Chapter XI: The Fallen Statesman

The courage and resolution of one man had saved the country from the conquest that would have terminated her existence.

The sea swept back the invaders. Heroism, springing from extremity, had by a great outburst of patriotism preserved the liberty of the United Provinces and raised the Protestant Faith to a security it would never lose again.

It had taken five days to cut the dykes; Amsterdam had set the example. The wealthiest merchants were the first to dismantle their pleasure gardens, their picture galleries, their splendid country villas; farms were razed to the ground and turned into fortifications, the mills alone being spared.

Many thousands of guilders were voted by the town council for the carrying out of the inundations. Every one helped; arms, food, powder, were taken into the town.

The great city stood almost impregnable; a vast fort rising above her own rich property, sacrificed by herself to her ally the sea.

The sailors from the Fleet were employed to defend the dykes; the frigates guarded the Zuyder Zee; the citizens enrolled themselves into militia companies under the command of the noblest families.

The manufacture of powder was carried on day and night. Every town exerted itself to send supplies of wheelbarrows, shovels, and pickaxes to the frontier to assist in the fortifications.

Armed sloops and gunboats sailed down the rivers to prevent the enemy advancing in boats; levies were raised all over the country, one man in every two being obliged to serve. Hope and courage rose high in a nation lately reduced to despair.

The Stadtholder set his soldiers to the work of demolishing the dykes. The sea rushed over his country palaces, burying in their hot-houses his beautiful collection of exotics and ruining his parks and gardens. All the meadow-land became marsh; the army of the States was obliged to camp where they could find ground higher than the sea; almost the only means of progress was by boats.

But Holland was saved!

Zeeland, animated by the example, turned with fury on the vainglorious conqueror. Aadenburg, the key to the province attacked by Nancré, flew to arms, and, small as was its garrison, not only resisted the French but, issuing from the town, inflicted on them a severe defeat.

Groningen beat back the invaders.

The country was at bay. Louis had roused more than he had looked for; his haughty march was checked, and only a hasty retreat left him. Louvois was furious; he had thought to see the Hague pillaged in a matter of days.

The King, mortified and enraged, returned to Saint Germains; yet he had the greatness to admire the heroism that had sent him back.

The French army found itself disconcerted, bewildered. Spain was arming, the Empire and Brandenburg.

Fortune turned swiftly.

The utter agony of shame, bitterness, despair, gave place to the return of hope. Even the vastness of the sacrifice could not discourage the country that breathed once more in freedom.

The English commissioners returned to Whitehall: Buckingham disgusted with politics; Arlington consoled by the rich bribes from France that had followed on the treaty of Heeswyck; Halifax full of admiration for the youthful warrior who had sprung into fame with his defiance of France.

Buckingham also had something to say of William of Orange.

“He hath not a single redeeming vice, and I like him not--but he will set the world by the ears as surely as any Tamerlane or Cæsar.”

So the English returned from their fruitless errand, and the great King was adored in Paris.

Sweden, Denmark, turned against the French. Europe was shaken from end to end; and in a few weeks, even days, the storm that had nearly overwhelmed the United Provinces became a great war whirlwind enveloping the world.

John de Witt does his part. His heart swells with pleasure at the deliverance of his country; he does justice, too late, to the Prince whom he has always mistrusted.

He is reviled, hated, cursed; the storm has already engulfed his brother.

Cornelius de Witt, who left the Hague with a guard of honour as plenipotentiary of Their Noble Mightinesses, returned to it on foot, a prisoner.

He is accused by one Tichelaer, a barber-surgeon, of a conspiracy to murder the Prince of Orange.

So vile is this man, so weak and improbable his tale, that at first John de Witt is not much concerned; his brother’s innocence, he thinks, is too obvious.

To him, not to the people.

Tichelaer’s story is good enough for them. It is accepted; spread through the country with horrid additions.

The Grand Pensionary finds that all his influence is not sufficient to save his brother. He spares nothing; he toils day and night, but he is a fallen man.

In the Gevangenpoort, under whose dark archway he has so often passed in his splendour, Cornelius de Witt lies expecting death, as he has expected it since the day at Dordt when he resisted the will of the people.

He is sick, and as he lies there in hospital he cuts with a little knife into the wood of his bed a view of his house at Dordt, of his brother’s house, and of _The Seven Provinces_.

“Ah, is it over, the glory, the peace, the happiness?--must disgrace and shame end a life that was so pure and noble!”

Jacob de Witt is dazed. He cares nothing for the great events that tear the country; he has but one thing to say to his younger son--

“Where is Cornelius?… Why do they not set him free?”

He cannot understand that his once powerful son is helpless.

John de Witt, desperate, tries to save his brother by disarming the resentment of his enemies. He goes to the Assembly and resigns the post he has held most nobly for twenty years.

The States accept it. They ask the Prince if they may thank him for his services.… The Stadtholder, absorbed in the war, sends answer “Yes.”

Still he cannot save Cornelius.

The people want blood.

The elder de Witt is put to the torture, which is a thing beyond credence, horrible; no confession is extorted from him. The unjust judges are defeated in their endeavours to please the mob.

John de Witt is distracted by the agony of Maria de Witt, the fears of his own children, the piteous bewilderment of his father, the dismay of his friends; his very trust in God is almost shaken.

In the bitterness of his despair he appeals to the man who was once his pupil.

The day before the final verdict on Cornelius (and his brother does not doubt that it will be death) the Stadtholder returns unexpectedly to the Hague.

Such a tumult of passionate, fierce joy greets him that for a moment even the accusations of Michael Tichelaer and the hate of Cornelius de Witt are forgotten.

He has come to ask the consent of the States to the removal of the Fleet from the Texel. He is received by the Assembly with more submission than ever his uncle obtained from his Parliament, they humbly recommend to him the necessity of restoring order in the country.

He reminds them that all the troops are needed on the frontier; he refuses to employ force. It is not likely that he would turn on the people who have put him where he is.

M. de Groot has fled to Brussels, Colonel Bampfield and other republican officers are dismissed the Army.

But the young Stadtholder takes no revenge on his enemies. He even publishes a proclamation commanding that no violence be used against the members of the fallen party; this is denounced as a forgery by those who are resolved to seal their triumph with blood.

John de Witt’s resignation has not appeased the violence of his opponents, nor are they moved by his modest speech in the Assembly; afterwards some are haunted by these sentences--

“Great and Noble Lords--it was nineteen years ago on the 30th of July last that, for the first time, I took the oath in your Assembly in the capacity of Grand Pensionary of the Province of Holland.… It has pleased God, in His anger, to bring down upon the States those misfortunes in which they are now involved, and that in a manner so difficult to understand … that posterity will find it hard to believe.

“What is most distressing at this unhappy conjuncture is, that these sudden disasters and misfortunes have produced in the minds of the people not only a sentiment of general fear and dread, but a sinister feeling against their magistrates.…

“Unjust as these suspicions are, I, at any rate, am overwhelmed by them, though I cannot but think that I might have been spared, since, as a humble servant of the State, I have only been bound to obey implicitly the commands of my masters.

“But whether it is that I am thought not to have properly carried out the functions of my office, or that ignorant people imagine that I have appropriated what never passed through my hands, I am so furiously inveighed against that I can in conscience come to no other conclusion than that my services must henceforth be prejudicial to the State.… I have, therefore, thought it would be best to beg your Noble and Great Mightinesses, as I very humbly do, that it may please your goodness to relieve me of the exercise of my office.”

Thus John de Witt, speaking for the last time in the Assembly, a few days before the States informed the Prince that the Perpetual Edict had been torn leaf from leaf, and each town returned the signature of its Deputies.

His resignation had been granted with grudging. There had been talk of an inquiry first; more than a hint of suspicion.

Yet the man who was accused of enriching himself from the public funds, left after a lifetime of office so poor that he was forced to remind the States of their oft-repeated promise of a seat in the High Court, in order to have a livelihood for himself and his family.

And he had to endure the humiliation of this post being reluctantly given him; for the six hundred guilders it was worth, piteous sum as it was, would be his principal fortune.

The clamorous cries of the crowd assailing the very clouds with the name of William of Orange came to his ears even through the peace of his beloved garden.…

Cornelius was in the Gevangenpoort expecting death … and his brother must see the Prince.

He took from his desk the letter the Stadtholder had sent him in answer to his appeal about his own affairs, and read it through again, as if he hoped to gain some knowledge of the writer’s real feelings towards him. It had been delayed until Fagel had made known to the Prince John de Witt’s refusal to serve under the new Chief of the State.

It was written from Bodegraven.

“SIR,--I have received your letter of the 12th inst. with the
pasquinade that accompanied it. I should not have failed to
answer it sooner had not the multiplicity of my occupations
prevented me.

“I can assure you that I have always despised reports which are
started in this manner, since not only my family, but I myself,
have been attacked with a freedom and avidity beyond all bounds.

“As to the two points of which you make mention in yours,
namely, your handling of the Secret Service money, and the
little care you are reported to have taken in providing the
Army with all requirements, I can only say that as to the first
I have no knowledge of it, and that the Deputies of the States,
as you very properly observe, can better testify to this than
any one else.

“As to the second, I do not, and cannot, doubt that you took
such care of the Armies of the States, both by land and sea, as
the conditions of affairs and of the times would allow, and in
such a manner that they would have been capable of resisting
the enemy.

“But you must be aware yourself that it would be impossible to
specify all that may have been wanting, particularly to the
land forces, and to verify either the trouble taken to supply
deficiencies, or that which might and ought to have been taken
at the time, or to determine who was in fault; for I am so
taken up with business that I have involved myself as little as
possible in looking into the past.

“You will, therefore, find a much better justification in your
past acts of prudence than in anything you can obtain from me.

“I trust with all my heart to have some other opportunity of
proving myself your affectionate friend,

“WILLIAM HENRY, Prince of Orange.”

John de Witt read and re-read the letter. It was cold, reserved he thought, well turned as was all the Prince indicted; as friendly, perhaps, as he could have expected.… It meant, possibly, that the Prince refused him all protection, but he could not hesitate at scruples of pride now.

He must appeal to the one man who could save his brother.

He took his hat, his cane, and mantle, and left the house, alone. His always modest establishment was already reduced to two servants and one clerk.

He was now merely a private citizen, and had neither means nor occupation for more.

Calling this one clerk, Van Ouvenaller, to him before he left, de Witt gave him a letter of hope and comfort for Maria de Witt, Cornelius’ wife, bidding him see that it caught the post for Dordt.

Once in the streets he pulled his hat over his eyes to avoid the hostile recognition of the crowd thronging the streets to give a reception to the Prince, who had just left the Assembly and was returning to the Marithuis.

John de Witt mingled with the others who filled the Stadtholder’s chambers, and waited, with them, at the head of the fine double staircase.

The sound of cheers and shouts, that seemed as if they would never cease, was borne from without as the Prince entered the Palace.

He came slowly up the stairs, accompanied by a press of people carrying their hats in their hands.

He wore a dove-coloured suit and a black sash, a pink velvet mantle and a beaver with black feathers; there was a gold ribbon on his cane and gold cords on his right shoulder. M. Fagel was speaking to him, and he listened unsmilingly.

At the head of the stairs he paused and glanced round the people gathered to meet him.

Instantly his eye fell on John de Witt and he blushed violently.

He said nothing, but raised his hat. M. de Witt did the same, and those about them were silent.

“Highness,” said John de Witt calmly, “will it please you to grant me speech with you?”

The red still lingered in William’s cheek. He hesitated; a slight thing in most, in him, always so decided, a marked one.

M. Fagel fell back.

“I am glad to see you, Mynheer,” said the Stadtholder. He seemed very mindful of the spectators. “Will you go into the cabinet … perhaps you do not know it.…”

He moved forward and opened the door on his left.

John de Witt followed him. The others, even William Bentinck, remained without.

Prince John Maurice’s cabinet was a beautiful room filled with treasures from the East Indies, fine pictures, Persian rugs, and inlaid furniture; the high window looked straight on to the end of the Vyver, and the walk by the side of it where the people gathered to catch a glimpse of the Prince.

It was late in the day, and the sun had left the cabinet, filled now by a cold, dusky light.

The Prince took off his hat as John de Witt uncovered.

They had not met since William’s departure for the war, a matter of weeks in time but a period full of great changes. Three months had served to cast down John de Witt, to make of him a reviled and hated man, and to exalt William of Orange into a hero.

There was little of the boy left about the young Stadtholder; his gravity was no longer the disguise of youthful passions but the seriousness of manhood.

He had put off his scholar’s air of retirement and wore a composed manner of authority and alertness.

“You have changed,” said John de Witt, looking at him steadily.

“Mynheer, I have been remodelled by my duties,” answered the Stadtholder, “and altered by the necessity of the times.”

He stood against the light arch of the window; his profile was towards John de Witt, who still gazed at the keen, thin face tanned by out-door life, the brilliant eyes cast down, and the heavy, waving hair falling on to the lace collar.

“We did not part lovingly, Highness, but it was with more ease we spoke then than now, I think.”

The Prince looked up.

“What can we have to say to one another, Mynheer John de Witt?”

“Not much, perhaps, but something.… I think we meet for the last time.”

There was a difference also in de Witt. His late illness and his distresses had left him wasted, lined and worn; his old stateliness remained, but at times his voice shook and broke a little.

As he spoke he seated himself with a fatigued air.

“I cannot frame into sentences what there is between us, Highness.”

The Prince spoke suddenly, almost fiercely--

“Do you know me now, Mynheer? Do you see what manner of man I am? You need not have feared.”

John de Witt looked at him earnestly and sadly.

“I do admit that you have nobly belied what I once thought of you.”

“Why did you think such things of me? You imagined I should become the tool of France, a traitor; you always mistrusted and disliked me. Why do you come to me now? I think you wronged me.…”

He turned his face away sharply, and gazed at the glittering waters of the Vyver glimpsing through the window.

John de Witt answered slowly--

“I was the fool of my own desires, the dupe of my hopes.… I dreamed to make you a great citizen of a great Republic.”

The Prince did not look round.

“You chose the wrong material, Mynheer; you cannot trim a Nassau into the compass of burgher virtues.”

“I was at fault.… I did not allow for your ambitions.”

William turned now.

“My ambitions are to save my country and the Reformed religion.… When I was a child I desired my birthright.… I could never serve.… I was not schooled in ways of love and gentleness.… You did your duty to me as you conceived it, and taught me much,--for one thing the bitterness of a long humiliation, and the lessons that may be learnt in loneliness. I cannot make a parade of gratitude--I cannot thank you--I cannot forget what will influence all my life; but I understand you as you never understood me--and so I can forgive.”

John de Witt bent his head.

“I did what I thought right, what I must think right still.… I taught you to be a patriot and to fear God. I acted for the love of my country and for no vile motive of my own.”

He looked up.

“And for my temerity in opposing a Nassau I am very bitterly punished, Your Highness.”

William put his hand on the back of the chair behind him.

“You could have stayed in office if you would have served me.”

“The States are my master, and I resigned while they were still my master.”

The Stadtholder interrupted--

“You shall be unmolested in your retirement, Mynheer.”

“I do not think of myself.”

“Of whom then?”

“My brother.”

A shade crossed William’s face.

“Your brother,” he repeated.

John de Witt rose.

“My brother--unjustly accused, unjustly tried; a victim to the fears of the magistrates, the passions of the crowd.”

William faced him.

“I cannot believe your brother guilty,” he said; “yet he has failed to clear himself on his trial--and the man who was killed at my feet in the camp mentioned his name--yet--I do not believe it.”

“Then,” cried M. de Witt, “save him, for you alone can!”

“Hath he not a fair trial?” demanded the Stadtholder.

“By Heaven, no!”

“I have heard very little of it.… I have been so occupied with the war.”

“Your Highness has the civil administration also.”

William glanced at him quickly.

“If your brother is innocent will he not be acquitted?”

“He will be condemned to death unless Your Highness interferes--he, _my_ brother, on the word of a man whom he once ordered to be fined for beating his maid-servant.”

The Stadtholder did not answer.

John de Witt spoke again, his cheek pale but his eyes burning.

“My noble lord--if you ever hated me, you are avenged. I would never have wished you a tenth of what has befallen me. You have your father’s dignities; the people have placed you where he sat, and my Republic is swept aside--is a mere interlude in the reign of the House of Orange. If ever you wished me evil consider that I see my life-work come to nothing, that I hear myself cursed by the people I have toiled for, that I am accused of being a thief and a traitor--and be satisfied.

“If ever I have humiliated you or angered you--and never did I so wantonly--consider that I have had to ask the States to give me a position that will bring me bread; consider that my family is ruined, that I leave nothing but a heritage of failure to my sons--and again be satisfied.

“I shall not trouble you--I am not made for intrigue; had I been I need not have stood before you now asking for my brother’s life.… After my great labour I shall be content to take a little idleness in which to prepare me for death.… I shall not trouble you.

“Give me my brother’s life.… He is an innocent man; you, who have looked on him, must know it.… He is a man who has given all to his country; he has been great … and … they tortured him.… Oh, God forgive Your Highness if you knew of that!…”

The Prince moved towards the window.

“I only heard to-day.”

John de Witt put his hand over his hot and aching eyes.

“He is also sufficiently punished for having withstood your Highness.… I ask, nay, I demand, his life.”

William turned; he too was pale.

“Were he guilty, Mynheer, he should not die by virtue of your honourable family.… I blame myself that I did not sooner interpose--and greatly am I ashamed that he was put to the torture.… But the mob rules here, not I. I have a task so manifold before me that I might well despair--the country under water; the peasants rising; the enemy but just repulsed; the towns in a state of revolution.… My amnesty is scarcely heeded.… Yet I will save M. Cornelius de Witt.”

“I do not need to thank Your Highness, for you would injure your own honour should you have refused.”

William coughed.

“I will do what I can … at least, they shall not take his life.… But if they banish him, you must not blame me.”

“I know there is an astonishing fury against us.… Banishment! I have lived here twenty years, but all now has changed; with Cornelius I will gladly go into banishment, if it must be.”

The Stadtholder’s large eyes rested on him gravely.

“Mynheer, as I can judge the temper of the people, you are scarcely safe at the Hague. I would advise you leave it soon--to-morrow, you--and M. Cornelius de Witt.”

“My noble lord,” said John de Witt proudly, “you know me guiltless of these charges laid to me?”

“My letter told you so.”

“It was not warm in my defence.”

The Stadtholder answered straightly--

“I think you made mistakes, I told you so when our positions were reversed. I think the defences of the country shamefully neglected--your peace policy fatal--your embassy to Louis calculated to give colour to vile reports; but I know you, Mynheer, for an honourable man.”

John de Witt very slightly smiled.

“I thank your Noble Highness for so much,” he said.

William coloured in response to the tone of it.

“Have you ever held such worthy opinions of me,” he asked, “that I should bear warm testimony to your virtues? Your policy is not my policy.”

“You have saved Holland; with you rests the glory of her deliverance, as with me the odium of her fall; but I would no less have saved her had hatred given me time to speak or malice allowed me space to act--I still, Highness, defend my policy.”

He rested his eyes full on the Prince’s face, but William kept his eyes averted.

“I would do justice to you, Mynheer--had I known you in any capacity save that of gaoler I might have loved you.… I always hated speech, and am not skilled at explanations.… If I have been ungracious let circumstances be my excuse.…”

John de Witt answered ardently.

“If you love your country I will forgive you that you hate me,--nay, if my fall be of advantage to the State in raising up a stronger protector, one that the people trust and love, I am thankful for it.… They trusted me once, and shouted for Cornelius when we rode our galiots in the Thames.… Beware of popularity, my noble lord.”

William pressed his handkerchief to his lips, still looking away.

“Do not fear that I will not serve my country--I bear an unfinished motto, when I was a boy I completed it proudly ‘I will maintain the power and glory of the House of Orange’--now I would add ‘Liberty and the Protestant Religion’ to those words of mine.”

John de Witt was silent a moment, then he said slowly--

“I grieve the chance that makes us enemies, for we should have shown well as friends, my lord.”

The Prince turned and fixed at last his bright glance again on de Witt.

“Mynheer, when King Mithridates Eupator came to the throne, he sent a message to his enemies telling them of his accession.… No more was needed, they understood and destroyed themselves.… So between us; you will not serve me, and I need not tell you you must go.… Leave the Hague, Mynheer--and soon.”

“When my brother is set at liberty, Your Highness.”

“That shall be to-morrow.”

“You are staying here?”

“I quit early to-morrow for Woerden, Mynheer, to inspect the fortifications of the town.”

“Then will you leave some soldiery behind Your Highness, for I have a fear of the unchecked violence of the mob. The Gevangenpoort hath been twice attacked, and I think my brother’s life in danger.”

“Count Tilly’s dragoons shall remain to keep order in the Hague.”

“I thank Your Highness.”

Mechanically John de Witt fastened together the clasps of his black velvet mantle.

The Prince still stood, his aristocratic figure in the dove grey in keeping with the rich, quiet, and sombre room.

They were looking at each other, and there was more in the eyes of each than any words could have touched.

M. de Witt moved slowly towards the door.

“I cannot leave you--” he said in a low voice, and with a simple air of grandeur, “you who have been my pupil--I cannot leave you for ever without saying how I shall ever pray for your prosperity, and that, though you cannot be more zealous, you may be more fortunate than I have been in serving our country.

“You have begun very nobly, may God keep you faithful to your ideals, guard you from your enemies, and make you worthy of the trust reposed in you by this unhappy land. Good-night, my lord.”

William made a half movement towards him.

“M. de Witt!” he said in a stifled voice. “M. de Witt!”

The fallen Minister smiled, almost tenderly.

“You have a hard task before you--as I well know.”

William held out his hand.

“Forget I am Nassau and take my hand as that of one who should be grateful to you.…”

John de Witt responded instantly; the fine fingers clasped. It seemed as if both men must speak, but no word passed.

“Good-night, Mynheer,” the Prince said at last.

“Good-night, Your Highness.”

John de Witt passed through the crowded antechamber and out into the street.

For the first time in twenty years he found himself without the cares of government, without the routine of pressing business to attend to.

His body obeyed the new condition of his mind; he found himself wandering with no set purpose, a thing he had not done since his student days in Dordt.

He realised as he went on his way that it was pleasant to walk aimlessly in the last glow of an August sun … perhaps he was a little stunned, weakened by illness and misfortune; his thoughts travelled back to early hopes and interests. He was a free man at last--at last he could find rest.…

At last.

He and Cornelius and their old father could live peaceably in the Spanish Netherlands. He would grow peaches and tulips, translate Horace, and watch his daughters spin or play the guitar.

It would be harder for Cornelius, for he was ever a man of action; but for himself he could not deny that he was utterly weary and that repose seemed sweet.

Leaving the crowded streets, he walked along the side of the canal that led to the Nieuwe Kerk.

He sighed with a pleasurable sense of the peace to come as he watched the slow barges pass down the bright water.

Some were laden with flowers and fruits; from the tall trees came soft scents and delicate sounds of the branches.

John de Witt sighed again.

A stork with a fish in its beak, looking like the very arms of the Hague, stood on the bank a moment, then flew off to one of the red roofs mounting like double steps to the highest stone of painted brick.

The sun was setting behind Ryswyck; the sight of the clear sky purged with celestial fire from all vapours and clouds animated the heart of John de Witt like prayer or music.

He bared his head.

It was quiet here, no one to molest or insult the melancholy, divine dignity of evening.

He crossed the little bridge before the church, walking lightly like one who does not think of the earth on which he treads.

It was over; his life-work done; nor was he afraid of God’s judgment on his actions though man had condemned them all.

He advanced to the church thinking to pray there, for his mood was exalted.

As he opened the door a paper pinned to it caught his eye.

It bore bold writing, and he stepped back to read.

The light of the sunset was still bright enough for him to see.

“Lucifer calls from Hell, ‘When is Cornelius de Witt coming? I grow impatient--let him come at once, let him bring his brother but leave his head!’

“Lucifer calls from Hell, ‘When are the de Witts coming?’

“The burghers call from the Hague, ‘Expect them to-morrow!’”

John de Witt stood on the church step staring at the paper.

The rapture died from his face; his eyes widened and his cheek paled.

Rapidly the sunset faded.

Another barge went by, a shadow in the dusk; it brought no image of peace now to the man at the door of the church.

What is brewing--what is enmeshing us?

He did not enter the church, but turned back to his own house slowly.

“Lucifer calls from Hell, ‘When are the de Witts coming?’

“The burghers call from the Hague, ‘Expect them to-morrow!’”