discredited, and Belgium threatened to become a mere
imitation of France, if not actually an appendage to that country. Of
late years a reaction has set in. A knowledge of Flemish is required by
law of all Government officials, except in those districts exclusively
inhabited by the Walloons, who are supposed to speak French, though in
fact, they discourse in a tongue which no mortal but themselves can
understand.
There is an increasing number of Flemish papers,—the comic ones
especially doing valiant service on the national side. In 1883 a law was
passed rendering the teaching of Flemish (or “Netherlands,” as both
Dutch and Belgians prefer to call it) obligatory in all intermediate
schools. At Ghent University, moreover, all lectures are now delivered
in that language, as well as some of the courses at the Universities of
Brussels and Louvain. Straws show which way the wind blows; and, though
a trifle, it is a significant one, that the streets of Antwerp are now
labelled in Flemish, as well as French, and that public notices,
advertisements, &c., when not bi-lingual, are usually Flemish.
The time of this linguistic reaction has also been one of revival in the
national literature. Maeterlinck, it is true, writes in French; and a
small coterie of less-known writers, calling themselves _La Jeune
Belgique_, have chosen that language as the vehicle of their
inspirations; but these do not represent the main current of the
national life. For a long time, Conscience stood almost alone as a
Flemish writer, and he was only known to the outer world through the
medium of French translations. Now we have, of poets, Pol de Mont, De la
Montagne, Hilda Ram, and Hélene Swarth, who, had she written in a more
widely known language, would be recognised as one of the world’s
greatest lyrists;—of prose-writers, Stijns, Virginie Loveling, Segers,
Smits, Van Cuyck, Anton Moortgat, Emile Seipgens, and many others. Not
all of them are available for our present purpose,—but some, as will be
seen, have been selected from.
In conclusion, I would express my indebtedness for valuable information
kindly given by Mr Frans Van Cuyck, of the Public Library, Antwerp, and
author of “Twee Huwelijken,” “Sinoren,” and other works.
A. WERNER.
THE HUMOUR OF HOLLAND.
_THE KING’S DREAM._
[Illustration:
“I STROLLED THOUGHTFULLY ALONG THE BEACH.”
]
_King Bilbonzo_. It is well. We ourself now desire to make an important
communication to you.
_Palaemon_ (_Prime Minister and Chancellor of the Kingdom_). We are all
attention.
_King Bilbonzo._ It pleased us to have a very strange dream last night.
_Courtiers._ Aha!
_King Bilbonzo._ I dreamed, gentlemen, that I was on an island in the
midst of the ocean. My royal palace, surrounded by luxuriant gardens,
stood in the centre of the island. My whole retinue was assembled
there,—they were all laughing, dancing, and feasting. On all sides,
smiling faces, rustling silks, and waves of sweet dance-music.
Meanwhile, I strolled thoughtfully along the beach, reflected on the
bounties of nature, and picked up shells.
_Courtiers._ Ah!
_King Bilbonzo._ But suddenly the ground trembled under my feet. I
looked up, and perceived that the whole island was moving under me. It
heaved, rocked this way and that, rose and fell on the water, and,
finally, shot swiftly over the surface of the foaming sea. The beautiful
island, my lords and gentlemen, was a living, terrible sea-monster!
_Courtiers_ (_in horror_). Ah!
_King Bilbonzo._ My courtiers clung to me in terror. My head swam.
Suddenly the monster dived, and the sea at once destroyed the palace and
gardens. I myself, with a few faithful ones—you, my lords, among the
number—remained bobbing up and down, holding to an empty cask. But the
monster came once more to the surface, lifted a huge dripping mouth out
of the water, and swallowed us all.
_Courtiers._ B-r-r-r!—most horrible!
_King Bilbonzo._ However, after a short interval of oppressive darkness,
it cast us out again uninjured—and I found myself in my bed!
_Courtiers_ (_drawing a long breath of relief_). Eh!
_King Bilbonzo._ What is your opinion, my lords? Is this a prophetic
vision?
_Palaemon._ It is a fact that the prophet Jonah, some time since, had
the honour of experiencing something very like what your Majesty has
just dreamed.
_King Bilbonzo._ Does any of you think himself in a position to explain
this dream to me? [_All shake their heads._]
_Palaemon._ Sire, I have been told that there is, at this moment, a
Spanish magician staying in our capital. Perhaps he might be able to
comply with your wish. I have already given orders to have this person
searched for—probably he has already reached the palace....
_King Bilbonzo._ Why! this is exceedingly interesting! Be so good as to
bring the man into our presence at once.
[_Exit Palaemon._
_Enter_ PALAEMON, _and_ DON TORRIBIO, a _Spanish magician_.
_Palaemon._ Here is the man.
_King Bilbonzo._ Come nearer, my friend.
_Don Torribio._ Who told you that I am your friend? Are you in the
thought-reading business too?
_Homaris_ (_3^{rd} Minister_). This is an unmannerly customer.
_Palaemon._ Do you know you are speaking to the King?
_Don Torribio._ Why, yes,—I thought so. I presume no one else would wear
such a head-gear.
_King Bilbonzo._ Silence, my lords!—this is evidently an eccentric man.
Let him alone. Magicians, fools, and poets have ever been allowed a
certain familiarity with princes.
_Don Torribio._ You forget to add _fleas_, my prince.
_Ministers._ Hush!—shame!—shame!
_King Bilbonzo._ Decency! decency!
_Don Torribio._ I assure you they are very decent well-behaved little
beasts, O King. They have never bitten you in your absence! They are the
most honest of your subjects. They have never taken anything from you
without informing you of the fact. There are not many like that. And
they are not at present suffering from hunger. Not many like that
either.
_King Bilbonzo_. Silence, now! Do you know wherefore you have been
summoned hither?
_Don Torribio._ Certainly. We are going to act a little play together.
You are Nebuchadnezzar, and I am Daniel.
_King Bilbonzo_ (_to Palaemon_). I see your Excellency has already
enlightened him.
_Palaemon._ Certainly not, your Majesty.
_King Bilbonzo._ Ah! this is indeed surprising. Listen then, and I will
tell you my dream.
_Don Torribio._ No, no—you need not let me off any of my part. I mean to
play Daniel entire—but I am not going to let you off the grass-eating,
either! Do you listen to me, and I will interpret the dream.
_King Bilbonzo._ Well—this is astonishing!
_Ministers._ Think of that, now!
_Homaris._ All pre-concerted!
_Don Torribio._ Gathering shells is an innocent and even laudable
employment,—but it should be carried on on a safe shore, and not within
reach of hungry sea-monsters.
Every man—and more especially a king—ought to know what his house is
built on.
If your house happens to stand—not on a rock foundation, but on the back
of a sleeping whale, you must not dance too vigorously, or you will
probably wake the brute.
It is safer to swim about in the sea on the back of a shark, than to be
king of a famished people.
The conclusion of your dream I will interpret to you after the
grass-eating. Now it is your turn.
_King Bilbonzo._ This is really going too far! Our toleration has
reached its limits. Can you be wanting to sow discord between Us and our
beloved people? Out of our sight, impious liar!—this very moment!
_Hyacinthe_ (_the Poet-Laureate—seated next to the King_). Majesty!—look
out for your crown!
_King Bilbonzo._ Oh!—thanks! [_Sets his crown straight._]
_Don Torribio._ _Omen accipio._ How do you wish me to disappear, O King?
_Palaemon_ (_to a footman_). Fetch the lictors to remove this person.
_King Bilbonzo._ My lords, you will agree with me that a man like this
is very dangerous to the State.
_Homaris._ I had feared as much, Sire! He is a clever quack, and what he
sells is poison for the people.
_Lepidus._ But his knowledge was something wonderful.
_Homaris._ Tricks!—most likely there’s bribery at the bottom of it.
_Hyacinthe._ Or else atheistic magic.
_King Bilbonzo._ In any case, my Lord Palaemon, you ought to have taken
measures somewhat earlier to prevent his doing harm.
_Palaemon._ He shall be thrown into chains at once.
_Amenias_ (_4^{th} Minister_). It is really a case for capital
punishment.
_King Bilbonzo._ No—our delight is to show mercy. When the judges have
condemned him to death, we will commute the sentence into penal
servitude for life.
_A Footman._ Your Excellency!—the lictors.
[_Torribio has suddenly vanished during the previous conversation._]
_Palaemon._ Let this man be strictly confined.
_A Footman._ What man, your Excellency?
_Palaemon._ Here—what! Where is he?
_Ministers._ What! Where is he? Gone?
_King Bilbonzo._ This is unspeakably insolent!
_Amenias._ He was standing here when I last saw him.
_Palaemon._ He was standing here.
[_They search all over the room._]
_King Bilbonzo_ (to _Amenias_). What is that on the floor?
_Amenias_ (_picking it up_). A tuft of grass, Sire!
_King Bilbonzo._ This is infamous ribaldry.
_Lepidus._ It is very mysterious.
_Homaris._ Jugglers’ tricks! We have all been made fools of.
_Footman_ (_opening a door_). Breakfast is served, your Majesty!
_King Bilbonzo._ Come, my lords,—search no further! It is not worth
while. Follow me! [_He retires with dignity_.]
_Hyacinthe_ (_follows, improvising_)—
Shall hate and envy dim its lustre—
The crown on royal brows that glows—
And rob the People of their father,
And lead both parties by the nose?
La, la, la, la—no, never! no, never!
La, la, la!
[_Exeunt omnes, following one another in a solemn procession._
FREDERICK VAN EEDEN.
(_From the Comedy of “Don Torribio.”_)
THE DOMINIE.[3]
“It is a very serious matter,” said Gerrit Rond, the burgomaster, to
Kobus.
“Very serious, indeed,” replied Kobus, the _veldwachter_.[4]
“It is a disgrace to the whole parish!” continued the burgomaster.
“An everlasting disgrace!” repeated the veldwachter.
Then followed an ominous silence, in the course of which the
burgomaster, with gloomy countenance and wildly rolling eye, attentively
followed the movements of a fly which was leisurely walking about the
stately expanse of his waistcoat; while the veldwachter kept a watchful
eye on his superior’s features, that he might not fail to mould his own
accordingly. In the meantime, he knit his brows, and provided himself
with a half-expectant, half-threatening expression.
[Illustration:
“IT IS A DISGRACE TO THE WHOLE PARISH!”
]
At length the reverend head of Gerrit, the burgomaster, solemnly rose
upright, and his reflection opposite did the same.
“Kobus,” said Gerrit, “it _must_ be seen to.”
And Kobus replied: “It _shall_ be seen to, if your worship pleases.”
“Very good, Kobus; and I _do_ please—of that I assure you....”
“I think I’ve got something,” said Gerrit, with an astute smile, and
rubbed his nose with a civic forefinger, in a satisfied way.
“Ha!” cried Kobus, triumphantly.
“Yes, surely, ... surely, ...” said Gerrit, as though thinking
aloud,—still, astute, smiling, and rubbing his nose, ... “But let us at
least go over the whole thing once more—at least the main point.”
“Shall I tell your worship once more, exactly?” asked Kobus, with a
self-satisfied laugh.
“Well, yes, it will be just as well. I can then weigh the importance of
the whole matter so much better. Just go on,” said the burgomaster, with
the lofty attitude of one who is quite sure of himself, and can afford
to wait for anything, seeing that his resolution is already taken.
“I will therefore tell your worship, once more,” began Kobus, “that on
Saturday week—a fortnight ago to-morrow—Jan o’ the Wood came running
into my house with a face—with a face....”
“Like Balthasar Gerard’s,”[5] the burgomaster helped him out, with a
certain gloomy majesty befitting the dignity of his position and his
historical knowledge.
“That would be just about it,” said Kobus, with deep respect, and then
went on. “He rushed into my house with a face like—h’m, h’m—it’s sinful
to think of—what a face the man had! And first he dropped down on a
chair, and couldn’t speak a word—not a letter—your worship! My wife gave
him a glass of water, and she said, says she, ‘Come, Jan, just drink a
little, and then you’ll come to yourself again, and then you can tell us
what’s the matter.’ That’s what she said, your worship,—for them
women-folk are always so curious, and she was just on fire, I tell you.
Jan soon got his breath, and then it came out—how, that night—last
Saturday week, a fortnight ago to-morrow—two baskets full of pears had
been taken away from his trees—two whole baskets, your worship!”
Gerrit Rond, the burgomaster, the principal resident, and the respected
head of his parish, stroked his plump chin complacently, and looked at
his factotum, quietly smiling.
“Well; and what more, Kobus?”
Such imperturbable calm must surely conceal a great plan, thought the
veldwachter; and he was several seconds recovering from his
consternation. Then he stammered,—
“And ... and ... nothing more, your worship. I reported the matter to
you at once; I drew up the _procès-verbal_. But though I have done my
best to find out....”
The honest veldwachter completed his sentence by shrugging his
shoulders, extending his arms, and dropping them again,—illustrating the
whole pantomime by a face expressive of the utmost helplessness.
But now Gerrit Rond, burgomaster, the principal resident, and respected
head of the community, arose from his municipal arm-chair, and spake,—
“Kobus, I know it!”
Kobus listened in breathless excitement.
“Kobus,” the burgomaster went on, looking round him with vigilant eyes,
as though he suspected that pear-thieves might be hidden in the corners
of his sitting-room,—“Kobus, did he steal _all_ the pears?”
The veldwachter was silent, and looked questioningly at the burgomaster.
He could not make out what the latter was driving at.
“I mean,” explained the father of the citizens, “whether Jan o’ the Wood
has not got a single pear left on his trees?”
“Well; no, sir. Two baskets the rascal made off with; but how many
baskets there were to be had in that orchard, I don’t know. It’s quite
terrible the way Jan’s trees bear, and everything prime quality,
large-sized, and juicy. I think Jan’s father had them before him, and he
must have brought them....”
“That will do, Kobus,” the burgomaster interrupted his subordinate; “but
that’s not the point.... So the pears have not _all_ been removed? I
mean, by this, that the thief has not unlawfully possessed himself of
the _whole?_”
“Why, no, your worship.”
“Now, Kobus, look here.”
Kobus listened respectfully, understanding that the critical moment had
now arrived.
“My father, Kobus, was a man of sense, and when he had enjoyed anything,
he always used to say, ‘This peach tastes of more.’”
“Oh, yes!” exclaimed Kobus, as though suddenly enlightened,—whereas, in
truth, he was more puzzled than ever.
“And, look you, Kobus, the apple can never fall far from the tree. My
father was a sensible man; and I, too, say, ‘This peach tastes of more,’
and....”
Here the burgomaster looked through his half-closed eyelids with an air
of infinite sagacity, and added, slowly dragging out his words, one by
one,—
“... And—that—I suspect—the thief—will—say—too.”
“O-o-oh!” bellowed the veldwachter; “I understand—the thief will want
more pears. He will come back, and then we’ll catch him?”
The burgomaster looked at his factotum with a paternal air of
approbation.