Boundaries and Their Meanings in the History of the Netherlands Studies in Central European Histories

Boundaries and their Meanings in the History of the Netherlands Studies in Central European Histories

Edited by Th omas A. Brady, Jr., University of California, Berkeley Roger Chickering, Georgetown University

Editorial Board Steven Beller, Washington, D.C. Atina Grossmann, Columbia University Peter Hayes, Northwestern University Susan Karant-Nunn, University of Arizona Mary Lindemann, University of Miami David M. Luebke, University of Oregon H.C. Erik Midelfort, University of Virginia David Sabean, University of California, Los Angeles Jonathan Sperber, University of Missouri Jan de Vries, University of California, Berkeley

VOLUME XLVIII Boundaries and their Meanings in the History of the Netherlands

Edited by Benjamin Kaplan, Marybeth Carlson, Laura Cruz

LEIDEN • BOSTON 2009 On the cover: Map VIII. E.i.2 ‘Leo Belgicus’ in Germania infeion. Pieter v.d. Keere, 1617. With kind permission of University Library Utrecht. Departments Special Collections.

Th is book is printed on acid-free paper.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Boundaries and their meanings in the history of the Netherlands / edited by Benjamin Kaplan, Marybeth Carlson, Laura Cruz. p. cm. — (Studies in Central European histories ; 48) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-90-04-17637-9 (hbk. : alk. paper) 1. Netherlands—Historical geography. 2. Netherlands—Boundaries—History. 3. Boundaries—Social aspects— Netherlands—History. 4. Boundaries—Political aspects—Netherlands—History. 5. Netherlands—Historiography. 6. Netherlands—Colonies—History. I. Kaplan, Benjamin J. II. Carlson, Marybeth. III. Cruz, Laura, 1969– IV. Title. V. Series.

DJ30.B68 2009 320.1’2—dc22 2009011372

Society for Netherlandic History Volume 2

ISSN 1547-1217 ISBN 978 9004 17637 9

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher.

Brill has made all reasonable eff orts to trace all rights holders to any copyrighted material used in this work. In cases where these eff orts have not been successful the publisher welcomes communications from copyright holders, so that the appropriate acknowledgements can be made in future editions, and to settle other permission matters.

Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to Th e Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. printed in the netherlands CONTENTS

List of Illustrations ...... vii Acknowledgments ...... ix

Introduction: “Boundaries: Real and Imagined” ...... 1 Laura Cruz and Hubert P. van Tuyll

PART ONE THE GOLDEN AGE

Divided Loyalties: States-Brabant As a Border Country ...... 15 C.O. van der Meij

Geography Unbound: Boundaries and the Exotic World in the Early Enlightenment ...... 35 Benjamin Schmidt

Deciphering the Dutch in Deshima ...... 63 Mia M. Mochizuki

Th e Transnational Dispersal of the Walloon Military Aristocracy in the Era of the Dutch Revolt: Th e Example of the Tserclaes of Tilly ...... 95 John Th eibault

Th e Geographic Extent of the Dutch Book Trade in the 17th Century: An Old Question Revisited ...... 119 Laura Cruz

Pragmatic Agents of Empire: Dutch Intercultural Mediators among the Mohawks in Seventeenth-Century New Netherland ...... 139 Mark Meuwese vi contents

PART TWO THE MODERN AGE

Neutral Borders, Neutral Waters, Neutral Skies: Protecting the Territorial Neutrality of the Netherlands in the Great War, 1914–1918 ...... 157 Maartje M. Abbenhuis

Last Chance: Belgium at Versailles ...... 177 Hubert P. van Tuyll

Th e Dutch Border Areas 1933–1945: Inducement for Incidents or Object of Structural Historiographical Neglect? ...... 193 Bob de Graaff

‘Our National Community’: Th e Dominance of Organic Th inking in the Post-War Netherlands ...... 213 Martin Bossenbroek

Dwinegeri—Multiculturalism and the Colonial Past (Or: Th e Cultural Borders of Being Dutch) ...... 223 Susan Legêne

Bibliography ...... 243

Brief Biographies of the Contributors ...... 251

Index ...... 253 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Schmidt

Fig. 1. Frontispiece from Arnoldus Montanus, America (Amsterdam, 1671) ...... 45 Fig. 2. Cornelis de Bruyn, “Smyrna,” in Reizen van Cornelis de Bruyn, door de vermaardste deelen van Klein Asia (Delft , 1698) ...... 46 Fig. 3. Johannes van Keulen, Paskaart van Niew Engeland, in De Groote Nieuwe Vermeerde Zee-Atlas oft e Water Werelt (Amsterdam, 1688) ...... 48 Fig. 4. Jacob van Campen, Triumph, with Treasures of the Globe (Paleis Huis den Bosch, Royal Collections, Th e Hague) ...... 50 Fig. 5. Jan van Kessel, Americque, 1666 (Bayerische Staatsgemäldesammlungen, Alte Pinakothek Munich) ...... 53 Fig. 6. Nicolaes Berchem “America” (engraved cartouche, lower left ), in Nicolaes Visscher, Novissima et accruratissima totius Americae descriptio (Amsterdam, ca. 1650–1700) ...... 58

Mochizuki

Fig. 1. Pieter Isaacszoon (aft er a design by Karel van Mander), Allegory of Amsterdam as the Center of World Trade, 1606. Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum ...... 64 Fig. 2. Anonymous, Pietà, 17th–18th century. Tokyo, Tokyo National Museum ...... 68 Fig. 3. Anonymous, Japanese Man Performing Fumi-e Ceremony, ca. 1800–1833. Leiden, Rijksmuseum voor Volkenkunde ...... 69 Fig. 4. Anonymous, Virgin and Child, ca. 1573–1615. Utrecht, Museum Catharijneconvent ...... 75 Fig. 5. Joost Gerritszoon, Chandelier, ca. 1636. Nikko, Tōshōgū Shrine ...... 81 Fig. 6. View of replicas of Joost Gerritszoon chandeliers, Great or St. Bavo Church, Haarlem (photo: E.A. van Voorden) ...... 83 viii list of illustrations

Fig. 7. Joost Gerritszoon, Lantern, ca. 1643. Nikko, Tōshōgū Shrine ...... 85 Fig. 8. Anonymous, Deshima Governor’s Panel, ca. 1806 with later additions. Location unknown ...... 87 Fig. 9. Nicolaas Boddink van Laer, Preachers’ Panel, 1652–1771. Haarlem, Great or St. Bavo Church (photo: E.A. van Voorden) ...... 88 Fig. 10. Anonymous, Last Supper Panel, ca. 1581. Haarlem, Great or St. Bavo Church (photo: E.A. van Voorden) ...... 90 Fig. 11. Anonymous, World Map, early 17th century. Kobe, Kobe City Museum ...... 91 Fig. 12. Abraham Ortelius, World Map, 1587, in Abraham Ortelius, Th eatrum orbis terrarum (Antwerp, 1587). Antwerp, Plantin-Moretus Museum ...... 93 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Th e authors and editors would like to thank the Society for Netherlandic history for hosting the conference that led to the publication of these essays. Special thanks goes to Jonathan Bell, James McFatter and Cale Th ornburg for their assistance with document preparation.

INTRODUCTION “BOUNDARIES: REAL AND IMAGINED”

Laura Cruz and Hubert P. van Tuyll

Where does the ocean end and the sky begin? Leonardo da Vinci answered this question by postulating the existence of a ‘common boundary’ between the two. Such speculation is at the heart of the question of how a boundary is defi ned, or, more precisely, how the existence of a boundary is defi ned.1 Traditionally, the term boundary applies to the demarcation between a physical place and another physical place, most commonly associated with lines on a map, and usually used synonymously with the term border. As the essays in this volume show, however, a boundary can also function in a more broadly conceptual manner. A boundary becomes not an “imaginary line” but a tool for thinking about how to separate any two elements, whether ideas, events, etc., into categories by which they become comprehen- sible and distinct.2 It is the task of the scholar not simply to discern the boundaries, but, and perhaps more importantly, to understand the process of delination, and its consequences. With its maverick history and grass-root political traditions, the Netherlands provides an auspicious setting to examine the historical function of boundaries both real and imagined.

I. Real

Da Vinci’s question about the earth and the sky can be answered in many ways. One school of thought posits that a boundary must exist between them, as we can clearly see that they are distinct entities. Th e Netherlands’ best known boundary feature is its three-dimensionality,

1 E. MacCurdy, ed. (1938), Th e Notebooks of Leonardo da Vinci (London: Reynal and Hitchcock, 1938), 75–6. 2 See for example Joseph Richard Werne, Th e Imaginary Line: A History of the United States and Mexican Boundary Survey, 1848–1857 (Fort Worth, TX: Texas Christian University Press, 2007); Étienne François, Die unsichtbare Grenze: Protestanten und Katholiken in Augsburg 1648–1806. 2 laura cruz and hubert p. van tuyll whether it be the literal construction of its physical identity by means of land reclamation from the sea, or that it was the fi rst country to declare its air space off limits in wartime (as Maartje Abbenhuis details in her contribution to the volume). In a country where the historical boundary between land, water and air is, at best, indistinct, the answer to da Vinci’s question is not self-evident. Legal boundaries became important when mankind ceased to be nomadic. For most of human existence, the boundary was meaningless because the value of land lay in the wildlife and edible plants that it contained, and once these were consumed the land no longer had value. Grazing only slowly changed this pattern as the areas over which animals might graze—particularly in semi-arid regions—were so large as to render the creation of policeable boundaries impossible. Once people settled, however, and land acquired inherent value, boundaries became mandatory as a means to avoid confl ict and to establish political and economic control.3 As Benjamin Schmidt says in this volume, “boundary- making, even if rhetorical, implies agenda-setting prerogatives . . . [it is] a process of strategic representation that, broadly speaking, relates directly to issues of political and economic hegemony.”4 Delineating physical boundaries was never an easy task. Where peoples lived continuously over long periods of time, memory might be relied upon to a degree, but it was fallible. Surveying systems were developed to make precise measurements possible, but even these relied on agreed-upon markers—and war and natural disasters might sweep these away, along with the records of individual land ownership. Sometimes nations have clear physical boundaries which they agree to— coastlines, rivers, or mountain chains (the Pyrenees between Spain and France being one of the best examples), but these are exceptions. It certainly was not the case in the Low Countries.5 It is an interesting political and cultural question exactly when borders really started to matter. While the water and the sky are eternal, coun-

3 R.V. Prescott, Political Boundaries and Frontier (London: Allen & Unwin, 1987), 7. 4 Benjamin Schmidt, “Geography Unbound: Boundaries and the Exotic World in the Early Enlightenment,” in Kaplan, et al. (ed.), Boundaries and Th eir Meanings in the History of the Netherlands (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 36. 5 For an overview of the geographical history of the Low Countries, see Audrey Lambert, Th e Making of a Dutch Landscape: An Historical Geography of the Netherlands (New York: Seminar Press, 1971). For an interesting discussion of how the Pyrenees did not act as a boundary for cultural exchange, see Peter Sahlins, Boundaries: Th e Making of France and Spain in the Pyrenees (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989). introduction: “boundaries: real and imagined” 3 tries exist in historical time. Th e confl icting allegiances of the provinces of the Low Countries during the Middle Ages created a patch-work quilt of small polities, oft en with multiple ties to multiple rulers. It would take centuries to disentangle the political allegiances of the populace. John Th eibault uses the career of John Tserclaes of Tilly to demonstrate that even as late as the seventeenth century, many nobles still saw boundaries as unimportant and their world view was determined less by lines on a map than by personal allegiances and shared experiences. Bob De Graaff notes that the eastern boundaries of the Netherlands were still being negotiated in the 1930’s and Hubert van Tuyll discusses negotiations over key territories in the south as late as 1918. While the contestations over the eastern border are understudied, the boundary that separates the southern and northern Low Countries, i.e. the border between modern day Belgium and the Netherlands, has been the subject of much attention. Forged during the Eighty Years War with Spain, the story of this border is well known to historians, including various attempts (friendly and otherwise) to alter its location or signifi cance.6 Borders themselves may simply be lines on a map, but the process of setting them, explaining and even justifying them, can be hotly contested.7 In the case of the southern border, the question is similar to the chicken and egg conundrum, i.e. which came fi rst, the border or the division between north and south that it marks? Chickens and eggs were most readily apparent in territories such as Brabant, whose citizens found themselves on both sides of the border. In C.O. van der Meij’s treatment, the diff erences between north and south in this contested space have been overdrawn. Th e culprits for

6 A sample of such works would have to include Pieter Geyl, Th e Revolt of the Netherlands, 15–66. More recent entries include Herbert H. Rowan, “Th e Dutch Revolt: What Kind of Revolution?” Renaissance Quarterly 43 (1990), 570–59; Hans Knippenberg, Dutch nation-building: a struggle against the water? Geo-Journal, Vol. 43, No. 1, 1997; E. De Jongh, ‘Real Dutch art and not-so-real Dutch Art: some national- istic views of Seventeenth century Netherlandish Painting’, Simiolus, 20 (1990–1991); Ernst H. Kossman, Een tuchteloos probleem. De natie in de Nederlanden. (Leuven: Davidsfonds, 1994); N.C.F. van Sas, ed. Vaderland. Een geschiedenis vanaf de vijft iende eeuw tot 1940 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995); Alastair Duke, “Th e Elusive Netherlands. Th e Question of National Identity in the Early Modern Low Countries on the Eve of the Revolt,” Bijdragen en mededelingen betreff ende de geschiedenis der Nederlanden 119 (2004), 10–35. 7 For further reading on this issue, see Allen Buchanan and Margaret Moore, States, Nations and Borders: Th e Ethics of Making Boundaries (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003). 4 laura cruz and hubert p. van tuyll propagating this overgeneralization? Van Meij blames historians for darkening the borders before such was the case in practice among the citizens who lived there. In other words, if the history of the town diverged historiographically early on that demonstrates that historians accepted the border as real well before it aff ected the functioning of the local and regional governments, the development of the regional economy, or the complexity of its religious situation. Th ese aspects of life in the former duchy of Brabant were more greatly aff ected, van Meij argues, by its status as a frontier town perched awkwardly between two rival polities, which resulted in devastating damage from marauding armies and considerable demographic shift s. In van Meij’s estimation, the border did not ruthlessly divide a previously united province, but the reality of its presence weighed heavily on its citizens regardless of which side they happened to dwell. In Brabant, the fi nal borders between the north and the south are still contested and many pockets of territory still seem to be protected by medieval privileges rather than the existence of a hard and fast border. Most of the area of Baarle-Hertog, for example, is considered Belgian but it is separated from the rest of Belgium and completely surrounded by Dutch territory. In 1996, the parliaments of both Belgium and the Netherlands rejected a plan to consolidate the enclave into close-by urban centers.8 Th is was not the only plan for altering borders to be rejected. As Hubert van Tuyll details, the Belgian government made a bid at the 1919 Versailles peace conference to restore the territories of Zeeuwsch Flanders (sometimes called States Flanders in English) and Limburg/Maastricht to the Belgian state. Th e territories, both located on the southern border with the Netherlands, had been lost to them through the Treaty of Muenster in 1648 and and the agreement of 1839 under which the Netherlands fi nally recognized Belgium. At Versailles, Belgian offi cials proposed to compensate the Dutch with German territory to the east, but they ultimately failed in their last chance for restoration. With little experience or interest in foreign aff airs, the Belgian representatives made a poor impression on the other delegates in the Hall of Mirrors. At home, national and linguistic politics on both sides

8 For further reading, see Brendan R. Whyte: “En Territoire Belge et à Quarante Centrimètres de la Frontière”: the Belgian and Dutch enclaves of Baarle-Hertog and Baarle-Nassau (Melbourne 2004). For a more general study, see Rudy Longueville: International Enclaves (Maldegem 2007). introduction: “boundaries: real and imagined” 5 contributed to mounting tension over the proposal. In the end, the delegates at Versailles decided that the historical reality of the border justifi ed its continued existence. Th e lines on the map remained where they had been since 1648.9

II. Imaginary

DaVinci did not fi nish his meditation by simply speculating on the existence of a boundary between sky and water. If this boundary exists, he wondered, what does it consist of? His conclusion was ‘nothingness.’ A diff erent way of looking at daVinci’s question would be to ask “are the lines on a map real?” If so, real in what sense? In daVinci’s time, many believed that the boundary between sky and water must physically consist of elements of either air, water, or both.10 Modern theo- rists, however, tend to view boundaries as a type of discursive strategy. While not possessing physical existence per se, a boundary off ers not just rhetorical convenience, but also acts as a source of identity and as a basis of power. In Van Tuyll’s example, the border between the states defi ned the hostile relationships between the Dutch and the Belgians in the aft ermath of the World War I, and that relationship was cemented with the fi nal decision at Versailles. Abbenhuis, on the other hand, suggests that these borders functioned more like porous membranes than inviolable lines. In both the south and the east, the Dutch government made strenuous eff orts to increase border security as was required by law to uphold their neutrality. Despite these eff orts, which included painting designations on houses and the erection of fences, enforcement was not eff ective due at least in part to the absence of natural, physical

9 For further reading, see Hubert van Tuyll, Th e Netherlands in World War I: Espionage, Diplomacy, and Survival (Leiden: Brill, 2001). 10 For theories in this school, see for example, Chisholm Roderick, “Spatial continuity and the theory of part and whole. A Brentano study,” Brentano Studien. Internationales Jahrbuch der Franz Brentano Forschung 4: 11–24 (1993). Smith, B., and Varzi, A.C., 2000, ‘Fiat and Bona Fide Boundaries, Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 60: 401–420. Smith, B., 1995, ‘On Drawing Lines on a Map’, in A.U. Frank and W. Kuhn (eds.), Spatial Information Th eory. A Th eoretical Basis for GIS. Proceedings of the Third International Conference, Berlin: Springer, pp. 475–484. Varzi, A.C., 1997, ‘Boundaries, Continuity, and Contact’, Noûs 31: 26–58. Many of these references come from Achille Varzi, “Boundary”, Th e Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Spring 2004 Edition), Edward N. Zalta (ed.), http://plato.stanford.edu/archives/spr2004/entries/boundary. 6 laura cruz and hubert p. van tuyll boundaries. Th roughout the war, refugees, travelers, and smuggled goods fl owed across Dutch borders, oft en through imaginative sub- terfuges. Th e problem of leaky borders was even more dire in the air and on the water, where enforcement was virtually impossible and the requirements under international law either unclear or non-existent, a situation with which da Vinci could likely sympathize. Legal obligations dictated that the border be, in Abbenhuis’ words, sacrosanct, but, for better or for worse, those who lived and worked around and across it saw the maintenance of border security for the legal fi ction that it was.11 Th e transgression of borders suggests the degree to which a border is real or fi ctional. In the Middle Ages, the impetus to create stronger boundaries and borders came about largely for economic reasons. Legal control of territory meant the power to tax its product, as well as the trade that went through it.12 Despite the continued insistence of economists on using national boundaries as economic units, an increasing amount of research suggests that markets, especially in pre-modern times, rarely paid attention to them.13 Even in the face of legal and political restrictions based on established boundaries, the demands of the laws of supply and demand tend to have a logic and dynamic of their own. Laura Cruz presents one such case of the dictates of the market superseding political boundaries; i.e. that of the seventeenth century booksellers in Leiden. Similar to the tactics employed along the Dutch border in World War I, these imaginative merchants found loopholes in laws and enforcement policies, created new markets that were not subject to traditional restrictions, and colluded with one another to ensure profi t and prosperity. Th e myriad of international destinations for their second-hand books suggests that their economic horizons extended far beyond the confi nes of their town, their province, and even their country.

11 For further reading, see Maartje Abbenhuis, Th e Art of Staying Neutral: Th e Netherlands in the First World War 1914–1918 (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2006), 170. 12 Jane Jacobs, Cities and the Wealth of Nations: Principles of Economic Life (New York: Random House 1984), 156–182. Jacobs provides multiple examples (including the Dutch randstad), drawn from a long span of history, of economic rationale for control over urban boundaries. 13 For a readable overview of this position, see Sydney Pollard, “Economic Develop- ment: National or Regional?” Refresh (18) Spring 1994, 1–4. Th is is a frequent theme in Pollard’s work, which should be consulted for further information. introduction: “boundaries: real and imagined” 7

As was apparent in the example of the province of Brabant, the relative strength of boundaries was most sorely tested when those boundaries were newly created, unclear and/or heavily contested. In the colonial territories of the Netherlands, all three conditions oft en prevailed. eTh need for survival oft en forced the transgression of political boundaries, particularly in the stark economic and military environment of newly forming colonies in North America. As Mark Meeuwse argues, the maintenance of order and the stability of the colonies oft en depended on border crossing, which created the need for emissaries who could eff ectively move between economic, cultural, and political boundaries. Th e role of border-crosser forced these men into a liminal state, belonging to the ‘nothingness’ which daVinci posited as the reality of boundaries. Th ese ‘men without a country’ suggest that boundaries have important functions in delineating identity, particularly national identity. As Abbenhuis quotes, “borders have associated cultural defi nitions including that of forming the physical representation of the ‘nation’, a supposedly easily identifi able entity for citizens.”14 Th e prevailing attitude, especially among contemporary historians who are themselves Dutch, is that pre-modern Dutch nationalism, defi ned as a sense of being a “unique, sovereign people” with some kind of shared political culture, simply did not exist.15 Simon Groenveld, for example, states fl at out that for most Netherlanders political identity was confi ned to the level of patria, i.e. the city, village, or hamlet where one was born (and paid taxes).16 Common consciousness was hindered by language, geography and the absence of central institutions. Even aft er they were nominally unifi ed, many provinces resisted incorporation into the Burgundian- Habsburg state and several had confl icting allegiances, owing fealty to princes and/or to foreign rulers. While the Dutch Revolt is considered

14 Malcolm Anderson, Frontiers. Territory and State Formation in the Modern World (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1996), 1. 15 Liah Greenfeld Nationalism: Five Roads to Modernity (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1982), 8. 16 S. Groenveld, “Natie en Nationaal Gevoel in de Zestiende-Eeuwse Nederlanden” Nederlandse Archievenblad 84 (1980), 376. For more on this issue, see for example Karin Tilmans, “De ontwikkeling van een vaderland-begrip in de laat-middeleeuwse en vroegmoderne geschiedschrijving van de Nederlanden,” in N.C.F. van Sas (ed.), Vaderland. Een geschiedenis, van de vijft iende eeuw tot 1940 (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 1999), 7–53; Alastair Duke, “Th e Elusive Netherlands: Th e Question of National Identity in the Early Modern Low Countries on the Eve of the Revolt,” Bijdragen en mededelingen betreff ende de geschiedenis der Nederlanden 119 (2004), 10–35 8 laura cruz and hubert p. van tuyll a pivotal event in the creation of Dutch national consciousness, the republic did not follow a path towards national consciousness according to European norms. By the nineteenth century, boundaries became the markers of nations as national identity began to supersede other claims on the hearts and minds of Europeans. National pride became a major factor in the creation of boundaries, or sometimes their modifi cation—especially if patriotic fervor demanded the return of some previously owned territory, such as the Belgian attempts at Versailles to regain territory from the Dutch. Even in the age of nationalism, Dutch patriotic identity never approached the fervor of its Prussian neighbor, particularly in regard to its Romantic, even chauvinistic qualities. Th e diff erence between the two narrowed when forced into its most direct confrontation, i.e. the occupation of the Netherlands by the Germans in World War II. Th e Dutch population as a whole suff ered heavily under German occupation, but Bob de Graaff notes that the eastern border provinces had to cope with the German threat more continuously and more ambiguously. As van Meij suggested in the case of Brabant, the mere existence of the border aff ected the experiences of those living in the east perhaps more than the divisions it suggested. Economically, socially, and geographically many people living in these provinces were closer to Germany than to the western provinces of the Netherlands, which must have made their internal struggles and practical problems that much greater. Although occupation marks a major milestone in the development of Dutch national identity, De Graaff speculates that these diff erent experiences might lead to diff erent ways of constructing or possibly even understanding the meaning of Dutch nationalism. It should be remembered that those experiences are not confi ned to the northwestern corner of a single continent. Th e physical boundaries of the Netherlands at one time included much territory beyond Europe.17 Th e East Indies alone were fi ft y times greater than the home country. Th ere were many other colonial lands, and the ties to these can still be

17 Th ere have been disputes about boundaries in several Dutch colonial territories, notably in Guyana. For further reading, see Odeen Ishmael, Odeen “Th e trail of diplomacy. A documentary history of the Guyana-Venezuela border issue. part one: the Dutch and British colonization (1500–1895)” Internet article (1998). introduction: “boundaries: real and imagined” 9 politically signifi cant, as the Natalie Holloway case recently reminded us.18 Th e Dutch carried more than goods and money to and from those colonies; religion and culture were highly signifi cant, as Mia Mochizuki and Mark Meuwese discuss. Th ese international connections contributed to a very global or cosmopolitan outlook on the part especially of the merchants and travelers who plied their wares across the oceans. Although nationalism and cosmopolitanism are traditionally juxta- posed, scholars have posited the possibility that Dutch national identity is rooted, ironically, in the belief that they are citizens of the world.19 In his analysis of Dutch geographical printing, Benjamin Schmidt states, “the boundaries of the Netherlands circa 1700, in a certain discursive sense, were utterly boundless.”20 By that date, just as the Dutch empire was beginning to wane, the Dutch emerged as the undisputed masters of map-making and global geographical knowledge. Th ey did so by investing the production of geographical knowledge with a cosmopolitan ideal designed to perpetuate a vision of the world that was not bounded by national interests, the exact opposite of the practice discerned by Esser in the chorographies. Th e lavishly illustrated and copiously detailed geographies deliberately employed such textual strategies as multi-valent symbols, ambiguous allegories, and exotic fetishism; thus creating a form of geography that appealed to the inherent human quality of curiosity, drive that knows no bounds.21 Th ese strategies may have been eff ective on a European audience, but Mia Mochizuki argues that presented a diff erent message to those whom the Dutch encountered overseas. Without the shared cultural background of western civilization, many of the symbols and allegories perceived by

18 Natalie Holloway disappeared while on a senior trip in Aruba in 2005. Th e island is a Dutch colonial possession and the case falls under Dutch legal statutes which some believe may have impeded the progress of the investigation. For more information, the case has been well covered at www.cnn.com. Th ere is also an overview of this position in the entry “Natalie Holloway” on wikipedia. 19 For uses of cosmopolitanism and identity, see David Hancock, Citizens of the World: London Merchants and the Integration of the British Atlantic Community, 1735–1785 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 20; Eric Kaufmann, “Th e rise of cosmopolitanism in the 20th-century West: a comparative-historical perspective on the United States and European Union” Global Society 17 (4) 2003, 359–383; Margaret C. Jacob Strangers Nowhere in the World: Th e Rise of Cosmopolitanism in Early Modern Europe (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2006). 20 Schmidt, 36. 21 For further reading, see Benjamin Schmidt and Pamela H. Smith, Making Knowledge in Early Modern Europe: Practices, Objects, and Texts 1400–1800 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007). 10 laura cruz and hubert p. van tuyll the Dutch to be universal turned out, in fact, to not be. Examining visual artifacts brought to Japan in the seventeenth century, Mochizuki argues that while some symbols were not understood or rejected, the Japanese were able to incorporate some of the techniques and perspectives of the artifacts into their own work and the Europeans, too, adjusted the iconography to reach the Japanese audience. In other words, the importation of visually striking pieces of art on the part of the Dutch East India Company led to a perforation of the cultural boundaries between the increasingly closed-off Japanese society and the scrappy Dutch merchants. Despite the vast physical distance between Japan and the Netherlands, in this case, the boundaries are nearly completely imagined, a way of representing cultural diff erences to facilitate cross- cultural communication. Cultural boundaries do not have to take place over vast distances. Aft er World War II, the Dutch pursued a consciously national policy based on the shared tragedy of Nazi occupation. In order to incorporate the diff erent experiences noted by de Graaff , the Dutch government pursued a policy that Martin Bossenbroeck deems organic composition. Th at policy described the Dutch nation as “an independent organism, with its own heartbeat, its own soul, and above all its own glory elevated exceeding all and everything.”22 Th e needs of this organism, reasoned state offi cials, superseded that of the individuals who made up its constituent parts. It was this philosophy that guided offi cials when making hard choices about who did and did not deserve to share in that collective glory. What about the German wives of Dutch migrant workers? What about non-Dutch refugees who had found sanctuary there? Th e answers were neither easy nor consistent. Similar to Edward Said’s concept of ‘the other’, the process of delineating an imagined boundaries clarifi es, but also divides, oft en in ways that may be ill- defi ned and/or contested.23 As an example of that division, the organic composition of the Dutch nation was not extended to colonial subjects. As Susan Legêne discusses, while one thread of Dutch national identity may have been cosmopolitan or universal, an altogether diff erent thread emphasized the transnational relationship between the Netherlands and its colonies. While the Dutch were perfectly ready to accept their colonial heri-

22 225 23 Edward Said, Orientalism (New York: Vintage, 1979), 1. introduction: “boundaries: real and imagined” 11 tage as part of their own identity, they had more diffi culty digesting the multi-cultural identity of its subjects when they appeared in the Netherlands in large numbers aft er World War II. While Mochizuki’s seventeenth century examples celebrate the reciprocity of cultural exchange, Legêne suggests a crisis of cultural boundary-making in the post-war Netherlands, one that is also refl ected visually, in this case in the constantly changing exhibits of the former colonial museum (now called the Tropenmuseum) in Amsterdam. Th ese boundaries, though, may be changing as the economic and political realities that underlie the ideal are corroded by changes outside of the cultural realm. It is possible, then, for boundaries to neither be fi xed in space or time? As Da Vinci points out, the boundary between the ocean and the sky is constantly changing, dependent on the ebb and fl ow of the tides. For this reason, a person’s perspective on that boundary would also be dependent on where he/she stood, as the tides operate at diff erent cycles in diff erent hemispheres of the earth.24 A similar observation can be made about the multiple perspectives on boundaries exhibited in these essays. Collectively, they suggest that a boundary is neither a stationary line nor a static concept. Th is does not, however, detract from the usefulness of boundaries in shedding light on history. Although da Vinci cautions his would-be painters to not make too much use of boundaries “for not only will their external outlines become indistinct, but their parts will be invisible from a distance,”25 the opposite seems to be the case for historical scrutiny.

24 Da Vinci, 955–960. 25 Da Vinci, 50.

PART ONE

THE GOLDEN AGE

DIVIDED LOYALTIES STATES-BRABANT AS A BORDER COUNTRY

C.O. van der Meij

Introduction

In a recent three-volume history of the current province of North- Brabant covering the nineteenth and twentieth century, the early modern period is given only 21 pages by way of introduction out of a total of 1376.1 Not surprisingly, in a small supplementary volume many of the suggestions regarding possibilities for future research concern this period. Th is currently also exemplifi es the historiographical divide caused by the split between the northern and southern part of the former Duchy of Brabant. Whereas in Belgium historians have amply studied their part of this region, this has been far less the case in the Netherlands. Th ere have been many attempts by Dutch historians in Brabant to write their own history too, but theirs is a graveyard of unfi n- ished hard labour especially concerning the early modern period. Th e period covering the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries in what was then called States-Brabant somehow presents problems all of its own, not least of which is the complexity of source material being divided over many archives on both sides of the border. Th e historiographical gap however also refl ects a lack of conviction that this period is of any lasting importance. Present-day North Brabant is in many ways a booming province, risen out of the ashes of what was once a dark and shameful past. Town tourism boards across the region represent the later Middle Ages, when the duchy of Brabant (together with the county of Flanders) formed the geographic, political, economic and cultural core of the Netherlands, as its ‘golden age’. In a strange reversal of fortune, when the Dutch Republic did indeed

1 H.F.J.M. van den Eerenbeemt, Geschiedenis van Noord-Brabant 1796–1996 (Ams- terdam/Meppel: Boom, 1997). In 2004 a more comprehensive history was fi nally published: R. van Uytven, C. Bruneel, A.M. Koldeweij, A.W.F.M. van de Sande en J.A.F.M. van Oudheusden, eds., Geschiedenis van Brabant van het hertogdom tot heden (Zwolle/ Leuven: Waanders, 2004). 16 c.o. van der meij witness a Golden Age, Brabant was in marked decline. Th e seventeenth and eighteenth centuries represent its dark ages not worth visiting. During this time, its territory was occupied and divided peacemeal by two countries: the Netherlands and Spain. In this short essay, I will contest the curious intermediate position, both in time and space, assigned to States-Brabant, a piece of territory fought over long and hard but at the same time apparently also left to largely fend for itself. In many ways from the end of the nineteenth century historians in Brabant have been their own worst enemy, creating the view that States-Brabant was oppressed.2 Th is view may have fitted in perfectly with these writers’ (quite oft en catholics) own struggle for political and religious emancipation, but it has left an enduring myth.3 In between them, usually four distinct areas of neglect are defi ned. First, no form of political representation by way of a provincial parliament. Each province in the Dutch Republic had its own assembly and delegates—not so States-Brabant. Secondly, fi scal exploitation by the States-General as a result of this lack of representation. In turn this supposedly stifl ed economic growth. Th irdly, oppression of the regions main religion of catholicism. Fourth and fi nally, its deliberate assigned role as a military barrier. Somehow, the fact that this was primarily a war-stricken region like many others during the early modern period, seems to have made less of an impression.4 According to historians in Brabant, to all intents and purposes, States- Brabant formed a mere Dutch colony ruled by foreigners.5 In fact, what I would like to argue is quite the opposite: due to the decentralized structure of the Dutch Republic in general and the peculiar nature of States-Brabant, this region was largely left to its own devices as if time

2 For a good overview of this development: A.C.M. Kappelhof, De belastingheffi ng in de Meijerij van Den Bosch gedurende de generaliteitsperiode (1648–1730) (Tilburg: Stichting Zuidelijk Historisch Contact, 1986), especially chapter 1. 3 G. de Bruin, ‘Den Haag versus Staats-Brabant: IJzeren vuist of fl uwelen hand- schoen?’, in: Bijdragen en Mededelingen betreff ende de Geschiedenis der Nederlanden (BMGN) 111 4 (1996): 449–463; René Huiskamp, Ton van de Sande, ‘Het afrossen van een dood paard. Kanttekeningen bij Guido de Bruin’, in: BMGN 112 (1997): 78–86. 4 In recent studies this point has been finally acknowledged: Han Verschure, Overleven buiten de Hollandse Tuin. Raamsdonk, Waspik, ’s Gravenmoer, Capelle, Sprang en Besoijen tijdens de Tachtigjarige Oorlog (Tilburg: Drukkerij Gianotten, 2004), and Ronald de Graaf, Och arme schapen. Een andere kijk op de Tachtigjarige Oorlog 1565–1648 (Franeker: Van Wijnen, 2004). 5 Th is view was taken up as recently as 1996 by Gabriël van den Brink, De grote overgang. Een lokaal onderzoek naar de modernisering van het bestaan: Woensel 1670–1920 (Nijmegen: SUN, 1996), chapter 16. states-brabant as a border country 17 had stood still since the Middle Ages. Th is is not historical revisionism in the sense of denying that none of the above-mentioned never happened. It is, however, the impact of direct rule upon local society—in particular with regard to the fi rst three factors (the political, fiscal and religious point)—which has been greatly overstated. Instead of looking backwards from the vantagepoint of 1795 or later, as is usually done, I would like to look forward from a much earlier moment in time.

Nationhood? Statebuilding and dependent territories

Th e question of national identity has dogged Dutch historiography.6 Although the northern part (the Netherlands) and southern part (present-day Belgium) formed one country during the Middle Ages, separate identities were already taking shape. How much so still remains a moot point to this day.7 Th e so-called ‘unity of the Netherlands’ or Grootnederlandse gedachte of Pieter Geyl based on a shared linguistic affi nity has been assigned to the dustbin, though. In more current hand- books the history of both countries is now very much treated separately. As mentioned before, from 1433 to 1579 the duchy of Brabant and the county of Flanders formed the geographical and administrative core of the Low Countries. To administer the seventeen provinces many new institutions were put in place including the Grote Raad (or Great Council) of Mechelen.8 As the seat of power, the south had a strong institutional and legalistic-bureaucratic tradition, which was further bolstered by the University of Louvain, founded in 1425. Th is strong administrative tradition also pervaded major cities like Den Bosch, for instance in the early use of notaries due to the presence of many religious institutions there.9

6 Ernst H. Kossmann, Een tuchteloos probleem. De natie in de Nederlanden (Leuven: Davidsfonds, 1994); N.C.F. van Sas, ed., Vaderland. Een geschiedenis vanaf de vijft iende eeuw tot 1940 (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 1999). 7 Jonathan I. Israel, Th e Dutch Republic. Its Rise, Greatness and Fall 1477–1806 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995), chapter 1; van Uytven et al., Geschiedenis van Brabant., 213–369. 8 E. Aerts et al., ed., De centrale overheidsinstellingen van de Habsburgse Nederlanden (1482–1795), 2 vols. (Brussel: Algemeen Rijksarchief, 1994). 9 Alphons van den Bichelaer, Het notariaat in Stad en Meierij van ’s-Hertogenbosch tijdens de Late Middeleeuwen (1306–1531) (Amsterdam: THELA THESIS, 1998). 18 c.o. van der meij

For Brabant, dynastic policies fi rst estranged it from the heartland in the fi ft eenth century. To strenghten his own position in the later Middle Ages, the duke of Brabant had granted land to his vasals, thereby splitting the territory. Th is active domanial policy was pursued for important fi nancial reasons.10 As it continued in the sixteenth century, it also bolstered the position of the nobility. In fact the duchy of Brabant, its supposed core, in actual fact thus comprised a number of diff erent regions of varying sizes and importance. Th e Burgundian and later Habsburg overlords had already created a division of their own, well before the duchy became the fl ashpoint of the Dutch Revolt. At the same time, the economic emphasis was shift ing to the northern part of the region. In the north, the situation was much more clearcut with the towns and citizenry in the ascendancy. Economically and commercially, it would overtake the south during the sixteenth century because it proved more dynamic. Th e south was heavily dependent on the economic performance of just a few cities, mainly Antwerp, and therefore rather vulnerable; politically, it was much more divided between the nobility, citizenry, and clergy; social unrest in cities was increasing, and fi nally the religious situation, in response to the call for Reformation, took its toll from the second half of the sixteenth century. Within Brabant there were thus many internal boundaries in place over which a further superstructure of judicial and religious institutions was laid. Confusion abounded and legal proceedings proliferated from an early stage. Apart from the Great Council of Mechelen, mention should also be made here of the Raad (Council) of Brabant. Traditionally, such institutions are seen as vital instruments of cen- tralization on the part of the early modern state. By upholding ancient privileges though, they also helped to institutionalize existing diff erences. Within the duchy, this institutionalization helped to preserve many smaller enclaves with their own rights. Although in principal they had to acknowledge a higher authority who could levy taxes and exact money from them, in exchange for only a small loss in self-esteem they largely operated autonomously.11 To sum up, therefore, the duchy

10 Eddy Van Cauwenberghe, Het vorstelijk domein en de overheidsfi nanciën in de Nederlanden (15de en 16de eeuw). Een kwantitatieve analyse van Vlaamse en Brabantse domeinrekeningen (Brussel: Gemeentekrediet van België, 1982), chapter III. 11 See for instance: W. van Ham, Macht en Gezag in het Markiezaat. Een politiek- institutionele studie over stad en land van Bergen op Zoom (1477–1583) (Hilversum: Verloren, 2000). states-brabant as a border country 19 of Brabant on the eve of the Revolt had a very complex governmental structure with diff erent entities with varying degrees of autonomy. In the 1570s and 1580s, terror struck the heart of the duchy of Brabant. The frontline of the Revolt moved almost daily and the outcome of the fi ghting was unpredictable. What in those decades happened is still the most momentous event in the history of the Netherlands, but how much did it alter pre-existing territorial divisions? Inhabitants were pitted against each other, leading to violent clashes and sudden reversals, as was for instance the case with Gent, Mechelen, and Den Bosch.12 In Breda during the crucial year of 1579, magistrates took eight months to decide and even held a special two-day debate with the citizenry before fi nally joining the Union of Utrecht.13 Important decisions like these were shaped by a multitude of factors: Breda for instance was in many ways much more orientated towards the south—yet the political reality of the moment dictated otherwise.14 In Den Bosch on the contrary, the majority of the catholic inhabitants held steadfast during that crucial summer withstanding attacks from calvinist agitators.15 Politics and religion were thus closely intertwined but leading to diff erent outcomes from city to city. Following the outbreak of the Revolt, the picture thus changed radically but in States-Brabant the actual process of change was a long drawn-out aff air, much more so than in the south. Den Bosch was fi nally recaptured in 1629, and fi ghting went on until the early 1640s. Only Bergen op Zoom enjoyed relative peace and security from 1577 onwards. It is clear though that States-Brabant as a whole bore the brunt of the fi ghting during these formative decades. Th e countryside was devastated several times over and towns were depopulated: migration was in many ways the key

12 Guido Marnef, Het calvinistische bewind te Mechelen 1580–1585 (Kortrijk-Heule: UGA, 1987); see also his Antwerp in the age of Reformation: underground Protestantism in a commercial metropolis, 1550–1577 (Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press, 1996). For a more recent overview about the Low Countries in general see: Johan Decavele, De eerste protestanten in de Lage Landen: geloof en heldenmoed (Leuven: Davidsfonds, 2004). 13 S. Groenveld, ‘Een notabele frontiere. Breda en zijn regenten in het spanningsveld tussen noord en zuid, 1576–1610’, in: Jaarboek van de Geschied- en Oudheidkundige Kring van Stad en Land van Breda “De Oranjeboom” (JOB) XLIII (Breda, 1990): 16–39. 14 A.J.M. Beenakker, Breda in de eerste storm van de Opstand. Van ketterij tot Beeldenstorm 1545–1569 (Tilburg: Stichting Zuidelijk Historisch Contact, 1971). 15 P.Th .J. Kuijer, ’s-Hertogenbosch stad in het hertogdom Brabant ca. 1185–1629 (Zwolle/’s-Hertogenbosch: Waanders, 2000), 441–510. 20 c.o. van der meij factor in deciding its fate.16 As the most direct result of the Revolt, the former duchy became split between the newly-formed Dutch Republic in the north and the Spanish (later Austrian) Netherlands in the south. Meanwhile, the people of Brabant had, to a large extent, to adapt to the political regimes of the day. But how much did this aff ect the former independence of the duchy’s constituent parts?

States-Brabant as a dependent territory

Because the lordship of the duchy of Brabant was left vacant, its rights were subjagated in the North by the States-General. To give this control further legal validity, the latter created their own Council of Brabant in 1591. States-Brabant was however permanently denied a provincial assembly. Unlike all the other constituent parts, the region had no delegation of its own to infl uence state or regional aff airs. Because there were no estates or ‘States’ of Brabant (except for the pre-existing one in the south where, even aft er 1629, Den Bosch formally kept a seat although this was never occupied), this has created the somewhat false impression that the States-General executed direct rule here. Th e idea however that this resulted in a profound experiment in state-building until the arrival of French troops during 1793–4, should althogether be dismissed.17 First of all, within States-Brabant a number of distinct regions can be identifi ed: the Meierij van ’s-Hertogenbosch, the Barony of Breda and the Marquisate of Bergen op Zoom foremost among them. Th ere were a number of further distinct territories like the Barony of Grave and Land of Cuyck, the Lordship of Steenbergen, Prinsenland, and the Lordship of Willemstad. Furthermore, smaller parts of States-Brabant belonged to adjacent territories including Holland, Zeeland, Gelderland, and even foreign powers like the prince-bishopric of Liège. One look at any map of States-Brabant presents a constitutional nightmare because of the myriad of entities within its borders.18

16 Gerard van Gurp, ‘Bosschenaars in de verstrooiing. Emigratie tussen 1579 en 1629’, in: Tijdschrift voor Sociale Geschiedenis 23 4(1997) 401–427; idem, ‘De ontvolking van ’s-Hertogenbosch tussen 1579 en 1629’, in: Bijdragen tot de Geschiedenis van het aloude hertogdom Brabant 81 4(1998) 407–435. 17 van den Eerenbeemt, Geschiedenis van Noord-Brabant, 17–18. 18 J.G.M. Sanders, ed., Noord-Brabant tijdens de Republiek der Verenigde Nederlanden, 1572–1795 (’s-Hertogenbosch/Hilversum: Waanders, 1996). states-brabant as a border country 21

Th e Meierij accounted for nearly half the territory of States-Brabant and was more or less directly governed by the States-General. Th e rest mainly belonged to high-ranking noblemen, however. What is even more signifi cant, is that in the western part of States-Brabant most domains belonged to the house of Orange: this part can eff ectively be referred to as Nassau-Brabant. Even within the Meierij in the east, he held possession of Eindhoven and Cranendonk. As local lords, the princes of Orange in one way or another were thus invariably present in the aff airs of States-Brabant. Th is internal division was further underlined by certain regional characteristics, giving cause to a strong north-western and eastern divide. Th e north and some western parts were located on more fertile clay soil: everywhere else there was almost nothing but sand. Large parts of States-Brabant consisted primarily of moorland, making it a barren region. Towards the south, the area of the Kempen formed an almost natural barrier. Th is diff erentiation not only aff ected the economic outlook and local fertility rates, but also the mentalities and general outlook on life of the inhabitants. For instance the northwestern part, bordering on Holland, was orthodox protestant from early on. On the other hand, in the 1650s during the period of Political Reformation in States-Brabant (the process of enforced calvinization), it was claimed that the people of the Barony of Breda in the west were more ‘docile’ than their counterparts in the east.19 What really made these regions exceptional was the fact that most of these territories, apart from the Meierij, held specifi c seigneurial rights.20 Th ere were many manors elsewhere in the Dutch Republic, but here they were almost all the size of tiny hamlets as compared to vast sways of the countryside in States-Brabant (let alone including some mid-sized towns as well), and further subjected to provincial estates. How was States-Brabant thus in eff ect governed and by whom? Strangely enough, we only possess a general idea of how this was done.21 Although it may

19 W.P.C. Knuttel, Acta der particuliere synoden van Zuid-Holland, vol. III (’s-Gravenhage: Nijhoff , 1910), 132–133: art. 11. 20 Th e only detailed studies of the institutional development of one region over a longer period of time are provided by G.F. van der Ree-Scholtens, De grensgebieden in het noordoosten van Brabant ca.1200–1795. Institutionele en juridische aspecten (Assen: Van Gorcum, 1993); Mathias M.P. van Asseldonk, De Meierij van ’s-Hertogenbosch. De evolutie van plaatselijk bestuur, bestuurlijke indeling en dorpsgrenzen, circa 1200–1832 (Tilburg: Stichting Zuidelijk Historisch Contact, 2003). 21 J.Th . de Smidt, R.H.J.M. Gradus, S.G.A. Kaatee and Joh. de Vries, eds., Van tresorier tot thesaurier-generaal. Zes eeuwen fi nancieel beleid in handen van een hoge Nederlandse ambtsdrager (Hilversum: Verloren, 1996), 82–87, 190–213. 22 c.o. van der meij seem as if the nobility was in a strong position here their personal rule, apart from a few leading noble families like the house of Orange, was fairly limited. Th ree out of the nine magistrates of Den Bosch were said to be of noble origin, but by the early 1600s they had retreated into the countryside as a consequence of the Revolt.22 In both Bergen op Zoom and Breda they had never played a signifi cant part in the magistracy. Th ey were however capable administrators and for instance served as bailiff s. Th e state of the nobility in States-Brabant is one of many unresolved matters concerning its history. Th is is also true for its gentry who, interestingly enough, to some extend were ennobled later on in the eighteenth century in Vienna. Clearly, States-Brabant underwent a signifi cant social evolution within its urban elite in the early modern period. Apart from cooperation with its inhabitants, government relied heavily upon administration. In many city archives in the region, huge volumes of placards of the States-General and the Council of State attest to this principal method in use.23 Th ese were sent around for publication outside each town hall, where they were to be hung and read aloud. How much of this legislation though was executed? Local offi cials, led principally by the bailiff , were supposed to enforce the law. Th ese fi gures were however widely suspected of fraud and corruption: in Holland this led to many trials against them.24 In States-Brabant however there was less supervision at local and regional levels, leaving the bailiff s unopposed. Th is can be further ascertained when we look at the Council of State (or Raad van State), the executive body of the States-General most involved with governing States-Brabant. It sent commissions to all the generality lands three times each year, at the end of March, June and September. Th eir principal task was to inspect fortifi cations, farm taxes, and replace magistrates. Th eir relationship to the States-General was, however, not clearly defi ned causing confusion and delay. Increasing workload because of the development of the Dutch barrier in the Spanish Netherlands meant the number of commissioners sent to States-Brabant was further reduced aft er 1720 to two. From 1727 they no longer inspected the fi nances of villages in

22 ARAB, Audiëntie inv.nr. 809/30: letter by Masius d.d. 14–09–1611. 23 W.A. van Ham, Stedelijke Archieven. Archief van de secretarie 1397–1810 (Bergen op Zoom: Gemeentelijke Archiefdienst, 2000) 246 (inv.nrs. SA 2537–2558); Stadsarchief Breda, Oud-stadsarchief, inv. nrs. 218–235. 24 Florike Egmond, ‘Recht en krom. Corruptie, ongelijkheid en rechtsbescherming in de vroegmoderne Nederlanden’, in: BMGN 116 (2001): 1–33. states-brabant as a border country 23 the Meierij; on the other hand, from 1730 onwards, appointment of catholic clergymen became a new responsibility. It is thus clear that the Council of State was preponderantly interested in military and fi nancial matters: local politics, judicial matters and religion came a distant third. Besides, its commissioners never went far beyond the major towns: the countryside of the Meierij was largely the domain of the rentmeester van de domeinen (steward).25 Th e commissioners furthermore had little work outside the Meierij, because these territories were mainly manors. Th e seigneurial rights in Breda, and elsewhere, were comprehensive. Th e prince of Orange appointed his own magistrates, stewards and ministers, and levied his own taxes and tributes. Importantly, the judiciary was also under his control. In the case of Bergen op Zoom mention should be made of the Raad en Rekenkamer, and in the case of Breda (and the other possessions of the prince of Orange) of the Nassause Domeinraad.26 Th ese were in eff ect the privy councils of the local lord, but they were also signifi cant decision-making bodies in their own right. Th e Nassause Domeinraad for instance was housed at the Binnenhof in Th e Hague, together with all the other important offi ces of state. If we ever really want to know how States-Brabant was administered on a day-to-day basis, a thorough study of these institutions and their work will have to be made. A system of annual or bi-annual inspections off ered local offi cials much leeway. Following the capture of the city of Den Bosch in 1629, a huge row developed, lasting for twenty-fi ve years, between the most important deputy of the States-General, bailiff Hendrick de Bergaigne, the local magistracy, and the States-General themselves over a host of issues but mainly over appointment rights.27 Ancient priviliges took precedence over new forms of government, once again.

25 See for the Meierij: W. J. Formsma, De archieven van de raad en rentmeester-generaal der domeinen en der Leen- en Tolkamer in stad en meierij van ’s-Hertogenbosch (‘s-Gravenhage: Ministerie van Onderwijs, Kunsten en Wetenschappen, 1949). 26 W.A. van Ham, Inventaris van de archieven van de Raad en Rekenkamer van de Markiezen van Bergen op Zoom, 5 vols. (’s-Hertogenbosch: Rijksarchief Noord- Brabant, 1980); S.W.A. Drossaers, Het archief van de Nassause Domeinraad, 10 vols. (’s-Gravenhage: Ministerie van Onderwijs, Kunsten en Wetenschappen, 1948–1955); M.C.J.C. van Hoof, E.A.T.M. Schreuder and B.J. Slot, eds., De Archieven van de Nassause Domeinraad 1581–1811 (Den Haag: Algemeen Rijksarchief, 1997). Although the latter has left a valuable archive, sadly the reports of their annual tour of inspections have been mostly lost except for the second half of the 18th century. 27 Beatrix C.M. Jacobs, ‘Hendrik van Bergaigne contra het stadsbestuur van ’s-Hertogenbosch’, in: Varia Historica Brabantica IX (’s-Hertogenbosch: Provinciaal Genootschap, 1980): 53–75. 24 c.o. van der meij

Although States-Brabant had no delegates in the States-General, the idea that this somehow left the region destitute of any infl uence is mistaken. In his book on popular culture in the eastern part of States-Brabant, the historian Gerard Rooijakkers has demonstrated how local customs and traditions were largely adopted to serve the needs of central government.28 Th is was done through intermediaries like ministers, schoolteachers, and priests. Th us the hard edges of anti-catholic legislation for instance were rarely enforced in order not to upset the majority of the population. Cooperation of local elites was sought but how could they, in turn, infl uence politics? Because of their peculiar nature, the independent territories in States-Brabant clearly needed somebody of their own in Th e Hague to tell them what was happening. Th ey found him in the so-called political agent.29 It was his task to try to infl uence the decision-making bodies and their bureaucratic processes. Th ese agents were key fi gures in the relationship between central government and the periphery. Unfortunately, once again we hardly know anything about them or how they operated. How far-reaching their infl uence was, however, can be deduced from the fall of the corrupt secretary of the States-General, Cornelis Musch, in 1650.30 Almost all the individuals who sollicited the services of one of his cronies, Van Cuylenburg, were trying to buy favorable decicions for themselves or others in the Generaliteitslanden (generality lands).31 Th is ranged from obtaining money from the provinces which was voted for the upkeep of the army in the garrison towns but rarely distributed, to passports for crossing the border or tax-relief for abbeys and other matters concerning the many religious orders. Many of the deputies of the States-General themselves were also involved in the scandal: almost thirty regents were named and shamed, though without serious

28 Gerard Rooijakkers, Rituele repertoires. Volkscultuur in oostelijk Noord-Brabant 1559–1853 (Nijmegen: SUN, 1994). 29 T. de Danschutter, Agenten bij de Staten-Generaal in de 17de en 18de eeuw (unpub- lished M.A. thesis University of Groningen, 1977); W.J. Annard, ‘ “Het manieeren, besolliciteren en bevorderen van alle voorvallende zaeken”. Professioneel lobbyen aan het Binnenhof in de zeventiende en achttiende eeuw’, in: M.P.C.M. van Schendelen and B.M.J. Pauw, eds., Lobbyen in Nederland: professie en profi jt (Den Haag: SdU, 1998), 93–109. See also my forthcoming publication ‘Retour Den Haag’. 30 N. Japikse, ‘Cornelis Musch en de corruptie van zijn tijd.’, in: De Gids 71 (1907): I/498–523. 31 Nationaal Archief, Rijksarchief in Zuid-Holland, Inventaris van het archief van de gedeputeerden van Haarlem ter dagvaart van de Staten van Holland, (1589) 1603–1787, inv. nr. 1018. states-brabant as a border country 25 consequences. In the case of Breda, I should point out that from 1590 magisterial delegations were frequently in Th e Hague, and they seem to have been quite successful in petitioning the States-General. Perhaps the least known aspect of government in States-Brabant are the so-called kwartiervergaderingen (quarter sessions).32 Th ese were regional bodies mainly employed to distribute the collection of taxes, for instance in the Barony of Breda between the various smaller towns. Th is voluntary system may have been quite benefi cial to less affl uent parts of the countryside in the second half of the seventeenth century, but from the eighteenth century their importance declined as the cities and towns grew in size.

Breda and the Raad van Brabant

Th us, from a legislative point of view, life in States-Brabant largely proceeded as before the separation between north and south. On a governmental level, the region was mainly left to its own devices because of prevailing jurisdictions. Th e States-General were acknowledged as the new duke of Brabant but theirs was a symbolic role merely functioning as fi gure-heads. To ascertain this point further, I want to explore a little bit the tense relationship between the Council (or Raad) of Brabant in Th e Hague, founded in 1591, and the prince of Orange in his capacity as baron of Breda.33 Many aspects of this council have been well researched, but thanks to excellent civil and criminal records kept work has focused mainly on its judicial role. Any political implications the council may have had, have been less well studied. It should perhaps come as no surprise that the newly appointed baron Filips Willem (the eldest son of William of Orange) tried in 1612, three years aft er his succession, to have its role as supreme court abolished. He did not succeed, but the attempt shows something of the determination to withstand the council’s newly founded authority and the prince’s hold on ancient privileges. Successive princes of Orange still regarded themselves as autonomous lords in this region. When the prosecuting offi cer for Brabant entered the princes’ territory in the 1660s on the lookout for

32 Sanders, ed., Noord-Brabant tijdens de Republiek, 79–84. 33 Th is paragraph is entirely based on archival research to be published in my forthcoming Ph.D. thesis on the urban elite of the town of Breda c. 1550–1700. Th e relations between Breda and the Raad van Brabant will also be the subject of a future article. 26 c.o. van der meij suspected catholics, this was not taken lightly and he was vehemently opposed. More than once mention is made of the fact that offi cials who were appointed by the prince, should abide by his personal rule and forego any other judicial procedures with the new council. Matters were further complicated by close personal relationships between members of the Council of Brabant and of the Nassause Domeinraad, at least during the fi rst half of the seventeenth century. Nowhere is this better demonstrated than in the Van Aerssen family, three of whose members were at one time drost of the Barony of Breda (the local prosecuting offi cer), mayor of Breda and president of the Council of Brabant. In the hands of infl uential people like these, the law became subservient to their political needs. Th is was also the case at the end of the seventeenth century when drost Bentinck, the earl of Portland tried to cover up the corruption of his deputy Cornelis Damisse. During a twelve year period from 1676–1688, this man was the scourge of Breda: he was, quite literally, on the make and on the take. Within two years of his taking offi ce the prosecutor for States-Brabant had already started proceedings against him for defemation. Yet his fi nal removal from offi ce ten years later was a strange and muddled aff air conducted internally by the domeinraad. Nothing was thus publicly mentioned of the bribes he had taken; witnesses only wanted to come forward if their identity was shielded. In the case of Breda, the Council of Brabant was thus not very eff ective either as judicial tool or as political instrument of the States-General. Law-enforcement in this region was, as a result of the weak presence of the state, inadequate. Th e law in parts of States-Brabant did not protect the ordinary citizens properly against high-ranking offi cials, although this may not have been very diff erent from experiences elsewhere. By comparison, however, the authority of the Council of Brabant does seem to have been weaker than most of the other independent legal councils in the Dutch Republic because of the existence of seigneurial rights. As a jurisdiction, the Barony of Breda remained very much the thiefdom it had been since well before the Revolt.

Fiscal exploitation

Th e idea that the fi nances of States-Brabant were somehow exhausted through a system of heavy duties can no longer be taken seriously: if anything, the situation improved under the governance of the States- General. Until 1648, many regions in States-Brabant had to pay taxes states-brabant as a border country 27 to both the north and the south. It is true that from the second half of the seventeenth century, the States-General (through the Council of State) became increasingly concerned with the regulation of local fi nances in States-Brabant. Th is was however due to the high expendi- ture of local government and their heavy borrowing.34 Time and again measures were taken to stabilize this situation, but in the farming of taxes corruption was so widespread that nobody really took any notice. In the eighteenth century local autonomy was somewhat reduced in this area. Lack of supervision was a real problem where States-Brabant was concerned. Another problem was that because of the small size of many villages in States-Brabant, local magistrates had a stake in everything: from farming to taxation. Th ey were oft en collecting money for the state as civil servants in one hand and distributing it as councillor out of the other. Th ey considered themselves guardians of small-town folk with their best interests at heart, a point of view taken by the commissioners as well. In an article on the relationship between central government and locality in States-Brabant, historian Mari Christ had the right idea but he may looked in the wrong direction: downwards, not upwards.35 Th us paternalism from the urban elite must have played a signifi cant role in large parts of States-Brabant, something which only changed gradually towards the end of the nineteenth century with growing political participation of its citizens.36 Future research into the existence of any agricultural-urban subdivision and other tensions at the local level is much needed. Much more fundamental than any fi scal exploitation, was the simple fact that the region had a poor economic outlook whatever the given circumstances. We should not blame this general condition resulting in widespread poverty on any new tax measures taken by the States- General: it was simply the result of poor soil conditions and the eff ects of war, causing both sides to exact contributions on the same region, and further disturbane of trade patterns by illegal dealings of soldiers. At the same time though, from the end of the sixteenth century, the economy of the region was largely focused on the Dutch entrepot and did not perform too badly. Far too little is known, however, on the

34 Kappelhof, De belastingheffi ng, 169–173. 35 M.P. Christ, ‘Staats-Brabant bevoogd? Aspecten van Staats-Brabants positie ten tijde van de Republiek’, in: NBHJ 5 (1988): 65–94. 36 Van den Brink, De grote overgang, chapter 16. 28 c.o. van der meij economic development of the region as a whole.37 Interestingly enough, when the economy of the Dutch Republic was waning in the cause of the eighteenth century, States-Brabant performed better in many ways than most of the provinces. Whereas the population declined elsewhere, it increased in States-Brabant from 170.425 in 1665 to 210.625 in 1795, and revenue rose considerably as well. Th e ongoing connections with the south also proved to be of some importance, especially in the long run. In a recent article, one of Brabant’s leading historians makes the interesting observation that from about 1750 Breda quite literally turned its back on the north.38 Until then, it had always maintained priority to upholding its infrastructure of roads and waterways running northwards, though with less success than probably intended. In sharp contrast, it could still be said during the 1690s that, ‘despite sixty years’ of talk since 1637’, nothing was achieved in the area of better communications with nearby Antwerp. During the second half of the seventeenth century, the south may have been possibly holding out on the North. Th e development of the lucrative stagecoach, however, put an end to this and from about 1700 Breda was taken up in the route southwards to France.39 Was Breda therefore responding to a change in market conditions in the second half of the eighteenth century: a fl agging Dutch entrepot and a rise in population and industry in the south?40

Religion

Th e Politieke Reformatie (or Political Reformation)—by which term is meant the enforced calvinization of States-Brabant aft er 1648—has been perceived as one the most far-reaching measures undertaken by

37 Ton Kappelhof, ‘Noord-Brabant en de Hollandse stapelmarkt’, in: Karel Davids, Marjolein ’t Hart, Henk Kleijer & Jan Lucassen, ed., De Republiek tussen zee en vasteland. Buitenlandse invloeden op cultuur, economie en politiek in Nederland 1580–1800 (Leuven/Apeldoorn: Garant, 1995), 189–206. See also the collection of essays on economic change in a number of Brabantine cities in the period 1550–1650 in Bijdragen tot de geschiedenis van het aloude hertogdom Brabant 73 (1990). 38 Ton Kappelhof, ‘Van kasseien en kanalen. Pogingen om Breda voor het personen- en goederenverkeer beter bereikbaar te maken in de periode 1500–1800’, in: JOB LVI (2003): 1–40. 39 C.A.M. Bavel, Geschiedkundig overzicht van het Bredasche postwezen (’s-Graven- hage: Hoofdbestuur der Posterijen, Telegrafi e en Telefonie, 1941). 40 Roger De Peuter, Brussel in de achttiende eeuw. Sociaal-economische structuren en ontwikkelingen in een regionale hoofdstad (Brussel: VUB Press, 1999), 339. states-brabant as a border country 29 the States-General. With the region fi nally secured aft er the conclusion of the Peace of Westphalia, a conclusive start could be made with eradicating all signs of catholic infl uence here in public life. From the outset, catholic services were banned and the clergy was obliged to leave the country. Th e Political Reformation seemingly proceeded at a brisk pace, though not universally approved nor adhered to. Changing the popular belief of a region strongly under the infl uence of the Counter- Reformation since the late 16th century, proved to be a far bigger issue.41 Th erefore a number of further measures were introduced in the 1650s: the Schoolreglement (or school-regulation act) of 1655; the Echtreglement (or marriage-regulation act) of 1656 and, fi nally, the Politieke Reformatie of 1660. Th e fi rst measure was enacted in order to ensure that children at local schools were educated by calvinist schoolmasters. By reserving their appointment for the Council of State however ministers were left without a say. Th e local schoolmaster could thus develop into a relatively autonomous fi gure, who sought mainly to accommodate the catholic wishes of the parents in his teaching methods.42 Th e second act was principally designed to stop priests from continuing the performance of marriages at their hands. It enabled catholics to get married either before the magistracy or the church council, or both. It build on the so-called political ordinances put in force by each of the provinces in the late sixteenth century, but in much fi ner detail. In Breda however the registration of catholic marriages in their own registers aft er 1656 simply went on as before.43 Th ese marriages were now no longer considered legal: therefore, they also registered by and large at the magistrate’s or sometimes even not at all. A century later this pattern had changed dramatically: their second choice was now nearly always the church council, instead of the magistracy. Here, once again signifi cant deviations occur. Marriages in nearby Bergen op Zoom were either concluded before a priest or a minister, with no apparant preference between them.44 It should be mentioned though that the

41 Israel, Th e Dutch Republic., 599–600. 42 H.Th .M. Roosenboom, De dorpsschool in de Meierij van ’s-Hertogenbosch van 1648 tot 1795 (Tilburg: Stichting Zuidelijk Historisch Contact, 1997). 43 Wim A.J. Munier, ‘De toepassing van het Echtreglement in de stad Breda en de neerslag daarvan in de trouwregisters (1650–1666)’, in: JOB LII (1999): 114–142; ‘De toepassing van het Echtreglement in de stad Breda en de neerslag daarvan in de trouwregisters (1750–1795)’, in: JOB LIII (2000): 45–85. 44 Charles de Mooij, Geloof kan Bergen verzetten. Reformatie en katholieke herleving te Bergen op Zoom (1577–1795) (Hilversum: Verloren, 1998), 338–349. 30 c.o. van der meij choice to marry before the magistracy was here only being introduced in 1748. Once again, local customs took precedence over any unifying measure. So what had changed in Breda in the intervening century? Calvinist ministers had always been strong opponents of catholicism, but their attitude in States-Brabant seems to have abated from the last quarter of the seventeenth century onwards. Open hostility made way for a more conciliatory approach: round about the turn of the century confessional co-existence had set in. Already during the last quarter of the seventeenth century, there are defi nite signs that the catholic community was gaining lost ground. Schuilkerken (or clandestine churches) were rebuilt to replace earlier ramshackle structures, and old fraternities re-constituted.45 Much of this success was due to the continued presence of regular or, less oft en, secular clergy. Th e diff erent communities now began their own battle for supremacy and, as it turned to be, even legitimacy: the States-General fi nally prohibiting the secular clergy from 1721. In a dramatic turnaround of policy and aft er suff ering more than eighty years at the hands of an offi cially propagated intolerance, the States-General decided in 1730 that banning catholicism had not worked aft er all. Th e creation of the so-called Barrier in the Austrian Netherlands in the previous two decades meant any real or imagined threat to its territory was no longer well-founded. Catholic church services were now openly admitted, although tightly regulated. By this measure, the grip of the state was strenghtened, for instance with providing enough clergymen, whereas previously they had no infl uence whatsoever. As such, the authorities unexpectedly came into open confl ict with Rome and the phrase ‘religionis et libertatis’ gained a whole new meaning, the States-General now defending two faiths at once in States-Brabant.46 Mixed marriages on the other hand were still unequivocally opposed. Yet, in Bergen op Zoom in the eighteenth century eleven percent of the population took their vows with somebody from another faith.47 Th irdly, the last act of the Political Reformation of 1660 introduc- ing new measures excluding all catholics from public offi ce. Reformed ministers had soon become aware that the attitudes and actions of local

45 Exactly the same thing happened in Bergen op Zoom; see De Mooij, Geloof kan Bergen verzetten., 453. 46 P. Polman, Katholiek Nederland in de achttiende eeuw. Vol. III Buiten de Hollandse zending 1700–1795 (Hilversum: Brand, 1968), esp. chapter II. 47 De Mooij, Geloof kan Bergen verzetten., 582. states-brabant as a border country 31 magistrates were vital in ensuring calvinization took hold. However, almost everywhere the same problem was encountered: there were not enough qualifi ed calvinists to replace catholic offi ceholders. Th is, in turn, led to the partial appointment of non-natives from outside of Brabant although this was against local customs. At the end of the eighteenth century this would fuel the idea that States-Brabant was a mere colony of Holland. Two short points should be made here. Firstly, the people who dominated the magistrate of Breda in the long-run were almost always local inhabitants. Secondly, these foreigners were naturalized through a special act: technically speaking, they were Brabanders. Besides, many of the non-natives originated from the South being refugees of the period from the second half of the sixteenth century. A signifi cant catholic element thus remained active in local politics, especially regarding smaller villages. Only in the major cities of Breda, Bergen op Zoom and Den Bosch was the political reformation an unqualifi ed success, though restricted to its narrow confi nes. Everywhere else, catholics were almost always in the majority of local councils well into the eighteenth century. Instead of its supposed domination, in reality the States-General had to take care not to upset too much of the existing societal structures.

Warfare

Surprisingly, the one element dominating so much of the history of States-Brabant and its formation, warfare, has received least attention of all. Th e devastation caused by the Revolt and subsequent wars in the region should not be underestimated.48 War brought havoc on an unimaginable scale, aff ecting every aspect of society: from birth rates and marriage patterns, tax revenues, violence, prostitution etc. Since time immemorial the fi elds of Brabant and Flanders have been the major battlefi eld of Europe. Th e passing through of armies friend or foe left a trail of devastation time and again because they lived largely of the land. Th e countryside here suff ered continually, although towns were always the main military objective. Even one siege in a lifetime is traumatic enough for anyone to live through: in sharp contrast, Breda

48 See for instance about the Basse-Meuse region: Myron P. Gutmann, War and Rural Life in the Early Modern Low Countries (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1980). 32 c.o. van der meij was captured no fewer than six times in almost as many decades. Representatives of the city overstated their case however when they said that many of its inhabitants had to live in shelters dug in the ground. Th e fact that States-Brabant developed into a border area in the cause of the second half of the sixteenth century meant safeguarding it became of prime concern, altering the size and shape of its cities for defensive purposes. Many of its towns were turned into garrisons. Consequently, the living conditions suff ered as a result of the billeting of garrisons. Th ese foreign troops sometimes even outnumbered the native inhabitants. How much these troops were perceived as an occupation force remains to be seen, an issue further complicated because of the diff erent nationalities of the soldiers.49 A rise or fall in their numbers can be immediately detected in a wide range of economic and fi scal indicators, like the consumption of beer and wine. How much their presence was benefi cial or detrimental is hard to tell though without detailed study. For instance, money for billeting became more and more a matter for concern during the second half of the seventeenth century, as less and less was paid. Th is left cities like Breda and Den Bosch with huge debts since they were no longer com- pensated. Th e infl uence of the garrison on the local economy was not only signifi cant, but at the same time straining civil-military relations. It was oft en up to the garrison commander, appointed by the Council of State, to try and mediate. Th e huge signifi cance of keeping public order in these garrison towns oft en meant his role far outstretched his military command, for instance dealing with political and religious matters as well: one of the schuilkerken in Breda was openly referred to as the ‘governor’s church’.

Concluding remarks

Th e split of the former duchy of Brabant between north and south and its lasting eff ects has been taken too much for granted in Dutch historiography. First of all, the north (States-Brabant) became only partially integrated into the Dutch Republic. Instead of full integration into the political framework of the Dutch Republic, the new territory and its constituent parts was largely left to fend for itself. Th is meant

49 C.J. Lammers, Nederland als bezettende mogendheid 1648–2001 (Amsterdam: Koninklijke Nederlandse Akademie van Wetenschappen, 2003), 14–32. states-brabant as a border country 33 many of its institutions remained in place and kept on functioning as before. Formal ties with the north could not hide the fact that through kinship networks close cross-border contact was maintained with the south. Th ese ties were further preserved because parts of the land were owned by abbeys and cloisters, a number of which were situated on its territory as well as nearby across the border. States-Brabant therefore largely functioned as before: a catholic society, with a strong tradition of preserving local priviliges, which, uniquely, consisted primarily of seigneurial customs. Because of the Dutch Revolt, States-Brabant also developed into a border area: this frontier experience lasted well into the nineteenth century. As a consequence, it suff ered severely especially in an economic sense and demographically through migration. From the beginning of the eighteenth century things changed because of international developments, and the situation began to turn in its favour. Th e overall economic situation . . . which allowed for an improvement in religious relations. By way of further conclusion, I would like to off er some recommendations for future research. Th e whole issue of the North-South divide needs to be re-examined, away from any feelings of abandonment on the one hand (the inferiority-complex still suff ered by many historians in Brabant) or Hollando-centrism on the other hand (the superiority- complex entertained by most Dutch historians). From the perspective of Brabant, historians there have usually looked in the wrong direction: top-down instead of bottom-up, aligning themselves therefore too much with the idea of the nation state as all pervasive. Instead, from the outset the whole region was riddled with political anomalies. In the case of the Meierij, for instance, dominance by the city of Den Bosch of the surrounding countryside was much more stronger than the hold of the States-General ever was over the city itself. Th e urban elite for instance managed the administrative aff airs of the whole Meierij. Th is was probably less the case in the Barony of Breda, but we need to focus more on how these regions functioned internally, and the interchange between town and countryside. From the perspective of Holland a diff erent approach is also needed. We need to look more into the way central government worked behind the scenes: the corridors of power in Th e Hague, and the personel relations between its various members. Refugees from the southern part of the duchy of Brabant for instance played a key role in shaping these institutions. Families like Van Aerssen, Huygens and Doubleth became true noblesse de robe in the seventeenth century. Most of all 34 c.o. van der meij we need to know more about how government policy was instigated, how it was implemented, how it was perceived and, above all, how it could be infl uenced. Th e multitude of religious governance is another area which needs reappraisal. Aft er 1648 the catholics adapted to a remarkable degree, almost reinventing themselves. Instead of looking towards the south for salvation, they reorganized themselves with the aid of the regular clergy. How deeply the inhabitants were aff ected by the eff ort and true spirit of the Counter-Reformation diff ers from region to region, Den Bosch with its nickname of ‘Little Rome’, being rather the exception. Despite stringent legislation, catholics throughout States-Brabant were not persecuted in any real sense, a vast diff erence from most religious confl icts around Europe at the time. In actual fact they could adopt several strategies for survival principally through accommodation and patronage.50 Th ese need to be looked into further, and one archive holding some vital clues in this respect is the one of the bailiff s of States-Brabant.51 To many of these and other questions, the archives of the States- General in Th e Hague (but also of central government institutions in Brussels) in various ways holds important clues. Yet, they are rarely visited by historians from Brabant, who tend to focus more on regional archives. Although much of the rule of the States-General may not have been very eff ective, they did exhaustive research in every circumstance. Any future research into the governance of States-Brabant would benefi t enormously from an inventory of what has been preserved in both Brussels and Th e Hague, because these documents tend to be largely ignored. Th ey should no longer be regarded as indicators of unwarranted state intervention, but as another window into a varie- gated past.

50 C. Kooi, ‘Paying off the sheriff : strategies of Catholic toleration in Golden Age Holland’, in: R. Hsia and Henk van Nierop, ed., Calvinism and Religious Toleration in the Dutch Golden Age (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 87–101. 51 Rijksarchief in Noord-Brabant, Archief van de schouten. GEOGRAPHY UNBOUND BOUNDARIES AND THE EXOTIC WORLD IN THE EARLY ENLIGHTENMENT*

Benjamin Schmidt

Introduction: Boundaries and Global Geography

Th e early modern world (and, arguably, the modern as well) experienced boundaries largely as textual and graphic aff airs. To see the world and cross its borders, to move among newly encountered landscapes and peoples and to explore the exotic scenery and mores of the expanding globe, was to read about or otherwise glance at mimetic representations of distant space. Th is occurred most commonly in two dimensions—on paper or perhaps canvas and tapestry—or through more tactile engagement with those three-dimensional replications of the world that circulated in the form of globes, decorative arts, and exotic artifacts, the latter collected from scattered overseas lands and then re-assembled in early modern European cabinets of curiosities. Geography was, if not quite sedentary, a stay-at-home pastime. If all the world was a stage and the men and women of early modern Europe merely players, the experience of the staged world in this period took place in manageable, tangible, portable forms, which had the synthesizing and distilling eff ect of a well craft ed playbill. By the later decades of the seventeenth century and into the early decades of the eighteenth, the authors of these European-designed

* Th is essay expands on themes originally explored in an article on exoticism in the Enlightenment: “Mapping an Exotic World: Th e Global Project of Dutch Geography, circa 1700,” in Th e Global Eighteenth Century, ed. Felicity Nussbaum (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2003), 19–37. While the earlier study focused on dramatic texts and literary mappings (in the work of John Dryden, especially), the current contribution, in keeping with the themes of this volume, pays particular attention to processes of boundary-making and the place of the Dutch Republic in the project of early modern geography. For their helpful comments on earlier draft s of this chapter, I would like to thank Benjamin Kaplan and Louise D. Townsend. I am also grateful for the support of the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation, the W.M. Keck Foundation, the Huntington Library, and the Royalty Research Fund of the University of Washington. 36 benjamin schmidt playbills were, to a remarkable degree, from the Netherlands. Circa 1700, the Dutch role in making geography was extraordinary. Th ey were the preeminent producers of geographic wares and thus the leading boundary-makers for European consumers: the principle authors of the myriad representations of the non-European world that circulated throughout Europe during the decades leading up to, and following, the year 1700. As a consequence, the Dutch played a pivotal role in shaping the world, as perceived by Europe, during the critical, formative, colonial moment of global history of the late seventeenth and early eighteenth century. Th e advantages of this privileged position were considerable. When Europeans looked at the world and imagined its boundaries circa 1700—when they contemplated the world’s varied inhabitants and the exotic customs and religions of distant lands; when they pictured the globe’s sundry fl ora, fauna, and curiosities; when they perceived the rich and enticing commodities available to enterprising merchants abroad—they did so more oft en than not through Dutch eyes. When they quite literally gazed at the world—in its various textual iterations, in mass-produced topographic engravings and city views, in lavishly craft ed landscape and still-life paintings, in scholarly atlases and globes, in delft ware, tapestry, and other decorative arts that incorporated exotic motifs—it more than likely would be in a form of Dutch creation, Dutch translation, Dutch design, or Dutch provenance. Th is meant that the boundaries of the Netherlands circa 1700, in a certain discursive sense, were utterly boundless. So were the benefi ts for the Netherlands, and this raises important questions pertaining to the nature of geography and the culture of colonialism at the dawn of Europe’s great age of empire. Th e power to make boundaries, be they real or imagined, indubitably imparts a power of another sort, which has long been identifi ed with imperial expansion and colonial control. Boundary-making, even if rhetorical, implies agenda-setting prerogatives. Geography, that is to say, is not merely an exercise of descriptive engagement with the world, but also a process of strategic representation that, broadly speaking, relates directly to issues of political and economic hegemony. Th e postcolonial summation of this relationship adduces that substantial control over colonial geography translates into demonstrable infl uence over imperial authority. Th ose who describe have a hegemonic interest in those whom they describe, according to the fundamental formulation of Edward Said, famously argued in Orientalism; “knowledge is power” is Michel geography unbound 37

Foucault’s still blunter and brisker prescription.1 Yet the Dutch role in creating boundaries points to a curious paradox, which complicates these otherwise refl exively-invoked formulae. For at the very moment that the Dutch began to prevail as early modern geographers, they began also to fall to the rear of the pack of Europe’s major imperial powers. In the decades surrounding the turn of the eighteenth century, that is, as the Dutch Republic emerged as the leading geographers of Europe—the leading producers of books, prints, maps, atlases, paintings, curiosities, and other materials describing the exotic world—the Netherlands simultaneously assumed a relatively less active role in the theater of European expansion. Or, put another way, as the Republic became less and less engaged in conquering the world, it became more and more vested in describing it. Th e solution to this paradox, which controverts some of the central assumptions of postcolonial studies, has to do with the nature of early modern geography and the development in the Netherlands, in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, of a distinct strategy of descriptive exoticism. Students of empire and expansion rightly think of geography as a highly interested and calculated endeavor, which necessarily pertains to struggles over political authority and economic control. “Mapmaking,” as Brian Harley has taught us (and as historians of the new cultural geography regularly remind us) “was one of the specialized intellectual weapons by which power could be gained, administered, given legitimacy, and codifi ed.”2 Geography more

1 Th e theoretical literature on postcolonial geography is vast, yet see, most essentially, Michel Foucault, Th e Order of Th ings: An Archeology of the Human Sciences (New York: Pantheon, 1970); Foucault, Power/Knowledge: Selected Interviews and Other Writings, ed. Colin Gordon, trans. Colin Gordon et al. (New York: Pantheon, 1980); Edward Said, Orientalism (New York: Pantheon, 1978); and Said, Culture and Imperialism (New York: Knopf, 1993). Note that Said’s classic thesis of European knowledge-making and colonial power derives from source material of the later eighteenth and nineteenth centuries—a period that follows, by a half century at least, the geographic moment described in this essay. For the pre-Saidean half of the eighteenth century, see David N. Livingstone and Charles W.J. Withers, eds., Geography and Enlightenment (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1999); and G.S. Rousseau and Roy Porter, eds., Exoticism in the Enlightenment (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1990). 2 J.B. Harley and David Woodward, “Concluding Remarks,” in Th e History of Cartography, vol. 1, Cartography in Prehistoric, Ancient, and Medieval Europe and the Mediterranean, ed. J.B. Harley and David Woodward (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987), 506. Mapmaking and political ideology were the enduring focus of Harley’s considerable research into historical cartography. See, more generally, J.B. Harley, Th e New Nature of Maps: Essays in the History of Cartography, ed. Paul Laxton; intro. J.H. 38 benjamin schmidt generally, Harley has argued, is a fundamental tool of state (or imperial) propaganda, and it follows many of the discursive practices that are associated with more straightforwardly political texts. Th e early modern Dutch Republic certainly engaged in its share of geographic fashioning and cartographic maneuvering, originally at the expense of its longtime Spanish enemies, later taking aim at the English. Yet this habit of tactical geography—what might be termed “local” geography, invoking the French sociologist of science Bruno Latour3—appears to change by the later decades of the seventeenth century, at which time the Dutch also appear to recede from the battleground of global empire. Indeed, what is most striking about the later corpus of Dutch geography is, fi rst, how broadly accessible, attractive, and appealing it is; and second, how strikingly unpolemical, apolitical, and disinterested it seems—at least relative to earlier patterns of Dutch geography and to competing European traditions of geography. Around 1700, the Dutch revert from “local” geography to forms of “universal knowledge”—to use Latour’s term for widely accepted and broadly circulated systems of knowledge—and they do so in ways that turn out to be critical to our understanding of the world and its representation at this highly contested moment of global expansion. Th is essay explores a remarkable chapter of Dutch boundary-making circa 1700. Th is entails, fi rst, a brief review of the tradition of geography in the Netherlands in the century or so preceding 1700, with a glance toward some more obviously polemical moments of geographic description; next, a survey of the wide ranging and broad reaching forms of geography that emanated from the Dutch Republic and circulated throughout Europe in the decades surrounding 1700; and, fi nally, an analysis of the methods and meanings of these extraordinary sources. Th is overview has a dual purpose. First, it seeks to introduce the very rich, and richly influential, source materials of this early modern

Andrews (Baltimore, Md.: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001). For the early modern period more particularly, see David Buisseret, ed., Monarchs, Ministers, and Maps: Th e Emergence of Cartography as a Tool of Government in Early Modern Europe (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992); Buisseret, Th e Mapmakers’ Quest: Depicting New Worlds in Renaissance Europe (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003); and Richard L. Kagan and Benjamin Schmidt, “Maps and the Early Modern State: Offi cial Cartography,” in Th e History of Cartography, vol. 3: Cartography in the European Renaissance, ed. David Woodward (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007), 661–680. 3 Bruno Latour, Science in Action: How to Follow Scientists and Engineers through Society (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1987), especially chapter six, “Centers of Calculation,” 215–57. geography unbound 39 moment of “globalism” (as it were), while emphasizing the hitherto unexplored Dutch role in their production. And, second, it addresses the topic of boundaries by analyzing the cultural mechanisms and the subtle politics of their making. I argue that the Dutch, unusually for the fi eld of geography in this period, formulated and indeed marketed a version of the world that enjoyed broad, Europe-wide appeal: a distinctive style of geography that transcended local (namely, Dutch) needs, while addressing “universal” (by which is meant Europe-wide) concerns; a formulation of the globe that enticed consumers from London to Paris to Berlin; a strategic blurring of global boundaries and erasing of nationally-oriented, imperial interests. Ultimately, the makers of boundaries in the Dutch Republic—the producers of geography circa 1700—delivered to their audience a notably compelling image of the world that, if sharing certain characteristics of earlier samples of geography, brought earlier discourses together in new and creative ways. Th ese Dutch eff orts amounted to the invention of a new form of exoticism, which would have lasting eff ects on Europe’s idea of the world in the “long” eighteenth century and beyond.

Dutch Republican Geography

Th e “miracle of Holland”—as the phenomenal political, economic, and cultural expansion of the Northern Netherlands was dubbed, even by contemporaries4—occurred largely over the first two thirds of the seventeenth century, the indirect result of the Dutch Revolt against Habsburg Spain and the migration of Calvinists, capital, and commercial expertise from the provinces of Flanders and Brabant in the south to Holland and Zeeland in the north. Th e reference of historical observers to a “miraculous” economic and social expansion in the Netherlands, the passionate narration by the great Romantic historians of the “rise of the Dutch Republic,” and the historiographic assumption by the contemporary scholarly community of a Dutch cultural golden age all make the point, in useful shorthand, of the stunning emergence of the Northern Netherlands as the leading economic engine and emerging

4 See, for example, K.W. Swart, Th e Miracle of the Dutch Republic as Seen in the Seventeenth Century (London: H.K. Lewis, 1969), and Karel Davids and Jan Lucassen, eds., A Miracle Mirrored: Th e Dutch Republic in a European Perspective (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995). 40 benjamin schmidt political power of early modern Europe.5 The Dutch launched, in the words of Jan de Vries and Ad van der Woude, “the fi rst modern economy”; they defeated, in King Philip II’s Spain, the leading military power of the age; and they produced, by all accounts, one of the most admired artistic legacies of the period—a record that well merits the attention lavished on it.6 More pertinent to the subject of geography is the Republic’s expansion overseas, which, not unlike matters political, economic, and cultural, took off spectacularly in the early seventeenth century, only to level off or regress thereaft er. Trade to Asia began around 1600, with signifi cant conquests (largely at the expense of the Portuguese) through the middle of the century. Aft er that, however, the Dutch East India Company (known as the Verenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie, or VOC) began to give ground to the English and French; and, if the VOC still turned a profi t, they did so increasingly as middlemen in inter-Asian trade rather than masters of a pan-Asian domain. Th e story of the Dutch in America presents a still starker model of rise and fall, with conquests in Brazil (again at Portugal’s expense) and settlement in New Netherland taking place in the 1620s through 1640s. Th ese gains, however, were followed by the catastrophic loss of Brazil in 1654 and of New Netherland in 1664. Th e Dutch Atlantic slave trade may have followed a slightly diff erent trajectory than other American commercial ventures, in that contracts for slaves increased in the second half of the seventeenth century, when the Republic could deliver cargoes to their former Iberian enemies. Yet this traffi c was relatively marginal when compared to the slaving activities of the English, French, and Portuguese; and, in Africa more generally, reversals date from the 1660s and 1670s, when Dutch trading forts fell to superior French and English forces. By the fi nal third of the century, in all events, the Dutch fi lled the role in the West no less than the East of middlemen. Much

5 Cf. the foundational work of John Lothrop Motley, Th e Rise of the Dutch Republic, 3 vols. (New York: Harper and Brothers, 1855). 6 Jan de Vries and A.M. van der Woude, Th e First Modern Economy: Success, Failure, and Perseverance of the Dutch Economy, 1500–1815 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997); and see also Bob Haak, Th e Golden Age: Dutch Painters of the Seventeenth Century, trans. and ed. Elizabeth Willems-Treeman (New York: Stewart, Tabori & Chang, 1996). More broadly useful are the overviews of Jonathan I. Israel, Th e Dutch Republic: Its Rise, Greatness, and Fall, 1477–1806 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995), and Simon Schama, Th e Embarrassment of Riches: An Interpretation of Dutch Culture in the Golden Age (New York: Knopf, 1987). geography unbound 41 as they moved colonial goods, they had a relatively limited stake in territorial colonies per se.7 And geography? Th e world according to the Dutch had much to do with those events that coincided with its articulation, since the Dutch world-view took shape as the Dutch became Dutch—as the Netherlands waged its epic struggle against Habsburg Spain, the sear- ing Eighty Year’s War, which culminated in the Republic’s foundation in 1648. Geography played a crucial role in this campaign, though it also played a very particular role—a provincially-oriented, “local” role, in Latour’s terms—in expressing a new Dutch identity to support the nascent Dutch Republic. Over the course of the Revolt, that is, cultural geographers in the Netherlands fashioned a version of the world that suited the struggles of the Republic.8 Th is goes less for Asia and Africa, in which geographers initially showed less interest, than for America, whose discovery and conquest coincided (it was imagined) with the Dutch Revolt. America was the site of Spanish “tyrannies,” which polemicists pronounced to be parallel to Habsburg abuses committed in the Netherlands. Th e Indians were construed as allies, fellow-suff erers of colonial oppression, and partners in the war against Habsburg universal monarchy. “Colonialism” itself was defi ned with Old World no less New World implications; the duke of Alba, who had been sent by Philip II to subdue the Low Countries, was construed as a marauding conquistadore, his treatment of the indigenous Dutch compared to the Castilian mistreatment of the Native Americans. Th is form of rhetoric and this habit of intercontinental comparisons was, of course,

7 On the East, see Femme S. Gaastra, De geschiedenis van de VOC (Zutphen: Walberg Pers, 1991); and Jaap R. Bruijn and Femme S. Gaastra, “Th e Dutch East India Company’s Shipping, 1602–1795, in a Comparative Perspective,” in Ships, Sailors and Spices: East India Companies and their Shipping in the 16th, 17th and 18th Century, ed. Bruijn and Gastra, NEHA-Series III, no. 20 (Amsterdam: NEHA, 1993), 177–208, which makes a persuasive case for the relative decline, from the late seventeenth century, of the Dutch in Asia. On the West, see Henk den Heijer, De geschiedenis van de WIC (Zutphen: Walberg Pers, 1994); and Pieter Emmer and Wim Klooster, “Th e Dutch Atlantic, 1600–1800: Expansion Without Empire,” Itinerario 23, no. 2 (1999): 48–69, which dates the Republic’s Atlantic decline quite precisely to the fi nal decades of the seventeenth century. Th e Atlantic slave trade is surveyed in Johannes Menna Postma, Th e Dutch in the Atlantic Slave Trade, 1600–1815 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990); and see more generally Pieter Emmer, Th e Dutch in the Atlantic Economy: Trade, Slavery and Emancipation (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1998). 8 Th is theme is explored in greater detail in Benjamin Schmidt, Innocence Abroad: The Dutch Imagination and the New World, 1570–1670 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001). 42 benjamin schmidt an exaggeration—a polemical assault against Spain by resourceful Dutch authors and printers of the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. Yet it was an exaggeration that proved highly eff ective and one that encouraged copious descriptions of “cruelties” in America, the “destruction of the Indies,” and the tragedy of the Conquista, which was none too subtly related back to events in the Netherlands. (It was in this period—the 1570s through 1620s—that the Dutch produced scores of editions of Bartolomé de Las Casas’ catalogue of atrocities, Th e Mirror of Spanish Tyrannies in the West Indies, sometimes slyly published with a pendant volume, Th e Mirror of Spanish Tyrannies in the Netherlands.)9 Dutch geography, in this way, was every bit as polemical in the early decades of the seventeenth century as it was not in the later seventeenth century. Timing here is crucial. The project of geography for the Dutch in the earlier years of the century was implicated in the project of “nation-ness” (to adopt Benedict Anderson’s term, more appropriate for the early modern period than “nationalism”).10 Once the precarious moment of national foundation had passed, however, such meaningful representations of the globe had lost their purpose. By the later decades of the century, thus, the Dutch abandoned the topos of “Spanish tyranny in America,” quit their aggressive publication of Las Casas, and reoriented their geography more generally away from the distinctly provincial image of America that had hitherto dominated. Yet the Dutch did not abandon their investment in geography altogether. On the contrary, they began to produce in these years (circa 1670–1730) more works, in more forms, than ever before. And these works found an audience well beyond the borders of the Netherlands. Vivid maps, dazzling globes, and luxurious atlases produced in Holland were coveted across the continent. Dutch-made topographical prints, tropical paintings, and exotic curiosa traded briskly among European princes and wealthy merchants. Leiden and Amsterdam-published natural histories, proto-ethnographies, and global geographies, commonly printed in multiple editions and translations, became standard texts throughout

9 See Benjamin Schmidt, “Th e Purpose of Pirates, or Assimilating New Worlds in the Renaissance,” in Th e Atlantic World: Essays on Slavery, Migration, and Imagination, ed. Willem Klooster and Alfred L. Padula (Upper Saddle River, NJ: Prentice Hall, 2004), 160–177. 10 Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Refl ections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, rev. ed. (London: Verso, 1991), 4. geography unbound 43

Europe. It is not that earlier samples of Dutch geography did not enjoy a wide audience; the works of Abraham Ortelius and Th eodor de Bry circulated just as impressively at the turn of the seventeenth century as did Dutch products produced at the turn of the eighteenth century. Yet these earlier materials from the international fi rms of de Bry and Plantin (which printed Ortelius’s atlases) represent but one facet of a far more enterprising and locally-oriented cultural geography in the Netherlands, which otherwise off ered a resolutely anti-Spanish profi le. Th is is not the case by the fi nal years of the seventeenth century, when anti-Habsburg polemics had lost their currency. Th e later materials, moreover, avoided all appearance of Dutch bias by pursuing a distinct strategy of exoticism: a discernable tendency toward visually sumptuous materials, framed in a politically disinterested and aesthetically alluring styles, which marketed an image of the globe that, rather than peculiarly Netherlandish, was meant to be compelling to the whole of Europe. In packaging a world in which they themselves had a signifi cantly reduced stake, the Dutch could now aff ord to adopt forms and images that would be attractive to all of those otherwise engaged in the imperial race. By the late seventeenth century, the Dutch had substituted their diminished colonial empire with an empire of geography, which excellently served the needs of those still in pursuit of imperial ambitions.

Geography Unbound

Dutch geographic materials produced around 1700 are as strikingly bountiful as they are exceptionally beautiful. Th ey are broad ranging, as well, both in their impressive attention to the lately expanding world and their remarkable span of genres, media, and objects enlisted to represent that world. Th ey comprise, most basically, traditional printed geographies, which, in the humanist mode, give broad outline to the early modern cosmos. Th ese include such massive, learned compila- tions as Philipus Cluverius’s Introductionis in universam geographiam, which appeared in a staggering sixty-seven editions by 1725; Bernardus Varenius’s authoritative Geographia generalis (revised and enlarged by Sir Isaac Newton in later editions); and the omnibus works of Georg Hornius, which might be placed under the rubric of “social studies”— thick volumes on the empires and polities of the world; the origins of the races, monarchies, religions, and so on—and of which nearly forty editions were printed in the fi nal third of the century. Only slightly less 44 benjamin schmidt ambitious in their coverage were the regional geographies produced by the Dutch, which took the form of fabulous, folio works (sometimes called “atlases”), and which came chock-full of foldout maps, engravings, and the like: Johan Nieuhof on China (a book that was sold by the Royal Geographer, John Ogilby, as the “Atlas Chinensis,” commonly with a companion “Atlas Japonensis” that was likewise made from Dutch originals); Olfert Dapper’s lavish volumes on Asia and Africa; Arnoldus Montanus’s best-selling (and three times translated) volume, America (Fig. 1); Nicholas Witsen’s heft y tome on Muscovy and the “Tartars”; Engelbert Kaempfer’s nonpareil study of Japan; and the magnifi cent, fi ve-volume Old and New East Indies by the Dutch dominee Francois Valentijn. Exotic travel narratives, a more peripatetic genre, likewise streamed off Dutch presses at a torrential pace: dozens of editions of Willem Bontekoe’s sea adventures in the Indian Ocean; multiple versions of Ogier Busbecq’s celebrated account of life among the Turks; and the richly illustrated (and much copied) books by Cornelis de Bruyn on the author’s travels from the Near to Far East (Fig. 2). Th ere were also quite impressive travel anthologies produced in Holland: sprawling, multi-volume aff airs, such as Joost Hartgers’s “Voyages” and Commelin’s “Travels” (which formed the basis of René Auguste Constantin de Renneville’s and Awnsham and John Churchill Churchill’s likewise gargantuan collections, in French and English respectively); and the twenty-eight-volume geography series of Pieter van der Aa, which served as a standard reference work for nearly half a century. A fi nal sub-genre that falls under the category of literary anthologies is the Dutch “books of wonders”—think literary Wunderkammern—which jumbled together the far-fl ung marvels, mores, and curiosities of the world; arranged these with happy disregard for context or place; and then packaged them with such come-on titles as “Th e Great Cabinet of Curiosities,” “Th e Wonder-Filled World,” or, more prosaically, “Th e Warehouse of Wonders.”11

11 Th e classic bibliographies of Dutch geography—P.A. Tiele, Nederlandsche bibliog- raphie van landen volkenkunde (Amsterdam: Frederik Muller, 1884); and Mémoire bib- liographique sur les journaux des navigateurs Néerlandais réimprimés dans les collections de De Bry et de Hulsius, et dans les collections hollandaises du XVIIe siècle (Amsterdam: Frederik Muller, 1867)—adopt a far less generous view of the range of “geography” than does this essay, and they off er, accordingly, only moderate guidance. For printed works with any relevance to the Dutch experience in Asia, see John Landwehr, VOC: A Bibliography of Publications Relating to the Dutch East India Company, 1602–1800 (Utrecht: HES, 1991); and, for books that make mention of the Americas—which applies geography unbound 45

Fig. 1. Frontispiece from Arnoldus Montanus, America (Amsterdam, 1671) 46 benjamin schmidt

, 1698) (Delft Fig. 2. Cornelis de Bruyn, “Smyrna,” in Reizen van door vermaardste deelen Klein Asia geography unbound 47

Most of these works included maps, an indication that the Dutch Republic had become, by this time, the unrivaled European capital of cartography. To be sure, the Dutch had long excelled at map-making, having dominated the trade from at least as early as the turn of the seventeenth century, when Antwerp ceded its cartographic hegemony to Amsterdam. Yet it was only in the second half of the century, aft er the fall of the Republic’s American colonies and setbacks in Asia and Africa, that the stupendous “major” atlases of Joan Blaeu, Johannes Janssonius, and Frederick de Wit appeared on the market, in deluxe editions and in most major European languages. Add to this category the so-called “Water Worlds”—stunning sea atlases produced by the renowned Amsterdam ateliers of Colom, Donker, and van Keulen (Fig. 3)— and it becomes plain just how thoroughly the late seventeenth-century Dutch cartographic industry dominated the fi eld. It also becomes clear how successful Dutch producers could be in rendering the mapped world exotic. Always fairly decorative, the products of Dutch cartography positively bristled, by the fi nal decades of the century, with baroque cartouches, hand-colored vignettes, elaborate marginalia, and ethnographic detail—all devices that suggest a pictorial purpose that had little to do with navigation. Th ese were visually appealing objects, which delighted the eye. Th e Dutch cartographic industry, moreover, served both ends of the market. It churned out single-sheet maps, topical broadsheets, and cheap city-views for the less affl uent; while also producing luxurious globes, hand colored topographies, and opulent wall- maps—such as Blaeu’s stupendous, three-meter wide hemispheric map, a variation of which was presented to the shogun in Edo; and Blaeu’s brilliant map of Pernambuco (Brazil), which came decorated with ethnographic scenes executed by the Haarlem-born painter Frans Post.12

to the geographies of Cluverius, Varenius, and Hornius, as well as many of the Dutch “books of wonders”—see John Alden and Dennis Landis, eds., European Americana: A Chronological Guide to Works Printed in Europe Relating to the Americas, 1493–1750, 6 vols. (New York: Readex Books, 1980–1997). Also useful is John Landwehr, Studies in Dutch Books with Coloured Plates Published 1662–1875: Natural History, Topography and Travel Costumes and Uniforms (Th e Hague: Junk, 1976). 12 Dutch-produced atlases are excellently catalogued in Cornelis Koeman, Atlantes Neerlandici: Bibliography of Terrestrial, Maritime and Celestial Atlases and Pilot Books, Published in the Netherlands up to 1880, 6 vols. (Amsterdam: Th eatrum Orbis Terrarum, 1967–1985); see also the revised edition of this work edited by P.C.J. van der Krogt (’t Goy-Houten: HES, 1997–). For globes, see P.C.J. van der Krogt, Globi Neerlandici: Th e Production of Globes in the Low Countries (Utrecht: HES, 1993). On Dutch cartographic materials more generally, see Kees Zandvliet, De groote waereld in ’t kleen geschildert: 48 benjamin schmidt

Fig. 3. Johannes van Keulen, Paskaart van Niew Engeland, in De Groote Nieuwe Vermeerde Zee-Atlas oft e Water Werelt (Amsterdam, 1688) geography unbound 49

Post’s name is associated with a whole other class of images—tropical landscapes—that rightfully belong to the fi eld of geography. Th e Dutch invented, then abundantly produced, the tropical landscape, a wholly new genre that developed in the fi nal half of the century—not, in other words, in the Golden Age of Dutch painting, when landscapes were dedicated almost exclusively to domestic, or perhaps Italian scenes. In the fi nal half of the seventeenth century and into the early eighteenth, however, the expanding colonial world could be viewed on canvas, in sumptuous and vivid color, as painted by artists working in the Netherlands. Post himself concentrated on Brazilian scenes and pastoral settings, his lush foregrounds overfl owing with the rich naturalia of the tropics. Other regions had other painters: Dirk Valkenburg cornered the market on Suriname; Andries Beeckman depicted scenes in the East Indies; Reinier (“Seaman”) Nooms painted the North African coast; and Gerard van Edema applied his brush to that urban jungle lately known as New York, which he painted almost exclusively for English patrons. Dutch artists also did still lifes of foreign fl ora and fauna, and they produced portraits of exotic peoples. Th e places, races, and products of the Indies, East and West, might also be collapsed into a single canvas, as in Jacob van Campen’s Triumph, with Treasures of the Globe (Fig. 4), which mixes Congolese baskets with Brazilian parrots, a central Ming vase with Japanese armor, tropical shells from both the East and West Indies, and so on. All of these images could be recycled in tapestries—the Gobelins series for Louis XIV being among the best known—or perhaps in ceramics or other decorative arts, prodigiously produced in Delft and then sold throughout Europe.13

Nederlandse kartografi e tussen de middeleeuwen en de industriële revolutie (Alphen aan den Rijn: Canaletto, 1985); on the exotic world more particularly, see Zandvliet, Mapping for Money: Maps, Plans and Topographic Paintings and their Role in Dutch Overseas Expansion During the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries (Amsterdam: Batavian Lion International, 1998). 13 Th e literature on painted exotica is uneven. For Post, the early work of Joaquim de Sousa-Leão, Frans Post, 1612–1680 (Amsterdam: A.L. van Gendt, 1973) is still infor- mative; for Eckhout, see Rebecca Parker Brienen, Visions of Savage Paradise: Albert Eckhout, Court Painter in Colonial Dutch Brazil (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2006). Also useful is P.J.P. Whitehead and M. Boeseman, A Portrait of Dutch Seventeenth-Century Brazil: Animals, Plants and People by the Artists of John Maurits of Nassau, Royal Dutch Academy of Sciences, Natural History Monograghs, 2nd ser., vol. 87 (Amsterdam: North Holland, 1989), which thoroughly studies Brazilian iconography and details the oeuvre of Albert Eckhout, Post’s South American colleague specializing in exotic still lifes and portraits. Both Post and Eckhout have been the subject of recent exhibitions, which have produced helpful catalogues: Th omas Kellein and Urs-Beat Frei, Frans Post, 1612–1680 (Basel: Kunsthalle Basel, 1990); Pedro Corrêa do Lago and 50 benjamin schmidt

Fig. 4. Jacob van Campen, Triumph, with Treasures of the Globe (Paleis Huis den Bosch, Royal Collections, Th e Hague) geography unbound 51

Th e collage of objects in the paintings and decorative arts was sorted out more meticulously in natural histories, of which the Dutch, once again, produced the most impressive samples. European scholars turned to Willem Piso’s Historiae Naturalis Brasiliae for tropical crustaceans and edentates; they consulted twelve thick (and multilingual) volumes by Hendrik Reede tot Drakenstein on the natural wonders of Malabar; and they relied on Jan Commelin for comprehensive data on Asian fl ora, perhaps even visiting the renowned Amsterdam hortus, where Commelin tended his exotic gardens. More specialized, if hardly less spectacular, works include Georg Rumpf’s monumental meditation on Moluccan shells, the Amboinese Curiosity Cabinet; Louis Renard’s Poissons, Ecrivisses et Crabes—produced in sumptuous, hand-colored editions for elite consumers—and the breathtaking Metamorphosis insectorum Surinamensium by Maria Sibylla Merian, which showed the insects of Suriname crawling among the plants they called home. (Many of these texts appeared during what David Freedberg has felicitously called the “decennium mirabilis” of exotic natural history, 1695–1705, which was centered in Holland.)14 Actual specimens could be handled and even purchased from Dutch kunstkamers, the number of which swelled in these years. Shells were the best preserved and therefore most popular items, though a wide variety of naturalia, artifi cialia, and hybrid items bridging the two—fi nely painted shells, artfully craft ed fos- sils, ingeniously worked coral—could be had from enterprising Dutch dealers. Finally, paintings of collectibles also sold briskly: still lifes of

Bia Corrêa do Lago, Frans Post, 1612–1680: Catalogue Raisonné (Milan: 5 Continents, 2007); and Quentin Buvelot et al., Albert Eckhout: A Dutch artist in Brazil (Zwolle: Waanders, 2004). D. Valkenburg, A. Beekman, R. Nooms, and G. van Edema still lack biographers and cataloguers—yet see the brief treatment of Valkenburg in C.P. van Eeghen, “Dirk Valkenburg: Boekhouder-schrijver-kunstschilder voor Jonas Witsen,” Oud Holland 61 (1946), 58–69. Other painters and draft smen who produced works that fall under the rubric of “tropical landscape” include Gillis and Bonaventura Peeters (West Indian and, in the case of Bonaventura, perhaps also East Indian scenes); Ludolf Backhuyzen (East Indies); Abraham de Verwer (India); Hendrick van Schuylenburg (Bengal); Adam Willaerts; and Hendrik Jacobsz Dubbels. On exotic themes in the visual arts more broadly, see Nancy Leys Stepan, Picturing Tropical Nature (London: Reaktion, 2001; and on decorative arts, see Hugh Honour, Th e European Vision of America (Cleveland, OH: Cleveland Museum of Art, 1975). 14 David Freedberg, “Science, Commerce, and Art: Neglected Topics at the Junction of History and Art History,” in Art in History/History in Art: Studies in Seventeenth- Century Dutch Culture, ed. David Freedberg and Jan de Vries (Santa Monica, CA: Getty Center for the History of Art and the Humanities, 1991), 376–428, which also discusses Dutch natural history more generally. See further Caroline A. Jones and Peter Galison, Picturing Science, Producing Art (New York: Routledge, 1998). 52 benjamin schmidt rare fl owers, exotic shells, or other imports from the Indies; or perhaps paintings of the very cabinets themselves, sometimes real, though oft en imagined—like the fabulous renditions of connoisseurs’ cabinets from the hand of Jan van Kessel (Fig. 5).15 Th e commerce in collectibles and in products of geography more generally highlights the impressive migration of these products, and it is important to stress just how far and wide Dutch geography dispersed—and how infl uential, as a consequence, the Dutch version of the world became. Th ough not all of these sources can be readily traced, certain patterns of patronage can be reconstructed, especially as they pertain to Europe’s most prominent consumers. German, French, and English aristocrats all collected Dutch tropical landscapes, for example. Louis XIV acquired a spectacular trove of American paintings in 1679, including twenty-seven canvases by Frans Post. Maps and globes also circulated in the fi nest studies and drawing rooms of Europe. Queen Christina of Sweden assembled a collection of stunning cartographic watercolors, the so-called Vingboons atlas, illustrating nearly every port of interest in the non-European world. Peter the Great came to Amsterdam to buy, among other things, every Wunderkammer he could lay his hands on, following in the steps of the Grand Duke Cosimo de’ Medici, who had raided Dutch collections only a few years earlier. Less is known about consumption at less elevated levels, since fewer traces remain; though it is apparent that Dutch prints and sheet maps scattered widely, and that their images were recycled aggressively across the continent. Th e circulation of published geographies makes a still deeper impression. Printers in Paris and London—John Ogilby being a prime example—poached, pirated, and otherwise published Dutch texts; and in this way sources originating in Holland spread from Stockholm to Naples and from Dublin to Dresden. Readers of German and Latin, English and French, Swedish and Spanish all had access, in one form or another, to the bounty of Dutch geography. And the same applies more broadly. Consumers of books and prints, maps and paintings, rarities and other mimetic forms of the world as imagined circa 1700 had recourse to the fl ood of products that streamed so impressively from the Dutch Republic to patrons across Europe.

15 Patterns of Dutch collecting are surveyed in Ellinoor Bergvelt et al., De wereld binnen handbereik: Nederlandse kunsten rariteitenverzamelingen, 1585–1735, 2 vols. (Zwolle: Waanders, 1992); and, on still lifes, see the exhibition catalogue, Alan Chong and Wouter Kloek, eds., Still-Life Painting from the Netherlands 1550–1720 (Zwolle: Waanders, 1999). geography unbound 53 Fig. 5. Jan van Kessel, Americque , 1666 (Bayerische Staatsgemäldesammlungen, Alte Pinakothek Munich) 54 benjamin schmidt

When one traced the boundaries of Europe’s world at the turn of the eighteenth century, in other words, one did so—wittingly or not—with the expert guidance of Dutch geography.

Globalism and Exoticism

Why the universal attraction of Dutch geography? How can we account for its broad appeal across European boundaries and its evident success in multiple national traditions? How (to frame the issue from the perspective of the producers) did Dutch-manufactured materials mange to attract such a wide following in this age of intensive imperial competition? What strategies did the Dutch employ to market a form of global representation of such pervasive infl uence? With these questions in mind, it may be useful to consider the fantasy cabinet of Jan van Kessel, a panel painting that purports to portray an idealized collection of exotica—and illustrates, in the process, a theoreti- cally enticing form of this brand of geography (see fi gure 5). Indeed, whatever the panel’s many charms, one is hard pressed to identify a single theme, or a signal object, that draws the viewer into this indubitably compelling collection. On the contrary, one is struck by the abundance and variety of stuff and by the shapeless bric-a-brac quality of its arrangement. Although the painting is labeled “Americque,” it would seem to lack a tightly focused American theme. One of a number of American Indians sits in the foreground, to be sure; yet she is coupled with a dark-skinned African fi gure clad in feathers. To the woman’s left stands a cherubic, Indian-looking boy, also decked in feathers and outfi tted with an iconic bow and arrows; yet at her feet kneels another child—naked and less fair than the “Indian”—who plays a set of Javanese gamelan gongs. Meanwhile, the woman dancing through the door wears East Indian costume, and to the right of the panel is a depiction (in the form of a painting within the painting) of Hindu suttee. Just above the suttee is another image showing ritualized sacrifi ce of another form: a Mesoamerican (Aztec?) ceremony, perhaps related to cannibalism. Van Kessel’s image features marvels on a global scale—the East Indies mix eff ortlessly with the putative West Indies—and numerous other visual devices point, in much the same manner, to the subtle blending of races and to the nonchalant bleeding of regions that occur throughout the panel. Next to the Javanese drummer boy struts an African crowned crane whose curving neck guides the viewer’s eye geography unbound 55 toward a perched macaw and toucan (two birds closely associated with Brazil). Between these glamorously tropical fowl a whiskered opossum heads toward a sturdy anteater—we have landed, once again, in the landscape of America—yet the framed (and framing) insects and but- terfl ies (top and bottom right) derive from both Old and New World habitats. Th e background statuary bracketing the open door features Tapuya Indians (modeled closely on drawings by the Dutch painter, Albert Eckhout, who had visited Brazil), while the niches on the right display a pair of (Eastern) Brahmins. Between these stone fi gures, in the corner, rests a suit of Japanese armor whose sword points plainly toward a Brazilian agouti and a centrally placed armadillo—the latter belonging to the standard allegorical representation of “America,” as codifi ed earlier in the century in Cesare Ripa’s Iconologia.16 In place of specifi city, then—the strategy that had characterized Dutch geography at the height of its struggle against Spain, when images of America resolutely stressed the theme of Habsburg “tyranny” abroad—the van Kessel panel conveys a remarkable sense of indeterminacy. Rather than the New World per se (let alone a “Dutch” New World), one gets an almost haphazard assembly of exotica from around the globe. Objects are in disarray and, in a crucial sense, decentered. Why title the work “America” at all, if it comprises so much more of the generically non- European world?17 Th is sort of indeterminacy characterizes many of the sources produced and exported by the Republic in the fi nal decades of the seven-

16 See Whitehead and Boeseman, Seventeenth-Century Brazil, 90–94, which off ers a superb reading of the painting’s naturalia; and cf. the armadillo-riding “America” in Cesare Ripa, Iconologia (p. 605 in the 1644 Amsterdam edition of this standard text, which fi rst appeared with the American allegory in 1603 [Rome] and then in countless editions throughout the century). Note that while van Kessel, technically speaking, was not a “Dutch” painter—his workshop was based in Antwerp—the painting Americque very clearly derives from Dutch iconographic sources, as is so meticulously detailed by Whitehead and Boeseman. 17 Jan van Kessel, Americque, 1666 (Bayerische Staatsgemäldesammlungen, Alte Pinakothek Munich). Van Kessel’s Americque belonged to a series of Continents, meant to represent the four “parts” of the globe. Th e other paintings—of Asia, Africa, and Europe—might likewise be cited as prime examples of the exoticizing tendencies of Dutch geography. Note that each of the allegories was surrounded by sixteen smaller panels containing vignettes of “local” fauna that further confl ated the spaces of the world. In the case of Americque, for example, elephants, tigers, and unicorns frame the newest continent. All elements of the continental paintings and panels are reviewed (and reproduced) in Dante Martins Teixeira, Th e “Allegory of the Continents” by Jan van Kessel “Th e Elder” (1626–1679): A Seventeenth-Century View of the Fauna in the four Corners of the Earth ([Petrópolis]: Index, [2002]). 56 benjamin schmidt teenth century and the fi rst few of the eighteenth. Th ere is a discernable mix-and-match quality to Dutch geography of this period, which stands in sharp contrast to the more sharply focused view propagated earlier in the seventeenth century, when borders were drawn far more distinctively and highlighted more patriotically. When Johannes de Laet, a director of the Dutch West India Company, published Willem Piso’s natural history of Brazil in 1648, he made clear in his added framing materials the vital place of the Dutch in America—where they still retained, aft er all, important colonies. A number of years later, by which time those colonies had been lost to the Portuguese, the work was reissued by an Amsterdam publisher with the patriotic addendum excised, replaced by a poem in praise of global wonders. A study of nature in the East Indies had also been added to the volume, as well as a wholly new frontispiece that casually blended a heraldic Brazilian fi gure with a vaguely Persian one.18 Th e earlier Dutch-ness of the region—and the colonial status it enjoyed through the mid-seventeenth century—had been eff ectively diluted and denied. Th e same process also transformed the chronicle of Brazilian travels by Johan Nieuhof, which originally lauded the Dutch Republic’s rise in the West. When they appeared in 1682, however, western adventures merged with eastern tales (Nieuhof ’s visit to China and Persia), the frontispiece once again inviting the reader to join in a dizzying spin of the globe. Th e text itself does present two separate sets of travels in the order they took place, yet the illustration program is less fussy. Facing a description of Jewish merchants in Brazil is an otherwise incongruous portrait of a Malay couple, intoxi- cated with tobacco (a subtle commentary on global commerce?). An engraved image of a Malabar snake charmer turns up in a section on indigenous Brazilians allied with the Dutch, leaving readers to ponder the relation between New World Indians, Old World enchanters, and the far-fetched correlation of the two.19

18 Willem Piso et al., Historia naturalis Brasiliae (Leiden and Amsterdam, 1648); and cf. De Indiae utriusque re naturali et medica libri quatuordecim (Amsterdam, 1658). 19 Johan Nieuhof, Gedenkwaerdige zee en lantreize door de voornaemste landschap- pen van West en Oostindien, 2 pts. (Amsterdam, 1682). Nieuhof ’s volume contained dozens of similarly engraved illustrations of exotic “races,” which endeavored to show the reader not only the look of local inhabitants, but also the “mores” and “habits” of the region. It was not uncommon for these plates to be confused in the process of printing—misnumbered, misplaced, mislabeled—especially in non-Dutch language editions of the book. geography unbound 57

Dutch geography circa 1700 is remarkably fl uid and disorienting, an eff ect achieved by the movement of images and tropes across genres and media. Graphic motifs—an engraver’s visual distillation of exotic peoples and places—circulated within and across disparate works and far-fl ung space, with scant regard for generic or geographic niceties. Nicolaes Berchem’s superb cartouche featuring the much imitated “Allegory of America,” which was originally designed for the enormously popular sheet map of the Western Hemisphere by Nicolaes Visscher, resurfaced a few years aft er its original publication in the 1650s on an altogether dif- ferent map of West Africa (Fig. 6). Th e allegorical Indian and her bars of American gold have now magically bridged the Atlantic to stand in for Africa.20 In another Amsterdam-produced map, this time representing Southeast Asia, the decorative cartouche replicates the engraved frontispiece of a best-selling book on Malabar. Although the geographic regions covered by these two images do overlap, their contrasting manner and medium of publication demonstrates a happy disregard of authorial purpose: one image introduces the mores of Malabar, while the other highlights the riches of Asia writ large. Th e iconographic intent of the image is utterly neglected.21 More generally (and perhaps more profi tably), picture books, such as Romeyn de Hooghe’s mas- terfully engraved “East and West Indies” (1710) or Bernard Picart’s seven-volume “Ceremonies and religions of the world” (1723–43),

20 Nicolaes Visscher, Novissima et accruratissima totius Americae descriptio (Ams- terdam, ca. 1650–1700); and cf. Hendrick Doncker, Pas-caert van Guinea (Amsterdam, ca. 1688, for example in Doncker’s Zee atlas). Th e original drawings for the cartouche, now in the royal collection at Windsor Castle, are reproduced in J.F. Heijbroeck and Marijn Schapelhouman, eds., Kunst in kaart: Decoratief aspecten van de cartographie (Utrecht: HES, 1989), 81; and see also Joseph Roach, “Th e Global Parasol: Accessorizing the Four Corners of the World,” in Th e Global Eighteenth Century, ed. Felicity Nussbaum (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2003), 93–106. Note that the iconic “America” designed by Berchem—based in many ways on late sixteenth- century Flemish and Dutch engravings of the continents—circulates far and wide in early modern publications, appearing well into the eighteenth century, perhaps most strikingly in a seminal Russian Americana, Zemnovodnago kruga kratkoe opisanie [A short description of the Terraqueous Globe] (Moscow, 1719), which was produced under the auspices of Peter the Great. 21 See Peninsula Indiae citra Gangem hoc est orae celeberrimae Malabar & Coromandel cum adjacente Insula non minus celebratissima Ceylon, which appeared (for example) in Reiner and Josua Ottens, Atlas maior, 8 vols. (Amsterdam, [ca. 1725–50]); and cf. Philip Baldaeus, Naauwkeurige beschryvinge van Malabar en Choromandel, derzelver aangrenzende Ryken, en het machtige Eyland Ceylon (Amsterdam, 1672), a volume that appeared with the same decorative frontispiece in German, English, and possibly French. Th e cartouche is dated 1733 and signed “Heirs of Johann Baptist Homann.” 58 benjamin schmidt Novissima et accruratissima ), in Nicolaes Visscher, totius Americae descriptio (Amsterdam, ca. 1650–1700) Fig. 6. Nicolaes Berchem “America” (engraved cartouche, lower left geography unbound 59 were regularly revised and indiscriminately pillaged for engravings that could be recycled and repackaged in ways that had little to do with their original commission.22 Dutch printers established in this way geographic clichés in the literal sense of the word: printed stereotypes. Th e goal was to render boundaries and locales indistinguishable; the eff ect was to make the object of various, and in fact competing, European imperial ambitions merge into a single exotic world. In such a fashion, the products of Dutch geography recreated the world as a stage (to return to an earlier metaphor) on which all Europ- eans could imagine themselves players and act out the dramas of imperial expansion. Relative to earlier models, the new geography promoted a freshly decontextualized, vertiginously decentered world. It off ered sundry bric-a-brac—admirabilia mundi, as one author put it—intended for a vast and cluttered mental cabinet of curiosities. Dutch sources of this period expressly do not develop the sort of polemical, proto- national themes of earlier literature, choosing instead to highlight the collectively admired, if indistinctly located, rarities of the world. One best-selling author states his strategy as purposeful discursiveness. He confesses to off ering no more than quick “morsels” of exotica, since variety was the spice of geographic life. Spain’s colonial record, so central for his geography-producing predecessors (Dutch no less than English and French), is briefl y considered and even mildly commended for the manner in which God had been delivered to the tropics. For another Dutch writer, Simon de Vries, Spain’s greatest sin in its colonies was its lack of curiosity in its colonies—an appalling lapse for this author of tens of thousands of pages of “curious observations” of the Indies. Rarity is de rigueur in de Vries’ Great Cabinet of Curiosities; the reader is invited to rummage through the strangeness, otherness, and oddities of the world. Th is amounts to a two-thousand page tour de force of description that skims nimbly over events and habits, objects and creatures, scattered across the globe. Wampum in New York and wantonness in Brazil; dragons in India and drachmas in Attica; cabalism of the Jews and matrimony of the Lapps: all are deposited into a single

22 Romeyn de Hooghe, Les Indes Orientales et Occidentales et autres lieux (Leiden: Pieter van der Aa, 1710); J[ean] F[rederic] Bernard, ed., Ceremonies et coutumes reli- gieuses des tous les peuples du monde, 8 vols. (Amsterdam, 1723–43) (with extensive engravings by Bernard Picart). 60 benjamin schmidt

“warehouse of wonders” (the title of another de Vries vehicle) from which readers could pick and choose the curiosa of their choice.23 Th e marvelous eclecticism of these volumes, their stunning breadth and formidable vastness, suggest a whole new order of geography. Th e Dutch had repackaged the world and transformed it into gargantuan, sprawling compendia of “curiosities.” Th ese teemed, like the exuber- antly cluttered foregrounds of Frans Post’s tropical landscapes, with lush description and verdant detail of the late Baroque world. Rather than restricting attention to Dutch deeds and Dutch settlements, they explored, with encyclopedic interest, all of the savage creatures, unusual inhabitants, and unknown landscapes of the globe. Rather than following the familiar tropes of earlier Dutch narratives, they celebrated precisely the unfamiliar and indeterminate “strangeness” of the Indies. Dutch geography tolerated—encouraged even—variety. It cultivated chaos and it reveled in randomness. Most importantly, it declined to play to a specifi c audience or perspective; it would not promote a particular place or purpose; it targeted no contested region or rival. It pursued, rather, what one magnifi cent tome of Asiana pronounced the “pleasures” of the exotic: Amoenitates exoticae.24 Th e boundless exotica that the Dutch delivered in the decades leading up to and following the turn of the eighteenth century—the immense stock of cartography, natural history, travel literature, and illustrated geographic works produced in the Republic—was indeed an “embarrassment of riches.” Th ese were riches meant to be dispersed, however, from the shops, ateliers, and merchant ships of the Netherlands to the shelves, studies, and curiosity cabinets of consumers across Europe. To do so, the Dutch created an image—pursued a marketing strategy, as it were—that presented the increasingly contested world as a decontextualized, decentered repository of curiosities and collectibles. Th emselves less and less involved in colonizing overseas, the Dutch could aff ord

23 Petrus de Lange, Wonderen des werelds (Amsterdam, 1671), “Aen de Leser,” sig. A2 (on exotic “morsels” and “admirabilia mundi”); Simon de Vries, D’edelste tijdkortingh der weet-geerige verstanden: of De groote historische rariteit-kamer, 3 vols. (Amsterdam, 1682); de Vries, Wonderen soo aen als in, en wonder-gevallen soo op als ontrent de zeeën, rivieren, meiren, poelen en fonteynen (Amsterdam, 1687), 266 (on lack of Spanish curiosity); and cf. de Vries, Curieuse aenmerckingen der bysonderste Oost- en West Indische verwonderens-waerdige dingen, 4 pts. (Utrecht, 1682); and de Vries, Historisch magazijn (Amsterdam, 1686). 24 Engelbert Kaempfer, Amoenitatum exoticarum politico-physico-medicarum fasciculi V, quibus continentur variae relationes, observationes & descriptiones rerum Persicarum & Ulterioris Asiae (Lemgo, 1712). geography unbound 61 to present a widely agreeable, polemically neutral, and ultimately perhaps bland image of the world—at least, it should be emphasized, from the colonial perspective of Europe. Rather than the local and provincial, they strove for the global and universal, projecting a world of alluring, enticing, spectacular richness. Th e notion of a “universal” geography (from a European perspective, it merits repeating) invokes, once again, the work of Bruno Latour. Th e reference is to Latour’s concept of “centers of calculation,” and it suggests a fi nal metaphor of Dutch geography, in this case critical: the Latourian laboratory.25 In the later decades of the seventeenth century and into the fi rst few of the eighteenth, Holland became a “laboratory” of geography, an inven- tive and infl uential producer of images of the world, manufactured at this pivotal moment of global expansion. Th is was a vital juncture in the history of the imperial imaginary, a moment that bridged the so- called Columbian thrust into the Americas, from 1492 to 1650, and what might be called the Saidean era of Orientalism, spanning the mid-eighteenth through the late-twentieth centuries. Dutch producers of geography circa 1700 fi lled this critical moment of colonial history, feeding Europe’s insatiable appetite for geographies of distant lands. Th ey did so cannily, resourcefully, pervasively, and successfully. Th ey did so with a stream of materials that did so much to shape percep- tions in the global eighteenth century and the ensuing age of empire. Th ey did so by inventing a world that we now recognize and take for granted as “exotic.”

25 Latour, Science in Action, 215–57.

DECIPHERING THE DUTCH IN DESHIMA

Mia M. Mochizuki

A harpsichord cover evocative of sumptuous Golden Age interiors may hardly seem an auspicious place to begin a discussion of the visual vocabulary of exploration, but in this case it provides a vital clue for a reconsideration of the Dutch presence in Deshima, Japan (Fig. 1).1 Commissioned by the city of Amsterdam, designed by the well-known art critic Karel van Mander and executed by Pieter Isaacszoon this harpsichord cover was always meant to be a masterpiece of its kind.2 It stimulates our interest by off ering not only a glimpse of an exceptional painting, but also insight into the intentions and dreams of Dutch traders in Amsterdam at the start of the Golden Age. Just a few steps into the seventeenth century Isaacszoon’s cover already depicted an allegory of Amsterdam as a center for world trade, particularly with Africa and Asia. Amsterdam is represented by a majestically enthroned young maiden who sits beneath the city’s armorial shield and holds an abundantly fi lled cornucopia in her right hand as the fi ngers of her left hand walk over a large globe. How does she plan to realize the naval exploration that will ensure more riches like the pearl necklace she wears? Neptune, the Roman god of the waters, stands solidly at her service with his trident, good trade winds blowing through his white beard. Other assembled water gods, like the personifi cations of the Amstel and the IJ, appear ready to speed the journey of the three East Indiamen departing in the middle ground. In a highly innovative composition that justifi es van Mander’s fame

1 Preserved for many years in an English private collection, this harpsichord cover was acquired by the Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam, in 1999. H. Miedema, ‘The City Harpsichord of Amsterdam’ in Pieter Dirksen, ed., Sweelinck Studies. Proceedings of the International Sweelinck Symposium, Utrecht 1999 (Utrecht: STIMU Foundation for Historical Performance Practice, 2002), pp. 225–47; H. Miedema, ‘Het stadsklaviercimbel van Amsterdam’, Bulletin van het Rijksmuseum 48 (2000): 258–79; Kees Zandvliet, ed., De Nederlandse ontmoeting met Azië 1600–1950 (Zwolle: Waanders, 2002), pp. 139–61. For comparison with a general overview of historic harpsichords, see Howard Schott, ed., Th e Historical Harpsichord, Th e Historical Harpsichord Series vol. 4 (Hillsdale: Pendragon Press, 2002). 2 Miedema, ‘Stadsklaviercimbel’, p. 258. 64 mia m. mochizuki Allegory of Amsterdam as the Center World Trade , 1606. Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum Fig. 1. Pieter Isaacszoon (aft er a design by Karel van Mander), Fig. 1. Pieter Isaacszoon (aft deciphering the dutch in deshima 65 for ingenious design, the allegorical fi gures in the foreground slide into the reality of the middle ground and further into the schematic zones of the background, a map of the known world from a Northern perspective, where all hopes might be realized. Th e distorted lands then boomerang the progression back in space to the viewer and to a distant middle ground with vignettes of Dutchmen exploring foreign lands.3 An obelisk abruptly interrupts this landscape and presents a stone plaque to the viewer. Th e Latin poem engraved in fi ve hexameters of golden script, author unknown, reads: Did you think that I, barred from the Spanish regions, shall be forsaken? On the contrary, because for the present, God’s solicitude has opened the way to Africa And the Indies, and the exotic expanse of China, And the region of the world of which the Ancients themselves had no knowledge. May you continue to favor us, God, And allow that these peoples too shall become acquainted with Christ.4 Th is poem indicates how deeply held aspirations were for these far-away expeditions, not yet a tried and true success. But the concluding line is particularly curious: the personifi ed voice of the city asks that the inhabitants of other lands might ‘become acquainted with Christ’. No explicit desire for conversion is mentioned, only the hope that people might gain exposure to their faith, Dutch Reformed Protestantism. Th e Amsterdam harpsichord cover then establishes the religious identity the Dutch carried with them as they set sail for Japan.

3 Some motifs were directly borrowed from Jan Huygen van Linschoten’s Itinerario. Voyage oft e Schipvaert, van Jan Huygen van Linschoten naer Oost oft e Portugaels Indien . . . (Amsterdam, 1596), such as the temple structure on the right. Miedema, ‘Stadsklaviercimbel’, pp. 271–72. 4 Miedema, ‘Stadsklaviercimbel’, p. 261. Miedema believes van Mander’s Latin would have been insuffi cient for the task of writing this poem. Exclusam Hesperia perituram Hispane putasti Me[?] Frustra: nam cura Dei mihi pandit ad Afros Primo iter, atq[ue] Indos, et qua patet extima China Quaq[ue] etiam priscis non cognitus Orbis in Orbe Perge fauere Deus, daq[ue] his agnoscere Christum. 66 mia m. mochizuki

Th is paper begins to explore how the material culture of Dutch Reformed churches informed the visual vocabulary of exploration. Many have written about the transformation of word and image initiated by iconoclasm in systems of meaning in Western Europe during the sixteenth century. But to my knowledge no one has considered the implications of iconoclasm for the export of new visual forms to distant lands, far exceeding the confi nes of Northern churches. Iconoclasm and the resulting Sunday material culture of the Dutch Golden Age provided a rich vocabulary from which to craft objects used in exploration.5 Th ese artifacts of belief will be used to show how the waves of Netherlandish iconoclasm that began in 1566 impacted what would become the longest uninterrupted trade relationship between Japan and a European nation.6

5 In addition to the extensive bibliography on western subject matter in Japanese art, such as namban screens and Nagasaki prints, some of the most important recent studies of the material remnants of contact between the Netherlands and Japan in western languages include: Leonard Blussé, Willem Remmelink, Ivo Smits, eds, Bridging the Divide. 400 Years Th e Netherlands—Japan (Hilversum: Stichting Educatieve Omroep Teleac/NOT, 2000); Martha Chaiklin, Cultural Commerce and Dutch Commercial Culture. Th e Infl uence of European Material Culture on Japan, 1700–1850, Studies in Overseas History vol. 5, Ph.D. diss., Leiden University (Leiden: Research School CNWS/Ridderprint, 2003); Exh. cat. Berlin 1993: Japan und Europa 1543–1929 (Berlin: Martin-Gropius-Bau, 1993); Exh. cat. Rotterdam 1986: In het spoor van de Liefde. Japans- Nederlandse ontmoetingen sinds 1600 (Rotterdam: Museum voor Volkenkunde, 1986); Jacques Proust, Europe through the Prism of Japan. Sixteenth to Eighteenth Centuries, tr. Elizabeth Bell (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2002); Frits Scholten, ed., Goudleer in Kinkarakawa. De Geschiedenis van het Nederlands goudleer en zijn invloed in Japan (Zwolle: Waanders, 1989); Timon Screech, Th e Lens within the Heart. Th e Western Scientifi c Gaze and Popular Imagery in Later Edo Japan (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2002). For several studies on Dutch expansion especially useful for this study, in particular for a model of the active, aff ective infl uence of cultural geography on the imagination, see Susan Legêne, De bagage van Blomhoff en Van Bruegel. Japan, Java, Tripoli en Suriname in de negentiende-eeuwse Nederlandse cultuur van het imperialisme (Amsterdam: Koninklijke Instituut voor de Tropen, 1998); Benjamin Schmidt, Innocence Abroad. Th e Dutch Imagination and the New World, 1570–1670 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001). 6 Iconoclasm erupted in the Netherlands in 1566, but such attacks continued sporadically well through 1581. Although iconoclasm actually consisted of multiple attacks at diff erent times and places and was part of a complex reform movement, for the purpose of this paper ‘iconoclasm’ is used in the broad historical sense as the fi rst large-scale popular expression of revolt in the Netherlands against Habsburg rule. I have also used the term ‘iconoclasm’, rather than ‘reformation’ or ‘revolt’, to underscore the systemic mechanism of image destruction and to emphasize the role of images in the confl icts. For the most recent studies of iconoclasm as a cultural phenomenon, see Exh. cat. Karlsruhe 2002: Iconoclash. Beyond the Image Wars in Science, Religion, and Art (Karlsruhe: ZKM Center for Art and Media, 2002); Mia M. Mochizuki, Th e deciphering the dutch in deshima 67

Iconoclasm in absentia

If the Amsterdam harpsichord cover was so clear on confessional allegiance, why were early Dutch merchants characterized as non-religious, more interested in the smell of lucre than of incense? Th e evidence usually cited for their renunciation of religion is the e-fumi ceremony they voluntarily performed in Japan.7 Th e e-fumi ceremony, or for the Dutch beeldtrappen, was a method the Japanese devised to test both those Japanese suspected of Christianity and all Europeans wishing to enter the country.8 To prove their disdain individuals were asked to step on a fumi-e tablet, a fl at bronze relief image of Christ or the Virgin in a wooden frame. One still extant example of this kind of image is the Pietà now in the Tokyo National Museum (Fig. 2).9 An eighteenth-century watercolor brought back by J.F. van Overmeer Fisscher shows an e-fumi ceremony taking place, offi cials watching closely to detect the slightest tremor or hesitation as a suspected Japanese Christian simulated destruction by stepping on a devotional image (Fig. 3).10 Vigilance by the judges for the slightest sign of camoufl aged dissent was required for sound judgment. Th e fi rst inquisitor on the shogun’s behalf would rank careful observation as number two on the list of ‘Th ings to Keep in Mind during Religious Scrutiny’: ‘2. Old wives and women when made to tread upon the image of God get agitated and red in the face; they cast off their headdress; their breath comes in rough gasps; sweat pours

Netherlandish Image aft er Iconoclasm, 1566–1672. Material Religion in the Dutch Golden Age (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2008). 7 Literally translated, e-fumi is the ceremony or act of treading on images and fumi-e are the objects, the ‘tread-on images’. 8 Religious scrutiny inspections involving fumi-e began in 1637 and were enforced with increasing severity by 1639. Sometimes a suspected Japanese Christian was not only required to perform the e-fumi ceremony, but was also forced to sign an oath of renunciation and show a signature of membership at a Japanese temple. For an example of such an oath, see C.R. Boxer, Th e Christian Century in Japan 1549–1650 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1951), pp. 441–42. Although Boxer’s is the classic study of early Christianity in Japan, important additions to this subject include: John Breen and Mark Williams, eds, Japan and Christianity. Impacts and Responses (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1996); George Elison, Deus Destroyed. Th e Image of Christianity in Early Modern Japan (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1973); Ikuo Higashibaba, Christianity in Early Modern Japan. Kirishitan Belief and Practice (Leiden: Brill, 2001); Proust. 9 Blussé, Bridging the Divide, p. 74. 10 Blussé, Bridging the Divide, p. 82. 68 mia m. mochizuki

Fig. 2. Anonymous, Pietà, 17th–18th century. Tokyo, Tokyo National Museum deciphering the dutch in deshima 69 Fig. 3. Anonymous, Japanese Man Performing Fumi-e Ceremony , ca. 1800–1833. Leiden, Rijksmuseum voor Volkenkunde 70 mia m. mochizuki from them’.11 All contemporary seventeenth-century evidence suggests that the Dutch participated in this ceremony without compunction, and furthermore did so as a way of distinguishing themselves from the Portuguese and Spanish. But was the e-fumi ceremony truly a refutation of Christianity by those who set sail from the Netherlands hoping ‘these peoples too shall become acquainted with Christ’? Th e longevity of the myth that the e-fumi ceremony was proof of the almost amoral Dutch pursuit of commercial gain has a long history. In 1669 Arnoldus Montanus provided the fi rst western description of the e-fumi ritual, although he never used that term explicitly.12 Crucifi xes and images of Christ and the Virgin were used not only to detect Catholic sympathies, but also as proof of apostasy. Moreover the Japanners had Woodden Crosses, which they shew’d to the Hollanders, so to fi nd out if they werePapists , but observing them not minded, they threw them away . . . Th ey [the Japanese] came in great numbers till midnight, asking several times if they [the Dutch] were Papists? making Crosses with their Fingers, pointing towards them that they should kiss and worship them: But the Prisoners slighting seem’d to abhor them: at which the Japanners taking great delight, cry’d Hollande, Hollande.13 Clearly the Dutch rejection of Roman Catholicism was critical to Japanese acceptance at that time. When two of twenty-fi ve ‘Roman Christians’ being tortured ‘were ready to renounce their Christianity and imbrace the Japanners Doctrine; on . . . being let loose, they spat at a Woodden Cross, then stamp’d upon the Picture of our Saviour Christ and the Virgin Mary, to the great grief of their Brother Suff erers, which

11 Th e fi rst Inquisitor on the shogun’s behalf was Inoue Chikugo, who was active from 1637 to 1657. ‘Th ings to Keep in Mind during Religious Scrutiny’ was ‘Document VII’ of the Kirishito-ki, Inoue’s attempt to provide guidelines for his successor, Hōjō Awa no Kami Ujinaga, in 1658. It was strictly intended for internal use, not propaganda. Elison, p. 204. 12 Arnoldus Montanus, Gedenkwaerdige gesantschappen der Oost-Indische Maet- schappy in ’t Vereenigde Nederland, aen de kaisaren van Japan (Amsterdam, 1669). For this article all citations refer to the following version: Arnoldus Montanus, Atlas Japannensis. Being Remarkable Addresses by way of the Embassy from the East-India Company of the United Provinces to the Emperor of Japan. Containing a Description of their several Territories, Cities, Temples and Fortresses; Th eir Religions, Laws and Customs; eirTh Prodigious Wealth and Gorgeous Habits; Th e Nature of their Soil, Plants, Beasts, Hills, Rivers and Fountains. With the Character of the Ancient and Modern Japanners, tr. John Ogilby (London, 1670). 13 Montanus, p. 322. deciphering the dutch in deshima 71 refus’d to be releas’d on these terms . . .’14 What distinguishes these early descriptions of the e-fumi ceremony is the clarity of the distinction between Catholic and Protestant Christianity and the sense this was of life or death import. Indeed Montanus reported, ‘Th ey [the Japanese] chiefl y observe when they are unlading a Vessel, if they can fi nd any Crosses, or other Church-Ornaments us’d by the Catholicks; for if they fi nd the least of them, the Dutch not onely lose their Ship and Goods, but their Lives also.’15 Over the years the e-fumi ceremony continued to capture the imagination of authors, fi ction writers as well as those who wrote fac- tually-based travel accounts, each time repeated with a new twist and a judicious sprinkling of color. Jonathan Swift had his ever resourceful Gulliver assume the personage of a Dutch merchant on arrival in Japan, who in addition to requesting safe passage to Nagasaki specifi cally requested to be excused from what he called ‘the Ceremony imposed on my Countrymen, of trampling upon the Crucifi x’, since he had no interest in trade.16 To which the Emperor, although humoring this odd request, noted his doubt as to whether Gulliver was a real Hollander and ‘non-Christian’. Th e Emperor then warned Gulliver not to let the Dutch know he was exempted from the ceremony, ‘For he assured me, that if the secret should be discovered by my Countrymen, the Dutch, they would cut my Th roat in the Voyage.’17 Sure enough the Dutch sailors took a particular interest in this exception and caused quite a bit of trouble for Gulliver, no doubt also suspecting him of being a Catholic. Th e signifi cance of the Swift account is fourfold. First it indicates the ceremony of e-fumi was still well enough known to be included when Swift wrote this tale in 1726. Second the ceremony was considered so remarkable as to merit inclusion in a single, succinct description of a trip to Japan. Th ird the e-fumi ceremony was linked explicitly to the pursuit of trade. And fourth the ceremony was as signifi cant to the Japanese as to the Dutch themselves, who appeared to consider it not only important for trade, but also as something by which they voluntarily, even proudly, demonstrated a positive part of their identity. Likewise Voltaire’s sailor would proudly declare in Candide (1775): ‘Tête

14 Montanus, p. 439. 15 Montanus, p. 309. 16 Jonathan Swift , Gulliver’s Travels. Based on the 1726 Text, ed. Albert J. Rivero (New York: W.W. Norton & Co., 2002), p. 183. 17 Swift , p. 184. 72 mia m. mochizuki et sang . . . je suis matelot et né à Batavia, j’ai marché quatre fois sur le crucifi x dans quatre voyages au Japon; tu as bien trouvé ton homme avec ta raison universelle’.18 Even in the fi rst decades of the nineteenth century the Japanese fear of closet Catholics was so great that Jan Cock Blomhoff , governor of the Dutch trading post on Deshima from 1817 to 1823 and a longtime resident of the island, wrote in his series of aperçus on Japanese life how a replacement fumi-e tablet made by a Japanese sculptor was considered such an exact and faithful replica of a Christian sculpture that authorities grew suspicious and had the sculptor decapitated.19 Blomhoff further tells how all the bodies of foreigners who died on Deshima were rigorously searched for devotional imagery and crucifi xes before burial, so that even in death they could not trouble Japanese souls. Th e most sustained aspect of the myth was the supposed sense of moral vacuity attributed to Dutch merchants. Even as recently as 1996 the Dutch artist Rob Scholte still blamed his countrymen for throw- ing their Bibles into the Bay of Nagasaki in pursuit of trade during an interview about his wall paintings in the replica of Huis ten Bosch in Nagasaki’s ‘Holland Village’.20 Th is stereotype was also picked up by the provocative politician Pim Fortuyn, who cited it as an example of the moral atrophy responsible, in his view, for what was wrong with Dutch culture today.21 However careful consideration of the culture the Dutch left behind and the one they encountered on arrival suggests, in fact, the e-fumi ceremony should be understood quite diff erently. At home Netherlanders had just emerged from the famed series of iconoclastic attacks that had swept through the Netherlands, a time when people had desecrated the magnifi cent devotional art that had decorated late medieval Gothic churches during the Catholic era. Figural images of God, Christ, the Virgin and saints bore the brunt of these attacks. Paintings were either painted over, destroyed or removed. Statues were oft en mutilated, leav-

18 François Marie Arouet (‘Voltaire’), Candide: ou l’optimisme, traduit de l’Allemand de Mr. le Docteur Ralph (Paris, 1775), repr. ed. (Paris: Le livre de poche classiques, 1995), p. 60, as quoted in Legêne, p. 204. 19 Rijksmuseum oud archief inv.nr.957, ‘Aparte aantekeningen en observaties’, 1822, as quoted in Legêne, p. 202; Rijksmuseum oud archief inv.nr.957:3, ‘Over gevoelen’, 1822, as quoted in Legêne, p. 202. For additional nineteenth-century references to the e-fumi ceremony, see also Legêne, p. 204; n. 28, pp. 419–20; passim. 20 Legêne, pp. 204–5. 21 Pim Fortuyn’s comment was made in 1997. Legêne, p. 205. deciphering the dutch in deshima 73 ing their sad remnants to mock their earlier perfection. Noses were knocked off , heads decapitated and limbs severed in a bloodless mas- sacre of images that had errantly been endowed with life-like powers. Th is recent history not only shaped the perspective of Netherlanders at the start of the seventeenth century, it also provided the immediate stimulus for international exploration. In 1594 Philip II punished his ‘rebel subjects’, the Northern Netherlanders, for their iconoclastic attacks and overt rebellion by closing the port of Lisbon, thereby cut- ting off access to lucrative Portuguese trade.22 Netherlanders were then forced to seek other trading outlets and began to consider independent expeditions to the rich resources of Asia. Iconoclasm had circuitously led the emerging Dutch nation to turn its Habsburg punishment into a key that unlocked the wealth of the Golden Age. When the Dutch expedition eventually arrived in Japan in 1600, they founded two settlements, the fi rst at Hirado (1609–1641) and the second on the artifi cially constructed island of Deshima off the coast of Nagasaki (1641–ca. 1853).23 Scenes of everyday life on Deshima show the mundane tasks, like the weighing of trade goods, that kept the small community of Dutchmen active in an area approximately the size of the Dam in Amsterdam.24 Th e Japanese domestic situation that greeted the Dutch was oddly not unlike the one they left behind. Much as Netherlandish iconoclasm cannot be understood outside of the Habsburg context, initial Japanese expectations of Europeans cannot be detached from their earlier contact with Portuguese traders and Jesuit

22 Grant K. Goodman, Japan and the Dutch 1600–1853 (Richmond: Curzon Press, 2000), p. 9. 23 Establishing a trade relationship between the Netherlands and Japan was a slow and arduous process. News that the Dutch had reached Japan was only received in Rotterdam years later when Olivier van Noort returned from his global voyage. In 1605 the captain of the fi rst Dutch ship to arrive in Japan, Jacob Quackerneck, was allowed to depart, fi nanced by the Japanese, with a license from the shogun Tokugawa Ieyasu for the Dutch nation to trade with Japan. Two years later Admiral Pieter Willemszoon Verhoeven left Texel for the Indies with instructions to send at least one ship to Japan with a letter to the shogun from Prince Maurits requesting permission to set up the fi rst permanent post. In 1609 the Rode Leeuw met Pijlen and the Griff oen landed in Hirado. Abraham van der Broeck and Nicolaes Puyck were immediately dispatched from these ships as ceremonial envoys to the shogun and permission was granted to establish the fi rst of the two permanent Dutch trading posts in Japan. Goodman, pp. 9–10, 19–20. 24 For more on the architecture of Deshima and its recent restoration, see C.L. Temminck Groll, W. van Alphen, et. al., Th e Dutch Overseas. Architectural Survey. Mutual Heritage of Four Centuries in Th ree Continents (Zwolle: Waanders Publishers, 2002), pp. 268–69, 274–77. 74 mia m. mochizuki missionaries. Th e sixteenth century was the time when Christianity was fi rst introduced to Japan with the arrival of the Portuguese and Francis Xavier, S.J. in 1549.25 A pair of namban screens, or screens that show Japanese contact with the West, like those presently in the Rijksmuseum, depict the arrival of a Portuguese ‘black ship’.26 In the background a cross marks a traditional Japanese structure as a Jesuit church where merchants were oft en received, the ties between merchant and priest very close indeed. Interested in acquiring precious metals, like the rich deposits of Japanese silver, the Portuguese also supported the systematic conversion of all levels of Japanese society to Roman Catholicism.27 In Japan, as in many parts of the sixteenth-century world, conversion was not purely a religious issue, but quickly became enmeshed with politics, as when a converted nobleman, Ōmura Sumitada, ceded the rule of Nagasaki to the Jesuits in 1580.28 Lavish decorations were commissioned for newly constructed churches and private devotion in Japan, like an exquisite Lectern made for a church or a home altar of the Virgin and Child (Fig. 4).29 Western conventions of picture-making and painting techniques, such as perspective and oil painting on panel, were introduced by the Jesuits,

25 Th e fi rst Portuguese arrived in Japan in 1543 and Francis Xavier, S.J. came in 1549. Th is was the start of what the West has called the ‘Christian century’—a term increasingly viewed as problematic—which lasted until the Tokugawa expulsion of all westerners, with the exception of the Dutch, in 1639. Elison, pp. 1, 249. 26 Anonymous, View of a Portuguese Ship and Jesuits in the Port of Nagasaki, beginning of the 17th century, two six-part screens, ink and watercolor on paper, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum. For a color photograph, see Exh. cat. Berlin 1993, pp. 238–39. Namban screens were particularly popular circa 1590 to 1614. Exh. cat. Berlin 1993, pp. 56–71, 235–271. 27 Willem van Gulik, A Distant Court Journey. Dutch Traders Visit the Shogun of Japan (Amsterdam: Stichting Koninklijk Paleis Amsterdam, 2000), p. 7. For more on the trade in precious metals, which included gold and copper, see Femme Gaastra, ‘Th e Dutch East India Company and Its Inter-Asiatic Trade in Precious Metals’, in Wolfram Fischer, R. Marvin McInnis and Jürgen Schneider, eds, Th e Emergence of a World Economy, 1500–1914, Papers of the IX. International Congress of Economic History, vol. 1 ([Stuttgart]: F. Steiner Verlag, 1986), pp. 97–112. 28 Elison, pp. ix–xi. 29 Anonymous, Lectern with the Emblem of the Jesuit Order (‘IHS’), ca. 1600, gold, silver and mother-of-pearl in lacquered wood, Osaka, Namban Bunkakan. For a color photograph, see Exh. cat. Rotterdam 1986, p. 40. It is believed that this Virgin and Child (Museum Catharijneconvent, Utrecht) was painted on copper in Europe, possibly Spain, and that the frame and wings were commissioned and produced in Japan. One of the newly constructed churches in Japan was devoted to the Virgin Mary at Hirado. Michael Cooper, ‘Early Western-Style Paintings in Japan’, in Breen and Williams, pp. 30–34; Exh. cat. Berlin 1993, pp. 266–67; Exh. cat. Rotterdam 1986, p. 36; Montanus, p. 243; Proust, p. 93. deciphering the dutch in deshima 75 Fig. 4. Anonymous, Virgin and Child , ca. 1573–1615. Utrecht, Museum Catharijneconvent 76 mia m. mochizuki largely with an eye toward the production of Catholic devotional art intended to aid in conversion.30 Th e decoration of a Lectern now in Osaka features the well-known monogram of the Society of Jesus in a rich mother-of-pearl design inlaid in lacquered panels. Both the Lectern and the Virgin and Child show how only the richest materials—gold, silver, lacquer, mother-of-pearl—were used for Catholic devotion in early modern Japan, much like the magnifi cence of Roman Catholic devotional art back in Europe. But the pronounced visibility of Jesuit ostentation that accompanied their growing secular power seems to have exacerbated intensifying domestic struggles as a number of feudal lords battled for national control.31 A range of incidents showed a growing hostility to the Jesuits and their converted Japanese fl ock. Iconoclastic behavior has been documented. Reports tell of an anti-Christian offi cial in Kyushu who seized a painting of the Assumption. He then painted out the eyes, wrote an obscene expression across the painting and derisively put it back on display in its altered state.32 When attacks grew from images to people, ‘secret Christians’ (kakure kirishitan), meaning Roman Catholics, began to worship privately, much like Dutch Catholics in the early seventeenth-century. Feudal lords grew increasingly suspicious of the confl icted political loyalties Japanese Catholic converts might harbor, particularly aft er the Jesuits succeeded in converting members of the warrior class and even daimyo. Th e growing ranks of converted Japanese Christians came to be viewed as a threat, people who might compromise their allegiance

30 Willem van Gulik, ‘Japanse kunst in de Momoyama-periode 1568–1600’, Exh. cat. Rotterdam 1986, p. 31. A painting could bring to life the story of Christ, particularly when verbal communication was limited. Noma mentions that ‘some on-the-spot conversions were reported to have been accomplished among Japanese eager to own an appealing, strange holy picture’. Seiroku Noma, Th e Arts of Japan, tr. Glenn T. Webb, vol. 2 (Tokyo: Kodansha International Ltd., 1967), p. 175. For a general treatment of the Counter-reformation impact on Japan during this era, see Proust, pp. 83–112, esp. pp. 87–93. 31 In the 1560’s Japan was largely unifi ed under the control of three lords: Oda Nobunaga (1534–1582), Toyotomi Hideyoshi (1537–1598) and Tokugawa Ieyasu (1542–1616). Nobunaga was assassinated in 1582, but with the death of Hideyoshi in 1598, Japan was thrown into a period of intense internal chaos. Out of the civil strife one man fi nally emerged, Tokugawa Ieyasu, who defeated the last supporters of Hideyoshi to win the famous Battle of Sekigahara in 1600, thereby consolidating his power to become the leader of early modern Japan. Th ree years later he would acquire the title of shogun, confi rming the supreme power of the Tokugawa family and the beginning of a new dynasty that would rule Japan until 1868. Leonard Blussé, Bridging the Divide, pp. 13–14. Goodman, p. 2. 32 Cooper, p. 32. deciphering the dutch in deshima 77 to the shogun and rebel under the international aegis of the Pope. Th is was not as outlandish a fear as it may initially seem, because Japanese Christians had become curious about the Vatican. Th ree Christian lords from Kyushu had just sponsored the fi rst Japanese mission to Europe, where the delegation had been received by both King Philip II and Pope Gregory XIII.33 Aft er a number of bans and restrictions, a series of edicts was imposed during the 1630’s that in eff ect closed access to Japan for most western nations, a policy called sakoku, or ‘closed country’.34 Dutch exploration had run headlong into a period of Japanese national consolidation, and the newly ‘discovered’ arena of Japan became one of the sites where the Portuguese and the Dutch would fi ght out old diff erences in religion and nationhood.35 Against the violence that accompanied political and religious turmoil, a more civilized custom also helps to shape a reconsideration of the e-fumi ceremony. Each year the Dutch had to make a special trip to pay tribute to the shogun. At court Dutchmen were oft en asked to execute mock performances that would illustrate daily life in the Netherlands, what could only seem like an exotic world to the Japanese. Engelbert Kaempfer, the Dutch East India Company surgeon who accompanied

33 Montanus, pp. 30–35, passim; Noma, p. 174. Th e mission departed in 1582 and returned in 1590. Th e trip to Europe—Spain, Italy and Portugal—took three years each way, but once the group arrived in Madrid the four young Japanese men were received by King Philip II, and then taken to Florence and Rome, where Pope Gregory XIII honored them with a special ceremony. In 1590 a dialogue-form narration of their journey was published in Macao under the title De missione legatorum, which Proust has studied in depth. Proust, pp. 1–27, 83–112, passim. 34 Events escalated in 1597 when twenty-six Jesuits were arrested and executed, the fi rst bloody persecution of Christianity in Japan. In 1612 a ban was placed on the propagation of Christianity and the following decades saw a series of increasing stric- tures on this foreign religion. Four years later Christian missionaries were expelled and foreign trade was restricted to the ports of Hirado and Nagasaki. Th en the Spanish were requested to leave aft er allegedly plotting a conspiracy with priests in the Philippines in 1623. By 1636 the Portuguese were relegated to Deshima in the harbor of Nagasaki. Chaiklin has pointed out that in fact anti-Christian laws had been on the books since 1587, but they were not enforced (with the exception of the executions in 1597) until 1612. Th e notion of Japan as a ‘closed country’ has gradually been revised as recent studies have shown how the situation could much better have been described as a ‘sieve’ than a closed door. Chaiklin has attributed the strength of the concept to rhetorical interests and an overstatement of the case by Engelbert Kaempfer, a German physician in the service of the V.O.C. residing on Deshima from 1690 to 1692, whose diary has long been infl uential in western historiography on Japan. Chaiklin, pp. 3–4; Goodman, p. 11; Screech, p. 1, passim. 35 Although Tokugawa Ieyasu granted the English a trade charter to maintain a factory in Hirado in 1613, it was abandoned by the English ten years later as fi nancially unviable. Goodman, p. 12. 78 mia m. mochizuki the court journeys of 1690 and 1691, wrote with irritation in his diary about how the Dutch delegation had to amuse the shogun and his court with ‘countless monkey games, such as how Hollanders salute each other, dance, jump, play the drunkard, speak broken Japanese, read Dutch, paint, sing and take off and put on their cloaks’.36 By accepting the e-fumi ceremony the Dutch could very well have been taking a cue from the interest in western gestures at the Japanese court, an environment that valued display as a means of attaining actual experience. From the Dutch perspective, the e-fumi ceremony may then be understood as essentially stylized iconoclastic behavior, where they could visually display and reiterate their distaste for Catholic-style Christianity on a regular basis. Following largely Calvinist principles, Dutch Reformed Protestants were against fi gural images of Christ and the Virgin Mary, as they had expressed earlier in iconoclastic attacks at home, and would have had no problem highlighting the diff erences between their hard-won beliefs and Roman Catholicism. But their trade adversaries, Portuguese merchants and Jesuits, simply could not in good faith agree to such sacrilegious treatment of devotional objects. Th e e-fumi ceremony then became a critical reaffi rmation of Dutch loyalty to the shogun, much as the Dutch had proven earlier in the bloody Shimabara Rebellion (1637–1638) when they were asked to prove their allegiance against Japanese Christians by lending weaponry and men to the shogun’s army.37 Th is ambivalent involvement, much criticized back in Europe, turned out to be the key to convincing the shogun of Dutch sincerity, allowing them alone to remain when all other westerners were evicted by the fi nal edict of 1639. For the Dutch the e-fumi ceremony continued to reaffi rm, and even celebrate, this bond with the shogun through diplomatic display. Where real iconoclasm brought religious and political independence in the Netherlands, performed iconoclasm in absentia ensured positive trading relationships with Japan.

36 Willem van Gulik, Nederlanders in Nagasaki. Japanse prenten uit de 19de eeuw (Amsterdam: Stichting Terra Incognita, 1998), p. 100. 37 Goodman, pp. 14–15. deciphering the dutch in deshima 79

Sunday visual culture

Evidence of the religious character of the early Dutch merchants is further born out through close scrutiny of the objects that came with them, such as ships, gift s and local decoration. Dutch loyalty to their own form of Christianity, Dutch Reformed Protestantism, can best be seen in the visual vocabulary appropriated from Reformed churches and then recast for exploration. Before the founding of the Dutch East India Company, two Flemish merchants in Rotterdam, Pieter van der Hagen and Johan van der Veken, sponsored the fi rst expedition to Japan.38 A fl eet of fi ve ships—the Geloof, the Hoop, the Liefde, the Trouw and the Blijde Boodschap— departed from the Netherlands in 1598.39 Of the fi ve, only one ship, the Liefde, reached Japan aft er an unusually arduous journey. Taken as a fl eet the names of the fi ve ships for this maiden expedition send a distinctly Reformed message. Th e fl eet consisted of ‘Faith’ (Geloof ), ‘Hope’ (Hoop), ‘Charity’ (Liefde) and ‘Loyalty’ (Trouw), expanding upon the three best known virtues from 1 Corinthians 13:13. Th e last ship was renamed for this expedition as the Blijde Boodschap, which can

38 In the last years of the sixteenth century six companies in the Netherlands were formed to sponsor trade with the East. Later they would be amalgamated into one company, the famous Dutch East India Company, also known as the Verenigde Oostindische Compagnie (frequently abbreviated as ‘V.O.C.’), by order of the States General in 1602. Th e Dutch East India Company was based in Amsterdam and the stated purpose of its seventeen man governing board was to acquire commercial rights and colonial territories for the Netherlands. As a government agency it was empowered to conduct overseas trade, use armed forces, construct forts and factories and sign treaties. Exh. cat. Rotterdam 1986, p. 24; Goodman, p. 10. 39 Paul has transcribed the ships’ names, weight and crew as: Geloof (320 tons, 109 men); Hoop (500 tons, 120 or 130 men); Liefde (300 tons, 110 men); Trouw (220 tons, 86 or 89 men) and the Blijde Boodschap (150 tons, 56 men). Th e fl eet was under the stewardship of Jacques Mahu and Simon de Cordes and departed from Goeree (near Rotterdam), Th e Netherlands, on June 27, 1598. Th eir goal was to reach Asia via the Straits of Magellan according to the English route discovered by Sir Francis Drake, now led by the English pilot William Adams, but the expedition was largely unsuc- cessful. Of the fi ve ships only one, the Liefde, reached Asia and returned safely. Th e Liefde arrived in the Bay of Utsuki off the coast of the Japanese mainland on April 19, 1600. By this time the crew was down to only 24 of the original 110 men, and most were already mortally ill. Only fi ve men would live. Since neither of the initial leaders of the fl eet were alive and the Captain of theLiefde , Jacob Quackerneck, was too ill to pay his respects to Tokugawa Ieyasu, Jan Joosten van Lodensteijn and William Adams went in his place. Leonard Blussé and Jaap de Moor, Nederlanders Overzee. De eerste vijft ig jaar 1600–1650 (Franeker: Uitgeverij T. Wever B.V., 1983), pp. 200–1; Exh. cat. Rotterdam 1986, p. 9; Huibert Paul, Nederlanders in Japan 1600–1854. De VOC op Desjima (Weesp: Fibula-Van Dishoeck, 1984), pp. 79–80. 80 mia m. mochizuki be translated as ‘Glad Tidings’ or ‘Happy Message’ in the specifi c sense of the Gospel. Th e Reformed drew upon verbal ideals from the Bible, rather than the Catholic preference for naming ships aft er patron saints. Even though the Liefde had originally been named the Erasmus aft er Desiderus Erasmus of Rotterdam (1466–1536), a critical fi gure in the reform movement within the Catholic Church, the name was changed, although the fi gurehead remained.40 Th e glorifi cation of single individuals, even heroes of the Reformed Church, was far too reminiscent of the Catholic cult of saints for Reformed taste. Th e names of the ships were not neutral terms, but rather expressed the ideals of the Reformed Church without reference to divine or legendary personages. So to say that the Dutch were not religious was to miss the distinctly Reformed character of the system of signs established aft er reformation, the vocabulary of Reformed belief that was accepted and assumed within the character of the mission. Dutch Reformed material culture and its ideals, like exposure without proselytization, were also evident in the artifacts brought by the Dutch to Japan. In 1636 François Caron, the current Dutch governor of the trading post there, presented the shogun with a magnifi cent brass Chandelier which was placed in Tōshōgū Shrine, Nikko, a shrine dedicated to the shogun’s grandfather, the fi rst Tokugawa shogun Ieyasu (Fig. 5). Housed in its own eight-sided structure, a central, globe-based stem supports the encircling rings of thirty arms with s-shaped volutes that each culmi- nate in a stylized dolphin’s head.41 Massive in scale, at a weight of 796 pounds, it even had a separate wooden stand constructed for its original presentation. Th e Chandelier was a tremendous diplomatic success and

40 Today all that remains of this fi rst noteworthy ship is the fi gurehead of Erasmus: Anonymous, Figurehead of Desiderus Erasmus from De Liefde, 1598, polychrome wood, Tokyo, National Museum (on loan from Ryûkô-in Temple, Tochigi Prefecture). For a color photograph, see van Gulik, Nederlanders, p. 19. For a long time there was quite a bit of confusion over who this statue represented. Potential identities included, ‘a legendary inventor of shipbuilding, a popular god of fortune, a badger, a bogeyman, a missionary or a saint of the Roman Catholic Church!’. J.B. Snellen, ‘Th e Image of Erasmus in Japan’, Transactions of the Asiatic Society of Japan, 2nd ser., 11 (1934): 31. For more on the historiography of the Erasmus statue, see van Gulik, Nederlanders, pp. 152–53. For more on Erasmus portraiture, see Snellen, pp. 26–30; Lisa Jardine, Erasmus, Man of Letters. Th e Construction of Charisma in Print(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993), pp. 27–53, passim. 41 Th .H. Lunsingh Scheurleer, ‘Koperen kronen en waskaarsen voor Japan’, Oud Holland 93 (1979): 69–74, passim; Montanus, p. 149. deciphering the dutch in deshima 81

Fig. 5. Joost Gerritszoon, Chandelier, ca. 1636. Nikko, Tōshōgū Shrine 82 mia m. mochizuki is said to have procured the freedom of a long-term hostage.42 Lunsingh Scheurleer has attributed this magnifi cent piece of work to the brass founder Joost Gerritszoon due to its stylistic similarity to later gift s to Japan where documentary evidence for Gerritszoon’s authorship is preserved.43 In the Netherlands Gerritszoon is best known for his brass work for Reformed churches. It was Gerritszoon who made at least fi f- teen chandeliers for the Old Church in Amsterdam in 1642 that are no longer extant.44 He was also the author of fi ve triple-tiered brass chandeliers for the Great or St. Bavo Church in Haarlem in 1640 and 1641, which have since been replaced by identical modern replicas (Fig. 6).45 Elaborate brass chandeliers had become one of the most popular guild donations to Reformed churches aft er iconoclasm. Th ey usually featured a globe base with spider-like arms to support sconces, and the formal similarity between the Japanese and Haarlem versions is clear. Th is structural resemblance is further underscored when compared to fi gural pre-reformation chandeliers, such as the Chandelier with Virgin and Child from the Catholic era of the St. Jacob’s Church in Th e Hague, which presents the Virgin at its core with rows of stylized crosses to decorate the arms.46 Not only the model of guild donation, but the non-fi gural form and even the same craft sman of the chandeliers were all aspects drawn from the visual culture of Reformed churches. Yet more emphatically than painting, these post-reformation chandeliers could indicate divine presence without material restriction. Light was also equated with life-giving, so it was as fi tting for a shrine decoration in a land that traced its origins back to the sun goddess, Amaterasu Ōmikami, as it was for a Reformed church, a textbook example of semiotic signs that changed meaning in relation to cultural context. Gerritszoon next completed two large candelabra and twenty-four wall sconces, half of which were destined as additional gift s for the

42 Th is was the case of Pieter Nuyts, a lengthy aff air of compounded diplomatic miscommunications. Blussé, Bridging the Divide, pp. 30–32. 43 Lunsingh Scheurleer, pp. 74–75. 44 Joost Gerritzoon’s brass baptismal font and pulpit for the Old Church in Amsterdam can still be seen in situ today. Lunsingh Scheurleer, pp. 85–86. 45 At this time he also cast twelve small chandeliers for the Great or St. Bavo Church in Haarlem. Mochizuki, Netherlandish Image, chapter 5. 46 Anonymous, Chandelier with Virgin and Child, ca. 1475–80, copper, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum (originally from St. Jacob’s Church, Th e Hague). For a black and white photograph, see O. ter Kuile, ‘Een gerestaureerde geelkoperen kaarsenkroon uit de St. Jacobskerk in Den Haag’, Bulletin van het Rijksmuseum 27 (1979): 112. deciphering the dutch in deshima 83

Fig. 6. View of replicas of Joost Gerritszoon chandeliers, Great or St. Bavo Church, Haarlem (photo: E.A. van Voorden) 84 mia m. mochizuki shogun.47 But the grandest gift was an immense brass Lantern with a chandelier inside, also installed in Tōshōgū Shrine, Nikko, where it is still located today (Fig. 7). When the Lantern was commissioned in 1640, trade relations were up in the air. Th e Portuguese had just been expelled and clearly a ‘worthy gift ’ for the shogun could only help a delicate situation.48 At the time it was sent to Japan to join the other brass works at Nikko, this monumental work cost 16,053 guilders and weighed over fi ve times as much as the Chandelier. It was the largest gift given by the Dutch and possibly Gerritszoon’s most important masterpiece. Th e religious overtones (and even potentially sacrilegious use), of this huge Lantern were clear to Dutch contemporaries, especially in Catholic circles. Th e Amsterdam poet Jan Vos composed an epigram denouncing Gerritszoon for making a brass lamp, which may as well have been a crucifi x to burn before what he called the ‘idol’ of the shogun of Japan.49 At that time monumental light fi xtures were closely associated in the Dutch imagination with church decoration. It is therefore signifi cant that Gerritszoon’s brass work was placed in

47 Th is candelabrum and twelve sconces were presented in Japan in 1640. Th e other candelabrum and twelve sconces were sent to Shah Jahan of India. Exh. cat. Amsterdam 2000: Th e Glory of the Golden Age. Painting, Sculpture and Decorative Arts (Amsterdam: Rijksmuseum, 2000), pp. 116–17; Lunsingh Scheurleer, pp. 75–77. 48 Th e Lantern was not presented to the shogun until 1643. Th e Lantern weighed 4,523 pounds. Lunsingh Scheurleer, pp. 79–84. 49 Jan Vos, Alle de gedichten (Amsterdam, 1662), p. 450/1, no. 555, as quoted in Lunsingh Scheurleer, pp. 92–93. Vos attributes this act to the devil’s temptation of fi nancial gain, linking alleged Dutch amorality with trade as in the case of the e-fumi myth. J.G. wou geen kooper kruisbeeldt gieten en maakte een koopere lamp, die voor de afgodt van de Kaiser van Japan zou branden. Schijnheilig wou weleer geen kooper kruisbeeldt maaken Nu maakt hij iet dat voor een duivels beeldt zal blaaken; Maar dit belooft meer geldt dan ’t kruisbeeldt naar ik reeken Is dat de duivel niet, om winst, een kaars opsteeken? J.G. would cast no copper crucifi x, so he made a copper lamp, which shall burn before the idol of the Emperor of Japan. In olden times no copper crucifi x would be made sanctimoniously Now he makes something that shall blaze before a devil’s image; But this promises more money than the crucifi x in my reckoning Is that not the work of the devil, to light a candle for profi t? For more on this poem and its relevance to early modern cross-cultural encounter between Japan and the Netherlands, see Mia M. Mochizuki, ‘Idolatry and Western- inspired Painting in Japan’, in Michael W. Cole and Rebecca Zorach, eds, Idols in the Age of Art: Objects, Devotions and the Early Modern World (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2009), pp. 239–66. deciphering the dutch in deshima 85

Fig. 7. Joost Gerritszoon, Lantern, ca. 1643. Nikko, Tōshōgū Shrine 86 mia m. mochizuki the spiritual environment of a religious shrine, despite being off ered to a very diff erent kind of divine body. In addition to gift s for the shogun, the visual vocabulary used in local decoration on Deshima underscored the Reformed identity of the Dutch East India Company, the institution that assumed responsibility for conducting trade relations with Japan. An early nineteenth-century Governors’ Panel recorded the names of governors of the trading post, the number of ships arriving each year and the major events in the trade relationship, most likely a late example of a longstanding type (Fig. 8).50 If understood in the context of the material culture of the Dutch Reformed Church, the Governors’ Panel could have appropriated the composition and content of objects like Preachers’ Panels, where the servants of God were listed in Reformed churches. A seventeenth- century Preachers’ Panel from Haarlem presents a comparable spatial arrangement to the list of names seen in the Governors’ Panel (Fig. 9). Th e similarities between these two panels may be explained by the confl ation of roles on the island of Deshima, where the governor oft en fi lled a religious as well as a secular function, governor and preacher brought under one hat.51 Recently Schutte has characterized the role of the Reformed Church in the Dutch East India Company as essentially analogous to its role in patria, the Company functioning much like the overseas arm of the Republic.52 In fact the Dutch government explicitly stated in 1622 that the ‘conservation of the public Reformed belief ’ was one of the main reasons they continued to extend permission for the Company’s monopoly on trade with the East.53 Th e Dutch East India Company’s continued existence depended on the maintenance of a

50 Paul, pp. 154–55. 51 In January 1659 the Dutch decided to hold an evening service everyday in a warehouse on Deshima. Paul, pp. 96–97. 52 A distinction should be made between the publicly Reformed character of the Dutch East India Company, its ‘corporate’ identity, and the individual beliefs of the sailors and merchants on board its ships. Th e Company’s sailors were not only Reformed, but also Lutheran and Roman Catholic. However all evidence points to their personal beliefs being subsumed by the Company’s Reformed public face, again mirroring the situation at home, where the government adapted a policy of support for the Reformed Church in a distinctly heterogeneous confessional environment. G.J. Schutte, ed., Het Indisch Sion. De Gereformeerde kerk onder de Verenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie (Hilversum: Verloren, 2002), pp. 11, 47, 48, 52. For more on the complexity of the relationship between the Church and the V.O.C., see Schutte, pp. 43–64; Harm Stevens, Dutch Enterprise and the V.O.C. 1602–1799 (Amsterdam: Stichting Rijksmuseum, 1998), pp. 77–79. 53 Schutte, p. 47. deciphering the dutch in deshima 87

Fig. 8. Anonymous, Deshima Governor’s Panel, ca. 1806 with later additions. Location unknown 88 mia m. mochizuki

Fig. 9. Nicolaas Boddink van Laer, Preachers’ Panel, 1652–1771. Haarlem, Great or St. Bavo Church (photo: E.A. van Voorden) deciphering the dutch in deshima 89

Reformed identity, whether or not it was actively advertised or even understood by those encountered.54 Further, the unusual frame of the Governors’ Panel could also have drawn upon a shape known from another kind of painted Reformed church decoration, text panels, like the Last Supper/Siege of Haarlem Panel in the Great or St. Bavo Church in Haarlem (Fig. 10). Large-scale paintings of biblical quotations, literal paintings of the ‘Word’, were the most visible changes in Reformed churches aft er reformation. Streamlined classical frames, like this one, almost transformed the paintings into independent temples to house the ‘Word’.55 Th e Governors’ Panel presents a simplifi ed version of the triangular pediment of the Last Supper Panel, erecting a new kind of shelter for their leaders abroad. In composition, content, shape and emphasis on minimalist formulae the Governors’ Panel adapted the visual culture of the Dutch Reformed Church to suit the Company’s needs on the island of Deshima.

Cultural coordinates

With many objects lost, we are only now just beginning to piece together what cultural knowledge was communicated during this period, what was understood and what misinterpreted. I began with a Dutch view of the world seen on the inside of a harpsichord cover. Th e map in the background of the harpsichord cover looks radically diff erent from a Japanese World Map of the same period (Fig. 11). If we think of the

54 Japanese-Dutch relations from the seventeenth through the nineteenth century insisted on no overt signs of Christianity. Th e Dutch went to great pains to obliterate or hide any aspects of their religion that could even vaguely be interpreted as openly serving a Christian god. When a warehouse was built in Hirado with the inscription ‘Anno domini 1640’ above the doorway, its reference to Christ seemed provocative to the Japanese, so Caron, the current Dutch governor of the trading post on Deshima, agreed to raze the off ending building, thereby securing continued trade access. Moreover although there were regular Reformed services on Deshima during the seventeenth century, it is unlikely that objects typically used in the service, like Bibles, were allowed until well into the nineteenth century. Only in 1851 is there mention that the offi cial handing over of Bibles in a trunk to the Japanese upon arrival, treated much the same as weapons, was reduced largely to the humor of the inspector, who by that time oft en knew that only hay and stones were in the trunk. Paul, p. 95. 55 For more on the change in decoration from Catholic devotional art to Dutch Reformed church decoration, see Mochizuki, Netherlandish Image; M.M. Mochizuki, ‘Supplanting the Sacred Image aft er Netherlandish Iconoclasm’, in Anne McClanan and Jeff rey Johnson, eds, Negating the Image: Case Studies of Past Iconoclasms (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2005), pp. 137–62. 90 mia m. mochizuki

Fig. 10. Anonymous, Last Supper Panel, ca. 1581. Haarlem, Great or St. Bavo Church (photo: E.A. van Voorden) deciphering the dutch in deshima 91 Fig. 11. Anonymous, World Map , early 17th century. Kobe, Kobe City Museum 92 mia m. mochizuki x- and y-axes as the cultural coordinates of cartography, we can see the diff erences in perspective, distortion and axial alignment that separate these two visions of the world. Th e discrepancies are even more clearly evoked when compared with Abraham Ortelius’ World Map (Fig. 12). Maps like Ortelius’ had just begun to fi nd their way into the collections of wealthy Japanese noblemen and presented a startling alternative viewpoint to the traditional Japanese belief that the earth consisted of only three great land masses: India, China and Japan.56 Th e western view at the time presented fi ve continents: Europe, Asia, Africa, America and the ‘Unknown Southern Land’. In copying images like the Ortelius Map this anonymous Japanese artist preserved the overall aesthetic impression, but subtly slid Asia to the center of the world. By making this change he acknowledged that maps were not only geographical tools, but analogies for world views, an interpretation supported by the artist’s decision to present fi gures in a range of native dress on the pendant to the World Map screen. Th e Japanese artist then made another unusual compositional choice. He shift ed the x- and y-axes to fi t the vertical format of a Japanese screen. But instead of crunching the continents together to squeeze the horizontal view into a vertical one, he understood he was looking at something quite diff erent, a world built on a horizontal vision. So he kept the land masses intact and merely added vertical labels. Th e end result could not have been comfortable for the viewer, reading vertically and then having to tilt the head to see the image horizontally, but it was just this disjointed way of looking that probably typifi ed both sides of visual cultural exchange at this time, the one bending to understand the seemingly idiosyncratic choices of the other. When physically distanced from their origins the relativistic anchors of visual and verbal symbols were oft en severed and once recognizable signifi ers lost their ability to communicate eff ectively. In lands

56 Abraham Ortelius’ World Map, 1587, is believed to have entered a Japanese collection circa 1590. Other infl uential maps in Japan included those made by the well-known Flemish and Dutch cartographers like Gerard Mercator, Willem Janszoon Blaeu and Pieter van den Keere. Proust notes that the Th eatrum orbis terrarum by Ortelius was one of the books brought back by the fi rst mission of the Japanese ‘ambassadors’ to Europe in 1590. Th e books were meant to aid their memory of their experiences and be proff ered as gift s to Japanese noblemen, and in this way would have been accessible to a Japanese artist circa 1590. Els M. Jacobs, ‘Een Japanse liefde: kartografi e’, Exh. cat. Rotterdam 1986, pp. 21, 25, 27; Tadayoshi Miyoshi, ‘Japanische und europäische Kartographie vom 16. bis zum 19. Jahrhundert’, Exh. cat. Berlin 1993, pp. 37–45, 218–34; Proust, p. 94. deciphering the dutch in deshima 93 eatrum orbis terrarum (Antwerp, 1587). Antwerp, Plantin-Moretus Museum Fig. 12. Abraham Ortelius, World Map , 1587, in Th 94 mia m. mochizuki far away, like Japan, the requisite knowledge of the visiting culture needed to decipher words and images was oft en lacking and could lead to lost intentions. Some of the Dutch associations were most likely not understood by the Japanese, such as the religious connotation of ship names or the formal origins of the Governors’ Panel. A few objects did, however, maintain at least part of their original signifi cance, such as the Chandelier and brass Lantern. Th e export of a new Dutch visual culture to Japan was a curious case where the lack of understanding actually may have furthered cultural interaction. And whether consciously absorbed or not, exposure to the formal vocabulary of Dutch Reformed material culture must be added to the list of early Dutch exports to Japan, alongside the topographical prints, marine paintings, perspective boxes, maps and natural science treatises that arrived in later years.

In conclusion it is probably true early Dutch merchants were more interested in money than incense, but not for the reasons generally ascribed. Th e stereotype of the commercially opportunistic Dutchman owes its vitality to the absence of distinction between the diff erent strains of Christianity active in early modern Japan and confusion about the motivations that drove Northern European iconoclasm. Trade was critical for the establishment of a young nation and this is not debated. But these merchants were also Christians, staunch Dutch Reformed Protestants who had just fought a war of independence against a Habsburg king and therefore had no love for Roman Catholicism and its devotional art. Although the Dutch were not explicit proselytizers, their confessional identity was just as central to the public face of their institutions, and therefore the vocabulary employed for exploration, as Roman Catholicism had been to the recently expelled Portuguese. Th e oft en cited evidence for their refutation of Christianity, the ceremony of e-fumi, can be interpreted as a re-enactment of iconoclasm in absentia and a reaffi rmation of Dutch Reformed identity with its ties to nationhood. Indeed the Dutch vocabulary of exploration oft en drew upon the material culture of the young Reformed Church and illustrates the broader implications of this mainstream Sunday culture for the Dutch Republic. Understanding the artifacts of cultural history sheds light on a little known export of the period, exposure to the new Dutch Reformed faith, and shows that the material impact of Calvin’s ideas had a much larger resonance than even he could ever have imagined. THE TRANSNATIONAL DISPERSAL OF THE WALLOON MILITARY ARISTOCRACY IN THE ERA OF THE DUTCH REVOLT THE EXAMPLE OF THE TSERCLAES OF TILLY

John Th eibault

Four armies descended on Bohemia in the wake of the famous Defenestration of Prague in 1618.1 One of those armies, raised by the rebellious Bohemian Estates and placed in the hands of Frederick of the Palatinate, was commanded by a native Bohemian, Count Th urn, and by Frederick’s principal advisor, Christian of Anhalt. But the other three armies were all commanded by noblemen with their roots in the Low Countries. Ernst, Count of Mansfeld, the illegitimate son of the governor of Luxembourg, Pierre Ernst of Mansfeld, commanded an army raised by Duke Emmanuel of Savoy, which was lent to Frederick and garrisoned the key town of Pilsen. Th e Habsburg Emperor Ferdinand II had his own army in Bohemia, commanded by Charles Bonaventure de Longueval, Count of Bucquoy. Ferdinand’s army was supported by the army of the Catholic League, raised by and under the titular command of Maximilian of Bavaria, but directed by his lieutenant general, John Tserclaes of Tilly. In one sense, the presence of these commanders from the Low Coun- tries during the early stages of the Th irty Years War is not a surprise. Aft er all, the Dutch Revolt was the military school of Europe in the second half of the sixteenth century.2 Walloon troops were among the most prized in Europe because of their mastery of the Spanish tercio system. Moreover, the Habsburg connection, alluded to by J.V. Polisensky in his pointed title “Tragic Triangle,” formed a natural link between the

1 Geoff rey Parker, ed., Th e Th irty Years’ War (London, 1984), J.V. Polišenský, Th e Th irty Years War Robert Evans, trans. (Berkeley, CA, 1971), Johannes Burkhardt, Der Dreißigjährige Krieg (Frankfurt, 1992), Günter Barudio, Der Teutsche Krieg 1618–1648 (Frankfurt, 1985). 2 See in particular Geoff rey Parker, Th e Army of Flanders and the Spanish Road 1567–1659 (Cambridge, 1972) and Geoff rey Parker, Th e Military Revolution: Military Innovation and the Rise of the West, 1500–1800 (Cambridge, 1988). 96 john theibault

Holy Roman Empire, especially Bohemia, and the Low Countries.3 Th e second great military school of Europe in the sixteenth century was the Hungarian frontier, where the armies of Christendom confronted the Turks. Th is front also forged close ties between the Austrian Habs- burgs and noble military commanders throughout Europe. Not unexpectedly, all three of the commanders listed above served in the long Turkish war of 1593–1606.4 Nor is it surprising that the three commanders came from the nobility. Despite changes in military organization since the Middle Ages that made most commanders “military enterprisers,” raising troops on a proto-capitalist contract for princes rather than feudal levy, a noble title was usually a prerequisite to getting started as an enterpriser. As Fritz Redlich has observed, “scions of the higher and lower nobility made up the majority of the military-enterpriser commanders, and to enlarge on the topic is superfl uous. Th e descendents of the medieval warrior caste continued their accustomed way of life, but in a form more suitable for the seventeenth century.”5 Among the military enterprisers in the Imperial army during the Th irty Years’ War, for example, 4% originated among the princes, 12% among commoners, and 84% among the high and low nobility. Yet there are also obvious problems with assuming that it was unex- ceptional that Walloon noblemen predominated in the early gambits of the Th irty Years’ War. For even though Redlich’s book has been widely praised by historians and its insights incorporated into studies on military organization, it has had little impact on the dominant interpretive framework of the social position of military nobles across Europe, which has been to view “sword” noblemen primarily as local power-brokers within the emerging territorial state and the military career as way of consolidating that local power base.6 Such an approach leaves out

3 Josef Polišenský, Tragic Triangle: Th e Netherlands, Spain, and Bohemia 1617–1621 (Prague, 1991). 4 Th ere is little on the military history of the long Turkish War. Th e best overview is now Jan Paul Niederkorn, Die europäische Mächte und der “Lange Türkenkrieg” Kaiser Rudolfs II (1593–1606) (Vienna, 1993). 5 Fritz Redlich, Th e German Military Enterpriser and His Workforce 2 vols. (Stuttgart, 1964–5) p. 34. 6 Th is tendency is reinforced by the overwhelming predominance of French case studies for understanding the social position of the nobility. See, for example: Robert Forster, Th e Nobility of Toulouse in the Eighteenth Century: A Social and Economic Study (Baltimore, 1960), S. Amanda Eurich, Th e Economics of Power: the Private Finances the transnational dispersal 97 the myriad ways in which nobles were active beyond their territorial bases. Historians have, of course, recognized that nobles oft en had ties with other nobles that crossed regional, linguistic, and state boundaries. Sometimes those ties led to a dramatic shift in dynastic identity. In the Netherlands, for example, William of Orange had his dynastic roots in the West of Germany and South of France, yet rapidly rose to become identifi ed with the Dutch cause. It took just one generation for the Habsburg family to become indelibly associated with Spain. But there are no systematic studies of how noble dynasties below the level of the peerage ceased to be identifi ed with one region and came to be associated with a diff erent one.7 Even explicitly “international” studies of the nobility tend to treat national nobilities comparatively, rather than observing ties across nations.8

of the House of Foix-Navarre-Albret during the Religious Wars (Kirksville, MO, 1994) Donna Bohanan, Old and New Nobility in Aix-en-Provence, 1600–1689: Portrait of an Urban Elite (Baton Rouge, LA, 1992), Jonathan Dewald, Pont-St.-Pierre, 1398–1789: Lordship, Community, and Capitalism in Early Modern France (Berkeley, 1987) Laurent Bourquin, Noblesse seconde et pouvoir en Champagne aux XVIe et XVIIe siècles (Paris, 1994). Th ese local studies have also fostered important general interpretations of the nobility, such as Jonathan Dewald, Aristocratic Experience and the Origins of Modern Culture: France 1570–1715 (Berkeley, CA, 1993), Ellery Schalk, From Valor to Pedigree: Ideas of Nobility in Sixteenth and Seventeenth Century France (Princeton, 1986), Arlette Jouanna, Le devoir de révolte: La noblesse française et la gestation de l’Etat moderne, 1559–1661 (Paris, 1989), Kristen B. Neuschel, Word of Honor: Interpreting Noble Culture in Sixteenth-Century France (Ithaca, NY, 1989), Jean-Marie Constant, La vie quotidi- enne de la noblesse française aux XVIe et XVIIe siècles (Paris, 1985), J. Russell Major, Representative Government in Early Modern France (New Haven, 1980), Jay Smith Th e Culture of Merit: Nobility, Royal Service, and the making of Absolute Monarchy in France, 1600–1789 (Ann Arbor, 1997). Perhaps the most substantive attempt to link the local case study to the military roles of the nobility is in James B. Wood, Th e Nobility of the Election of Bayeux, 1463–1666: Continuity through Change (Princeton, 1980), pp. 81–95. On the relationship between noble identity and the armies, again overwhelmingly based on the French case, see James B. Wood, Th e King’s Army: Warfare, Soldiers, and Society during the Wars of Religion in France, 1562–1576 (Cambridge, 1996), David Parrott, Richelieu’s Army: War, Government, and Society in France, 1624–1642 (Cambridge, 2001), John A. Lynn, Giant of the grand siècle: Th e French Army 1610–1715(Cambridge, 1997), Guy Rowlands, Th e Dynastic State and the Army under Louis XIV: Royal Service and Private Interest, 1661–1701 (Cambridge, 2002). 7 A partial exception is Stuart Carroll, Noble Power during the French Wars of Religion: Th e Guise Affi nity and the Catholic Cause in Normandy (Cambridge, 1998), which discusses how the Lorraine-based Guise built up their presence in Normandy. 8 Jonathan Dewald, European Nobility, 1400–1800 (Cambridge, 1996), H. M. Scott, Th e European Nobilities in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries 2 vols. (London, 1995), Jean-Pierre Labatut, Les noblesses européennes de la fi n du XVe siècle á la fi n du XVIIIe siècle (Paris, 1978), Ronald G. Asch and Adolf M. Birke, eds., Princes, Patronage, and the Nobility: Th e Court at the Beginning of the Modern Age, c. 1450–1650 (London, 98 john theibault

Th e presence of commanders such as Mansfeld, Bucquoy, and Tilly so far from their homeland, fi ghting for a cause that was only tangen- tially connected to the situation in the Netherlands, underscores the ambiguities of their local Netherlandish identity. It is conspicuous that all three commanders came from the French-speaking rather than the Flemish-speaking parts of what was to become the Spanish Netherlands. (Despite his Germanic name, Ernst of Mansfeld’s bastardy precluded any connection to his father’s ancestral domains, and he himself was raised in Brussels.) Even more striking, however, is that neither Mansfeld nor Tilly were in Habsburg service at the time of the Bohemian rebellion. Whatever career advancement the two of them may have achieved under the Habsburg banner while fi ghting against the Turks, they now toiled for rulers who, while avowedly Catholic (Mansfeld, recall, was offi cially working for the Duke of Savoy, not the Elector Palatine), were natural opponents of Habsburg ambitions in other respects. Mere attachment to the house of Habsburg does not explain how Tilly and Mansfeld came to participate in that specifi c confl ict. Yet, their presence is not a coincidence, but an outgrowth of deliberate noble dynastic strategies that depend on the ambiguity of local or regional identity combined with the specifi c challenge to noble self-conception caused by the Dutch Revolt. Th e case of John Tserclaes of Tilly provides a clear illustration of this point. Th e dynastic strategies and ethos of the military nobility intersected with the events of the Dutch Revolt to prompt Tilly to sever his ties to the Netherlands and “become” Bavarian. John Tserclaes of Tilly, Baron of Marbais, seigneur of Tilly, Balatre, and Montigny sur Sambre, hereditary seneschal of Namur, was a member of a quintessential family of lesser military noblemen. He traced his noble ancestry to Everard Tserclaes, member of a prominent Brussels family who led the recapture of the city for Brabant from the Duke of Flanders in 1356.9 Everard acquired an estate to the west of Brussels near Ternat and established the Tserclaes dynasty as the seigneurs of Kruikenburg, Bodeghem, and Wambeek before he was murdered in 1388. Th e descendents of Everard Tserclaes walked a fi ne line between expiring because they failed to produce a male heir and suff ering dis-

1991), M.L. Bush, Noble Privilege (Manchester, 1983), M.L. Bush, Rich Noble, Poor Noble (Manchester, 1988), Samuel Clark, State and Status: Th e Rise of the State and Aristocratic Powerin Western Europe (Montreal, 1995). 9 See Georges-Henri Dumont Histoire de Bruxelles (Brussels, 1999) p. 37. the transnational dispersal 99 cord and fragmentation because they produced too many heirs10 (See Figure 1). Each generation had to develop some program for regulat- ing issues of succession, which, given demographic patterns of the era, might careen rapidly from one extreme to the other. All of Everard’s six children married and produced children of their own, though the youngest son produced only a daughter who did not continue the lineage. So, beginning in the fourteenth century there were competing branches of the Tseclaes of Kruikenburg, a senior line and a junior line. Th e next generation in the senior line once again confronted the problem of two inheriting brothers. Th is time, however, the younger son John was able to acquire a new seigneurie to the south of Brussels. On June 6, 1448, he was invested with the title seigneur of Tilly, Maisnil, and Montigny sur Sambre. Th e acquisition of the seigneurie of Tilly was the fi rst step in craft - ing a new dynastic identity because titles and seigneuries were the currency of noble honor. Th e association of the lineage with a specifi c place solidifi ed in the early modern era with spread of dynastic names that included de, von, or van and then referred to their principal seat. In formal documents, the enumeration of a long list of territories possessed (or claimed) by the lineage underscored the connections to various places. Historians usually focus on how the noble preoccupation with lands and titles excluded non-nobles from power and status by manipulating the privileges that went with land ownership. But it was equally important as a status denominator within the nobility itself. Acquisition and jealous guarding of titles, which is sometimes characterized as a quest for “glory” was certainly also, in part, an attempt to raise or preserve relative status amongst ones fellow nobles. So, in addition to protecting noble privilege against non-noble en- croachment, the ambitious nobleman also tried to enhance his dynasty’s standing by acquiring new lands and titles. Th is eff ort was both a quest for individual glory commensurate with the noble vision of merit, and for recognition of the blood that justifi ed noble dominance through dynastic succession. As Sherrin Marshall has observed, individual status

10 Except where explicitly noted, all genealogical data concerning the Tserclaes of Tilly family tree comes from Felix-Victor Goethals, “Tserclaes de Tilly,” in Dictionnaire génealogique et heraldique des familles nobles (Brussels, 1853) 111–169 and Charles Popliment, “Tserclaes,” in La Belgique heraldique: Receuil historique, chronologique, genealogique, et biographique complet de toutes les maisons nobles reconnues de la belgique Vol. 11 (Paris, 1867) 1–82. 100 john theibault

Everard Tserclaes d. 1388

Everard Tserclaes d. 1422 Wenceslas Tserclaes (1st Kruikenburg line) (2nd Kruikenburg line)

William Everard John d. 1473 Wenceslas Wencelyn (Tilly line)

William Everard John d. 1497 Everard Wenceslas Philip (Ophalsen line)

Francis Everard Jacob d. 1535 Charles Charles Florent (end of line) Philip Everard Florent (end of (end of line) line) Charles (end of line)

Jacob Martin d. 1597 Conrad Mary Ann Jeanne John Anthony

5 more Jacob d. 1624 John d. 1632 Mary Margaret To the generations 20th century John Werner Werner Alexandrine Margaret Dorothy Ann (Breiteneck line) Marie

2 more 2 more generations generations

Fig. 1. Tserclaes Family Tree the transnational dispersal 101 and advancement were inextricably linked to the fortunes of the lineage.11 In the case of John Tserclaes in 1448, he simultaneously advanced the status of the Tserclaes lineage as a whole, which now had a Tilly and a Kruikenburg line, and the prospects for his own descendents, who no longer had to worry about being on the disadvantaged side of any claims to the ancestral properties in Ternat or Brussels. Possession of titles and lands served as leverage for getting still more titles and lands and thereby enhance a lineage’s prestige in relation to other noble lineages. Exercising that leverage prompted the lineage to look beyond the narrow confi nes of one’s home territory. Marriage is perhaps the best known way in which dynastic strategies transcended territorial boundaries. Th ough the House of Habsburg is particularly famous for using matrimony as a strategy for acquiring new lands and titles, minor noble families were probably even more dependent on acquiring an expiring lineage in marriage for building up their land and titles. Another strategy for nobles to expand their seigneurial holdings and titles was to purchase them. It appears that this is how Everard acquired Kruikenburg. Th is strategy was widespread, but risky. An investment in a seigneurie for status purposes could provoke a decline in status if debts from the purchase overwhelmed the nobleman.12 Th e third way of acquiring new lands and titles was to be granted them in return for meritorious service. A king might elevate a nobleman’s rank without granting him any new seigneuries. Th e grant could extend just for that nobleman’s lifetime, or it could be hereditary. If hereditary, the seigneurie itself usually changed status to the higher rank (e.g. a County became a Duchy). On the other hand, a king might give a nobleman new seigneuries without raising his rank. Such grants were obviously constrained by the availability of seigneuries to grant, which had to come either from the royal domain or from the devolution of property when a lineage expired. One reason, then, for becoming a military enterpriser (or, indeed, a courtier noble) was because it provided the best opportunity for gaining new lands and titles for the lineage. War was good for the military

11 Sherrin Marshall, The Dutch Gentry, 1500–1650: Family, Faith and Fortune (Greenport, CT, 1987). 12 Th is did indeed happen. One prominent example is the general Pappenheim in the Th irty Years’ War, who was nearly ruined by debt when he bought an estate. See Barbara Stadler, Pappenheim und die Zeit des Dreißigjährigen Krieges (Winterthur, 1991) pp. 149–51. 102 john theibault nobleman because it provided opportunities for conspicuous service to the king and because it sometimes made lands and titles available for redistribution. But even more than in the purchase of a seigneurie, the opportunity for gain came with great risk. If their work was unsuccess- ful, commanders could lose both their fortunes and their lives. So, while noble lineages strove to advance in status, they also had to confront constraints. Th e successes and failures of one member of the family might throw off the calculations of the others. We should consider, therefore, the choice of a military career not as an individual decision, but as part of a dynastic strategy, which tried to moderate the risk and maximize the reward for all branches. Th e events of the sixteenth century threw these concerns into stark relief. On the one hand, the senior line of the Tserclaes of Kruikenburg ran out of male heirs. Philip Tserclaes of Kruikenburg died in 1547, leaving his sister Catherine to pass the estates of Kruikenburg, Bodeghem, and Wambeek to her children. Meanwhile, the Tserclaes of Tilly had made a modest advance from John’s starting position. Th e village of Tilly remained an unimpressive base for a dynasty, consisting of a mere fi ft y households.13 Montigny sur Sambre was comparably sized. Th e family had managed to acquire the seigneurie of neighboring Balatre, also about the same size as Tilly, via marriage. Even more signifi cantly, they acquired the title of hereditary seneschal of Namur, a title of particular importance because it extended the family’s infl uence beyond its Brabantine roots. At the start of the sixteenth century, all of these properties were in the hands of Jacob, grandson of John, the founder of the Tserclaes of Tilly lineage. Jacob married Marie of Bossimel, the daughter of an expiring neighboring Brabantine noble lineage, which helped bring Balatre under the Tillys’ control. Jacob and Marie had six children, three girls and three boys. Th e size of the brood was a potential problem for the succession for the reasons we discussed above. Th e ordinary expectation was that the eldest of the three sons, Jacob, would be the principal heir to his father’s lands. But all three sons had to be prepared both for some kind of noble vocation and for the possibility that they would become the ultimate heir. In this generation all three opted for military careers. And, as it happened, they arrived at a favorable moment for gaining attention through such service, since

13 J. Cuvelier, Les Dénombrements de Foyers en Brabant (XIVe–XVIe siècle) (Brussels, 1912) p. 476. the transnational dispersal 103 they came to maturity in the midst of the many wars of their sovereign Charles V. Jacob was involved in the campaign against Julich-Cleves during the Schmalkaldic War in 1547. Th e middle son, Martin, fought in Livonia against the Duchy of Muscovy.14 Th e youngest son, Conrad, fought in France, perhaps participating in the siege of Metz. Because the presence of three sons made it unlikely that the daughters would become a principal heir, the attractiveness of the daughters as marriage partners was limited to their potential dowries and the value of the alliance with the still relatively unimportant Tserclaes of Tilly family. As a result, two of the daughters ended up taking religious vows. Th e third married Michael of Warisoul, the lieutenant governor of Namur. Th e marriage was advantageous for the Tillys because it reinforced the family’s connection to the duchy of Namur. It may have been equally advantageous for Michael of Warisoul to be attached to a family that held the title hereditary seneschal of the principality. Her marriage may also have been fostered by the family’s visibility at court, as we shall see shortly. Th e middle brother, Martin, proved to be the key fi gure in the Tserclaes of Tilly line of descent, even though his military adventures took him farthest from home. His military experience came in a regiment under the command of Meinhard von Schierstadt, a Pomeranian nobleman. He fought alongside Schierstadt’s two sons, Seth and Loth. It is not entirely clear how Martin came to join a regiment commanded by a Pomeranian and fi ght in Livonia, but the connection was probably forged at court in Brussels, where Schierstadt’s daughter, Dorothy, was lady in waiting to Mary of Hungary. Whether the initial contact came from Meinhard, from Jacob, or from some third party, the connection became a fruitful one. Martin eventually married Dorothy in 1552. Th at this was a match made at court is indicated by the fact that the union was formally blessed in a lengthy letter of congratulations from Mary of Hungary herself. Th e Tserclaes of Tilly seem never to have used the Schierstadt connection to forge family ties to Pomerania, though such a possibility

14 Perhaps indicative of just how far-fl ung Charles V’s military presence was, I have found no evidence of this “front” in the standard works of his reign or campaigns. See, for example, Karl Brandi, Th e Emperor Charles V trans. C.V. Wedgwood, (Atlantic Highlands, NJ, 1965), Wim Blockmans, Emperor Charles V, 1500–1558 trans. Isola van den Hoven-Vardon (London, 2002), James D. Tracy, Emperor Charles V, Impresario of War: Campaign Strategy, International Finance, and Domestic Politics (Cambridge, 2002). 104 john theibault may have made the match a particularly attractive one. It shows that the Tilly’s network already extended beyond the boundaries of the Netherlands into Germany well before John Tserclaes of Tilly assumed his Bavarian command. Th e possibility of building a strong connection for the lineage in Pomerania was moot by the time of Martin’s wedding, however. His older brother Jacob had died, unmarried, in 1547, while campaigning. His father died in 1549, whereupon Martin acquired the title seigneur of Tilly and became the principal heir to the lineage. It is less clear what other titles and lands he acquired at that time. His brother Conrad was apparently given title to the seigneurie of Balatre upon his father’s death, which suggests that the brothers and father were prepared to divide the inheritance between two lineages if it proved advantageous. But Conrad did not marry and may have been in bad health. In May 1555, Conrad wrote a testament ceding control over Balatre to Martin’s line on his death. Just over a year later, in September 1556, Conrad died, leaving Martin, like his father, as the sole male progenitor of the Tserclaes of Tilly and in possession of all of his properties. As sole heir to the Tserclaes of Tilly lineage, Martin took on a new social role. He ceased to go out on campaign and settled on the family seigneurie. Th is strategy suggests that, at least for a minor nobleman like Martin, maintenance of the lineage through estate management was viewed as the principal task of the nobleman and that the military career, much like the church, was primarily for those members of the lineage who were not in a position to assume primary responsibility for the lineage. Martin quickly set about securing the lineage. He had two sons, Jacob, born in 1555 and John, born in 1559 and two daughters, Mary and Margaret. Conrad’s testament may have been inspired by the recent birth of Jacob, which made it likely that the Tserclaes of Tilly lineage would extend another generation. Martin became not just a seigneur, but a locally active participant in the internal aff airs of Brabant and Namur. In the process, he became a conventional defender of local self-governance. In 1562, he traveled to Madrid as part of a delegation from Brabant, which presented the Estates’ grievances to Philip II. Th at participation is a sign of how quickly he made the transition from military adventurer abroad to part of a local network of politically active noblemen. It was in that role that Martin made a fateful decision. He participated in the famous procession to Margaret of Parma to present the Compromise of the Nobility in 1566. the transnational dispersal 105

Th e Compromise of the Nobility was unquestionably a pivotal event for the entire nobility of the Netherlands.15 Much of the minor nobility, both Protestant and Catholic, joined with the grandees in defense of religious toleration as part of a general assertion of traditional noble privilege and prerogatives. Th e Compromise crystallized the noble interpretation of how their local power related to monarchical authority. Philip II’s absolute rejection of the premises and arguments of the Compromise forced nobles into a decisive reassessment of their social and political role. It was undoubtedly a shock to their self-understanding, which hovered between recognition of the monarch as the only true source of political legitimacy and assertion of their own special qualifi cations for local rule based on the doctrine of advice and counsel. And it forced them to confront the undeniably “local” basis of their individual power and authority. Martin himself was an orthodox Catholic and personally loyal to the House of Habsburg. Provost Morillon, a pro-Habsburg observer of the background and early history of the Dutch Revolt, commented that he had “always considered him to be a wise gentleman.”16 At fi rst, provost Morillon believed that Martin, like many others, was duped into signing; but he later begrudgingly acknowledged that “he is in with the confederates.” Indeed, not only was Martin “in with” the confederates, he was actively assisted in the spread of their ideas. He served as the Namur delegate to the colloquy at St. Trond, which tried to secure Margaret’s acceptance of the Compromise aft er her initial tepid response. One assumes that Martin viewed participation in the Compromise as a legitimate expression of his noble status. But he quickly came to see that it carried terrible consequences. Th e Council of Troubles

15 Henk van Nierop, “A Beggars’ Banquet: Th e Compromise of the Nobility and the Politics of Inversion,” European History Quarterly 21 (1991) 419–443. H.A. Enno van Gelder, “De Nederlandse Adel en de Opstand tegen Spanje, 1565–1572,” Tijdschrift voor Geschiednis 45 (1930) 1–20, 138–159. Th ere is comparatively little work on the early modern nobility of the Low Countries. But much of the work that does exist concerns the position of the nobles in the Dutch Revolt. See especially, Henk van Nierop, Th e Nobility of Holland: From Knights to Regents, 1500–1650 trans. Maarten Ultee (Cambridge, 1993), Sherrin Marshall Wyntjes, “Family Allegiance and Religious Persuasion: Th e Lesser Nobility and the Revolt of the Netherlands,” Sixteenth Century Journal 12 (1981) 43–60. For Brabant in particular, see Paul Janssens, L’évolution de la noblesse belge depuis la fi n du Moyen âge (Brussels, 1998). 16 Cited in Edmond Poullet, ed., Correspondence de Cardinal de Granvelle, 1565–1586 Vol. 1 (Brussels, 1877) p. 307. 106 john theibault condemned Martin on September 1, 1568 “for having been one of the confederate gentlemen and having signed their detestable Compromise, for aft erwards being at St. Trond, where he was chosen and designated by the confederates of Namur as one of their deputies to negotiate the business of the confederates with his highness, and at that place, St. Trond to have undertaken various acts of rebellion such as to take arms against his highness, to receive and protect sectarians, also to retain with Wartgeld a company of cavalry and four regiments of Germans to fi ght against his majesty, etc.”17 Later events make the latter two accusations doubtful, although it would have been entirely characteristic of an experienced military man like Martin to be asked to command a rebel force. Th e Council of Namur announced that Martin, along with several of his noble neighbors, were under perpetual ban. Th ey declared Martin’s property forfeit, giving it over to an appointed administrator, who kept careful track of demesne revenues during the period of confi scation.18 Martin fl ed to the Bishopric of Liège as soon as he heard of his condemnation. Th e confi scations and depositions of noblemen by the so-called Council of Troubles and in the aftermath of the Battle of White Mountain in Bohemia (both punctuated with exemplary executions) are two of the most sweeping examples of the exercise of royal authority against the material basis of noble privilege in the early modern era. On the other hand, even in the severity of Philip’s response, we can see resilience in the nobles’ social position. Philip was able to carry out his confi scations, but not in a way that undermined the underlying familial/dynastic strategies of the aff ected lineages. Th e appointment of an administrator for the confi scated property meant that the lands were not viewed as reverted to the crown. It also appears that the confi scations did not derogate the families aff ected. As we shall see, kin networks and inheritance patterns continued to infl uence the disposition of confi scated lands. Th ough stripped of local power and authority, exiled noblemen remained noblemen, part of a transnational group. Many nobles responded to the perpetual ban and confi scations by radicalizing still further. One example were Martin’s close Brabantine neighbors, Lancelot and Philip of Marbais, who had been condemned

17 Cited in Antoine de Villermont, Tilly ou La Guerre de Trente Ans vol. 1 (Paris, 1860) p. 3. 18 See Archives Generales du Royaume, Brussels (AGR), Chambre des Comptes 18638. the transnational dispersal 107 at the same Namur Council as Martin had been. Martin, on the other hand, seized the opportunity to rehabilitate himself in the eyes of the Habsburgs. He cultivated a network of supporters in Liège and at court in Brussels to attest to his Catholic conformity and his desire for reconciliation with Philip. Th e most conspicuous way to demonstrate his fi delity was through his handling of his lineage, in the form of his male children. Almost immediately upon arrival in Liège, the younger son John entered the Jesuit school in Chatelet, and transferred soon thereaft er to another Jesuit school in Cologne. John’s schooling was not, by itself, defi nitive proof of the family’s Catholic orthodoxy, but it was a gesture meant to alleviate suspicion of harboring Protestant sympathies. John acquired a reputation for piety and austerity during his time in Jesuit schools, which was to defi ne his style throughout his military career. Meanwhile, Martin pushed for a more conspicuous sign of reconciliation. In 1570, he succeeded in a grand way, by arranging the marriage of his eldest son, Jacob, then sixteen years old, to Dorothy, the daughter of Maximilian of East Frisia. Th is was a remarkably high profi le marriage for a family in exile with its property confi scated. It must have been accomplished with at least the tacit understanding that the Tillys would eventually be reconciled with the House of Habsburg, since Dorothy’s grandmother was a legitimized natural daughter of Maximilian I of Habsburg. As an added advantage to the Tillys, she brought to the marriage the right of succession to the seigneuries of Heeswyck, Dinter, Berlicum, and Middelrode in northern Brabant. Just two years aft er his marriage, Jacob took up service as a volunteer pikeman, or particulare, (the traditional entree of young noblemen into military life) in the regiment of Herman Lynden, Baron of Reckheim, part of the Spanish forces then occupying Brabant. He was eighteen years old. Two years later, John also joined as a particulare in the same regiment. He was only fourteen, an unusually early age to begin a military career. Th e young Tillys’ entry into military service coincided with the end of Alba’s regime and his replacement with the more conciliatory Requesens. It is diffi cult to say whether the change in leadership or Martin’s astute “use” of his sons were more important in rehabilitating the lineage in the Habsburg’ eyes. On April 30, 1574, Requesens formally revoked the ban on Martin. Th ere were three immediate eff ects of this restoration. First, Martin was able to return to his seigneuries from Liège and resume the role of locally important regional noble. Second, the revenues from those seigneuries could now be tapped to support 108 john theibault military entrepreneurial activity by Martin’s sons. And third, Martin’s lineage was now able to grant favors as well as receive them, within the network of nobles attached to the Habsburg court in Brussels. Each of these meant that Martin no longer had to follow a defensive strategy of preventing loss, but could move towards a strategy of actively promoting the advancement of the lineage once again. Martin’s restoration thereby aff ected the careers of John and Jacob, too. Although their situations were quite similar in outward appearance, they were quite diff erent in underlying assumptions. Indeed, in many respects, the experiences of John and Jacob replicated the experiences of Jacob, Martin, and Conrad in the previous generation. Jacob was now the primary heir to his father’s estates and assumed the familial role that Martin had before his father’s death. Jacob had, of course, married even before his military career began and though he and his wife remained childless for many years, they eventually had seven children. Propagation of the Tserclaes of Tilly lineage was safe in his hands. John, on the other hand, remained celibate. His decision to remain celibate was certainly connected to his Tridentine Catholic faith, but it was equally a product of his position as the second son in a minor noble family. In this respect, he was much like his uncle Conrad, who also never married even aft er his father’s death.19 While Martin returned to his properties in Brabant, Jacob and John began to exhibit special promise as military leaders. Th eir rstfi campaign was during the Cologne War of 1578, when John was just eighteen. Between then and 1594, they participated in several of the most prominent confl icts of the era, including the siege of Antwerp in 1584, the submission of Brussels in 1585, and the battles of Auneau, Arques, and Ivry. John later claimed that Henry of Navarre was so impressed by his leadership that he off ered him a position in his own army. But the Guise made him an even stronger off er: seigneurial jurisdiction over Dun and Villefranche, two seigneuries in French territory, near the border with Namur. Th e acquisition extended the lineage’s infl u- ence beyond the boundaries of the Netherlands while maintaining a close tie to Namur. But what is most striking is that the benefi ciary of the grant was John, rather than Jacob. John’s titles to Dun and Villefranche would

19 For biographical background on John Tserclaes of Tilly’s early career, Antoine de Villermont, Tilly ou La Guerre de Trente Ans 2 vols. (Paris, 1860) remains fundamental. the transnational dispersal 109 have enabled him to start a new branch of the lineage without impos- ing directly on Jacob’s branch. Even more important, it allowed him to use the lands as an independent source of capital for his military entrepreneurship. Possession of seigneuries was important for a military enterpriser because it provided the capital for raising troops. At the outset of their careers, John and Jacob relied on their father to supply the capital for their commands. Th e most direct evidence of this connection is a debt of 10,000 fl . taken on by Martin in 1589 “wishing to assist my son Jacob Tserclaes, knight, colonel of four companies of lances in the service of the Duke of Lorraine, having to outfi t said companies . . . to purchase silk and woolen cloth.”20 Th ese loans were secured by the revenues from the seigneuries of Tilly, Balatre, and Montigny sur Sambre, which were prosperous enough to support one career in military entrepreneurship, but would be strapped to fi nance two. Unfortunately for John, Henry IV’s conversion and the collapse of the Guise position led to the confi scation of his newly acquired seigeuries in 1594. John pretended to the titles for a few more years, but eventually abandoned his claims. The outcome of the conflict underscored the fact that augmenting one’s noble status by acquiring territories was an uncertain business, subject to the political winds. Not only did Henry IV’s triumph deprive John of his new seigneuries, it also led to the disbanding of his troops. Peace was a barrier to a strategy of advancement through military glory. Already in 1593, however, there was a new outlet for military activity which was especially attractive to dedicated Catholic families like the Tillys: Hungary. While fi ghting in France, both John and Jacob had made important contacts that extended their geographical reach and made the move eastward easier. Th ese contacts enabled the Tillys to make the transition from promising noble soldier to military entrepreneur commander. In September, 1594, Rudolf II wrote to Archduke Ernst in Brussels to inquire about the availability of several Netherlandish noblemen, including the Tillys.21 Indeed, Rudolf appears to have been better informed about the qualifi cations and accomplishments of these noblemen than Ernst was. At the beginning of 1596 a “Baron of Tilly” (it’s not clear whether Jacob or John) received a patent to raise a regiment of Walloon infantry

20 AGR Cour Féodale 364 fol. 180v. 21 Villermont, Vol. 2, p. 242. 110 john theibault in Liège. It was the fi rst of several units that one or the other brother was to raise in the course of the confl ict. Once in Hungary, the presence of other fi gures from the wars in France aided their advance. John’s first commander in France, Adolf von Schwarzenberg, led the forces that captured the key Hungarian fortress of Raab in March, 1598. Another one of the Tillys’ biggest advocates in the war against Henry IV, the Duke of Mercoeur, became lieutenant general of the Imperial army in Hungary in 1600 and helped John and Jacob advance. Th e Tillys’ opportunities for advance in Hungary continued to also depend on their position in Brabant. Th e fundamental diff erence in the roles of the two brothers became obvious when Martin died in 1597. Jacob returned from Hungary and took up residence on his Brabantine estates. He remained active as a military leader for a few years aft er his return to Brabant, raising a regiment that participated in the siege of Oostende in 1600. But his primary role became that of locally prominent regional nobleman, just as his father had become aft er his return from Livonia. He set about ensuring an heir to the ancestral lands, fathering two sons and fi ve daughters. With the births of John Werner and Werner, John’s dynastic ties to the ancestral properties of Tilly, Balatre, and Montigny sur Sambre were considerably weakened, though he retained them in his titles. In the meantime, one of Jacob and John’s sisters, Margaret, further cemented the family connection to the Imperial army in Hungary by marrying Jost Henry von Witzleben, a captain there. With Jacob fi rmly established as a local power-broker in Brabant, both John and Jacob could turn their attention to securing John’s position in the military while enhancing the prospects for Jacob’s off spring. To understand how they went about this, we need to go back to Martin’s neighbors Philip and Lancelot of Marbais.22 As noted above, their lands were declared forfeit at the same time that Martin’s were. Martin and Lancelot were both denounced before the council in Namur and Lancelot, like Martin, fl ed to Liège. But the Marbais family opted to raise forces for the Prince of Orange and join the growing rebellion. Naturally, they were not reinstated in their domains by Requesens in 1574. Th e closest member of the family to remain loyal to Philip II was Lancelot’s sister, Jeanne of Merode. She kept in touch with the court in

22 For the following, except where noted, see René Pillois-DuBois, La Seigneurie de Marbais (du XI e au XVI e siècle) (Villers-la-Ville, 1973). the transnational dispersal 111

Brussels in order to maintain her claim on the property, which was in perpetual lien to the confi scation administrator J. de Brandenbrouck and “deserted” by the 1580s. Other relatives with ties to the rebellion also laid claim to the estates and it appears that Jeanne engaged in a constant legal confl icts over the property. Th is internal family split made it impossible to follow a dynastic strategy. During this time of confl ict with her cousins, she must have gotten to know the Tserclaes of Tilly, though where exactly is unknown. Th e only direct evidence of contact is that Martin was one of eight judges of a legal case between her and Dennis of Marbais, one of the rebel relatives, in 1582, an indicator of Martin’s importance as regional power-broker aft er his restoration.23 Th e fi ght of the Marbais succession extended from 1585, when Jeanne formally petitioned the Privy Council to turn the property over to her, until 1600, when she was fi nally confi rmed in possession of the lands. She thereupon did something remarkable: she immediately turned around and bequeathed all seigneurial rights to the property to John Tserclaes of Tilly. Th e fi rst thing to note about the donation is that it went to John (who was referred to by his titles “governor of Dun and chamberlain of the Duke of Lorraine”) rather than Jacob, even though Jacob was Martin’s principal heir, politically active on his estates nearby at Tilly, while John was, at the time of the donation, leading troops in Hungary against the Turks. Th e document for the donation invoked the standard boilerplate of the era, noting that Jeanne made it “of free will and without persuasion or coercion” because of “her strong aff ection for him.”24 Given that John had been active in Hungary for several years by 1600, it is hard to see how Jeanne could ever have met him, much less develop a “strong aff ection” for him. Undoubtedly, however, the reconfi rmation of Jeanne’s rights against competing members of her lineage was part of the negotiations between the Tserclaes of Tilly, Jeanne, and the Habsburg court over how to use that piece of property most eff ectively. It refl ected Jacob’s increasing prominence as a local power-broker. Th e recently installed regents Albert and Isabella may also have been central to brokering the deal, in order to gain John as an ally. In any case, John was to remain a constant correspondent with them, even as his service took him further and further from their

23 Cécile Douxchamps-Lefevre and Philippe Godding, Enquêtes par turbe du conseil de Namur (1496–1630) (Brussels, 1972) p. 238. 24 Pillois-DuBois, p. 120. 112 john theibault immediate political support.25 Jeanne’s recompense for the donation was that she continued to live on the property until her death in 1610, while John received the revenues from the lands. In acquiring the seigneurie of Marbais, John Tserclaes of Tilly also acquired a new identity. For the next twenty years or so, he referred to himself and was referred to by others in correspondence as the “Baron of Marbais.” Even in the fi rst years of the Th irty Years War, “Marbais” was at least as central to his identity as was “Tilly.” Th e acquisition of Marbais also made John less dependent on his brother’s lands to fi nance his own activities as a military entrepreneur. Th ough John was now a Brabantine seigneur in his own right, his military success in Hungary also prompted a more ambitious strategy for family advancement. John gained attention at court during an attempt to raise the siege of Canissa in 1600. Th ough the attempt failed, John was not tainted by the fall of the town and instead was given more prominent positions in the army. During the siege of the Turkish garrison of Stuhlweissenburg the next year, John’s old patron the Duke of Mercoeur chose his Walloon troops to lead the fi rst assault on the walls. John suff ered a gunshot wound in the arm, but his troops helped break the Turks’ defense, leading to the town’s capture. Despite injuries which prompted him to appeal for disability from the Hofk riegsrat, Tilly turned around just two months later with a proposal to raise 5,000 Walloon troops in Liège.26 Th e object of both the pleas for pensions and the off ers to raise troops was to make John an indispensable part of the highest echelon of military enterprisers for Rudolf, the level at which John could be a dispenser of patronage of his own. So John spent time in Prague, playing the courtier and cultivating supporters who could infl uence Rudolf, the most prominent of whom was the Imperial Chamberlain, Philip Lang. Tilly became the favorite of the papal agents in Prague, as well. Th e nuncio Giovani Stefano Ferrara supported him to be the next General of the Artillery, an offi ce he was eventually granted in 1604.27 By 1605, John was one of the most infl uential noble offi cers on the Turkish front. He was promoted to Field Marshall. Th at promotion

25 See especially the collection of letters between Tilly and Isabella in Villermont, vol. 2, pp. 241–453. 26 Kriegsarchiv, Vienna (KAW) Hofk riegsrat 206 Expedit 1601. 27 Arnold Oskar Meyer, ed. Die Prager Nuntiatur des Giovanni Stefano Ferrerri und die Wiener Nuntiatur des Giacomo Serra, 1603–6 (Berlin, 1911) pp. 11–18. the transnational dispersal 113 made it virtually certain that he would receive donations of lands and titles if there should be future military successes comparable to Stuhlweissenburg. Yet all the while, John pleaded with the Hofk riegsrat for additional payments, ostensibly to facilitate his work as commander, but practically to make his rise in status a remunerative proposition.28 Th ere were, in any case, risks involved in being in the highest echelons of the military hierarchy. Th e fi rst was the ever-present danger of death or serious injury in battle. Th at risk was compounded by the fact that the military enterprise was dependent on the personal credit of the commander. Injury, or even failure, could lead to a complete collapse of that credit, leaving all of the gains of land and titles at risk. Peace was yet another threat to that credit. Th e Peace of Zsitvatorok in 1606 that ended the Turkish Wars was badly timed for John, because he had reached the top too late to get any of the biggest rewards for victories. And now he was stuck. Military enterprisers were not free agents, able to choose patrons at will. Rudolf still required John to fi ght fi rst against the Bocskay rebellion and then to deal with a new looming threat, Rudolf ’s rivalry with his brother Matthias over issues of succession and administration.29 Tilly was one of the most prominent generals to remain loyal to Rudolf as the confl ict between the brothers escalated. When Matthias won this so-called Bruderzwist, and established himself in Vienna, Tilly’s reputation suff ered a serious setback. In defending Rudolf, Tilly had brought his forces into Moravia, where they had caused extensive damage to the estates of Matthias’ loyalists. John’s days in Imperial service were numbered. He remained in Prague along with many of Rudolf ’s other courtiers, trying to stave off a complete collapse of credit. John claimed that he was out 330,176 fl in personal funds expended on Rudolf ’s behalf.30 As early as fall, 1606, Tilly was using his contacts to try to fi nd a new patron.31 At fi rst, he tried having his predecessor George Basta secure him a position with the papal army. When that failed, a representative of the Duke of Bavaria contacted him with an off er of service there. It took John nearly three years to extricate himself from Prague and join Bavarian service. Th e fi rst issue was the amount of compensation.

28 Kriegsarchiv, Vienna (KAW) Hofk riegsrat 211 Expedit 1604. 29 For the confl ict between Rudolf and Matthias, see R.J.W. Evans, Th e Making of the Habsburg Monarchy 1550–1700 (Oxford, 1979). 30 Bayerische Hauptstaatsarchiv, Munich Personenselekt Tilly 457. 31 Meyer, p. 190. 114 john theibault

Maximilian initially off ered a salary of 3000 fl ., while Tilly countered with a request for 8000 fl ., which, he claimed was half of what he might earn elsewhere. Maximilian’s response to the request is interesting, since it refl ects his perception of what motivated Tilly’s intransigence. He argued that Tilly’s expectations were infl ated because of the high cost of courtiership in Prague, but “Tilly can get by with 4000 fl . in Munich without diminishing his status.”32 Tilly replied that his demands for a higher salary were prompted by the need to pay off his debts. He asked that if he could not be paid more, that Maximilian intercede to get the debts reduced. Although John agreed in principle to the appointment to the Bavarian army in 1609, his departure from Prague was repeatedly delayed by his continuing negotiation with his creditors and with Rudolf himself. It was only aft er a formal audience with Rudolf that Tilly fi nally departed for Munich on May 15, 1610. As soon as John was released from his obligations to Rudolf he wrote to Albert and Isabella with the promise “to remain in complete devotion to the House of Austria throughout my life, at all times ready with my blood and property to assist you.”33 Such expressions of fealty were not uncommon at the time, but this one may have been prompted by John’s continuing relationship with his brother. Th e relationship of brothers and issue of succession that had been present in Tilly’s father’s generation and in his own, was replicated with Jacob’s sons. Th e eldest, John Werner was in line to take over the Brabantine properties held by his father, including the properties brought into the lineage by marriage to Dorothy of East Frisia. Th e younger son, Werner, needed to find an alternative path to wealth and status. John essentially took Werner under his wing, treating him as his personal protégé in Bavarian service. Werner was appointed Kriegsrat and was commissioned to raise a Regiment for the army of the Catholic League. Th is was a decisive move towards making Werner’s branch of the family focus on Bavaria rather than Brabant. To underscore that the division into two lineages was explicitly geographical and not just based on personal descent, John Werner, not Werner was made heir to the seigneurie of Marbais, the one that had been so conspicuously been granted to John rather than Jacob back in 1600.

32 Felix Stieve, ed., Briefe und Akten zur Geschichte des Dreißigjährigen Krieges Serie I: In den Zeiten des vorwaltenden Einfl usses der Wittelsbacher Vol. 5 (Munich, 1883) pp. 524–525. 33 Villermont, vol. 2, p. 257. the transnational dispersal 115

Nevertheless, John’s (and by extension Werner’s) upward rise might have stopped at the level of Kriegsrat to the Duke of Bavaria and commander of the armies of the Catholic League if the Th irty Years’ War had not intervened. Between 1620 and 1631, John embarked on an almost unbroken string of victories, which raised his status immeasur- ably and brought the Catholic cause close to complete triumph. Th e fi rst sign of what that was to mean to his lineage came on September 13, 1622, when John was elevated to the status of Count of the Holy Roman Empire. He was no longer just “Baron of Marbais,” but “Count of Tilly.” But in this case, even though it was John’s battlefi eld success that prompted the reward, the elevation in status extended to his brother Jacob as well. Jacob’s elevation was backed by the Archbishop of Segovia, Ignatius of Brisuela, with the argument that Jacob had intervened with the estates of Brabant to ensure that Brussels was secure in the lead up to the Battle of Fleurus.34 Th e new titles made the Tillys comparable in status to Free Imperial Counts. But it was not accompanied with grants of new lands; it merely raised the status of the lands the family already possessed. Jacob did not get to enjoy his status elevation for long. He died in 1624, leaving his entire estate to his older son John Werner. John spent three weeks in 1623 at Tilly with his brother during a lull in the fi ghting in the irtyTh Years War, presumably to regulate the issues of succession in the Tilly family. Th ere is no sign that John ever returned to his family’s seat aft er that. John-Werner pursued his own course now in Brabant, while John and Werner continued to cooperate in Bavarian service. Beginning in 1624, John began to acquire new lands to accompany his enhanced title. Th e fi rst was the district of Breiteneck in the Upper Palatinate. Not long thereaft er, he acquired the neighboring district of Holnstein.35 One of the striking features in his acquisition of these seigneuries is how vigorously Tilly lobbied for them. He did not sit back and wait for his patron Maximilian to decide what reward to give, but made recommendations and repeatedly asked for something else, aft er one grant had been made. Th ough John exhibited unfail- ing loyalty to his prince in his military command, he retained the

34 Goethals, pp. 151–156. 35 For the following, see Bayerische Hauptstaatsarchiv, Munich Personenselekt Tilly 457. 116 john theibault traditional noble’s perspective on his own seigneuries.36 Th e grants of Breiteneck and Holnstein were fi efs of the Upper Palatinate, now in the hands of Maximilian of Bavaria. John immediately began a campaign to have Maximilian and the Holy Roman Emperor apply his personal status as Free Imperial Count to his newly acquired lands. Achieving this goal would once again raise Tilly’s status relative to other territorial nobles, but it would also diminish the authority of Maximilian, so it took years of lobbying for Tilly to achieve it. Still, Maximilian agreed to grant Breiteneck and Holnstein Reichsunmittelbar status in 1630.37 All of John’s lobbying paid off in extensive new territorial holdings. By the time of his death in 1632, he had title to Breiteneck, Neufville-sur-Meuse, Helff enberg, Holnstein, Hohenfels, Freystadt, Weissenberg, Plein, Reichersdorf, and Volkersdorf (which was later renamed Tillysburg). John died in Ingolstadt, Bavaria’s great fortress, where his nephew Werner led the garrison. During the tumult of the Th irty Years War, John’s body was preserved by Bavarian Jesuits until it was safe to bury him in his chosen resting place: the Marian pilgrimage church of Altötting. Th e choice of Altötting makes sense given John’s intense attachment to the virgin Mary, but it also underscores how completely he had transferred his allegiance to a new home. Marian shrines abounded in his old Brabantine homeland. Sichem was just becoming a central Habsburg inspired shrine. But Altötting was the central Marian shrine for Bavarian identity.38 Th ough Werner did not live up to his uncle’s outstanding military career, he did prevent Gustavus Adolphus from taking Ingolstadt and remained a Bavarian Kriegsrat. He also assumed the titles to all of John’s German estates. It was he who renamed Volkersdorf Tillysburg. But despite having seven children, two of whom also served as Bavarian Kriegsrate, his line died out aft er two generations. Ironically, it was the older brother, John Werner, who showed even more clearly how little continuing attachment the lineage now had to the small seigneuries that had nurtured their advance for the previous two

36 On Tilly’s relationship to Maximilian, see Michael Kaiser, Politik und Kriegführung: Maximilian von Bayern, Tilly und die Katholische Liga im Dreißigjährigen Krieg (Münster, 1999). 37 Bayerische Hauptstaatsarchiv, Munich Gemeinde Urkunden Breiteneck 222. 38 On this see, Philip Soergel, Wondrous in his Saints: Counter-Reformation Pro- paganda in Bavaria (Berkeley, 1993). the transnational dispersal 117 centuries. On April 6, 1634, John Werner, Count of Tserclaes of Tilly and of the Holy Roman Empire, Baron of Marbais, seigneur of Balatre, Hollers, Heeswyck, Berlicum, Dynter, Montigny-sur-Sambre, Bossieres, Temploux, Golzinnes, Viefville, Bry, Wagnelée, Beuzet, Dampremy, Villers-la-Ville, hereditary seneschal of the Count of Namur, cavalry captain in the service of the Emperor and the Elector of Bavaria, and chamberlain of the Holy Roman Emperor married Marie-Françoise of Montmorency. Th ree months later, John Werner sold the principal Tilly estates, including the seigneurie of Tilly itself. John Werner and Marie-Françoise had nine children, four of whom became military leaders and would bear the name Tserclaes. But the connection of the Tserclaes of Tilly to the seigneurie that give them the name was permanently severed.39 And in two generations, John Werner’s lineage also died out, ending the lineage started by John Tserclaes of Tilly in 1448. Descendents of Everard Tserclaes continued to be prominent Walloon military leaders in the late seventeenth and the eighteenth centuries. But they were all descendents of the second Tserclaes of Kruikenburg lineage founded by Everard’s second son Wenceslas. It might seem that the tie between the Tserclaes of Tilly and the Tserclaes of Ophalsen was too tenuous to be of any importance to either branch, but the sense of lineage was strong enough that John Tserclaes of Tilly interceded with Archduke Maximilian in 1607 to recommend Anthony Tserclaes for military service under Archduke Albert.40 Th at recommendation launched a successful military career for Anthony, who served as a captain under Cordoba and was eventually elevated to Baron Tserclaes by Albert. Historians have shown that early modern peasants did not have a mystical connection to specifi c pieces of property.41 Th ey used their property as part of a greater strategy of family advancement. If that meant trading the old house for a newer and better one, or marrying someone from a distant village and moving there, they did so. Such exchanges were rare, not because of attitudes or underlying assumptions, but because opportunities were hard to come by. It hardly seems surprising, then, that noblemen would follow a similar strategy that might

39 Goethals, p. 169. 40 Villermont, Vol. 2, p. 244. 41 Representative of a large literature: John Th eibault, German Villages in Crisis: Rural Life and the Th irty Years War in Hesse-Kassel, 1580–1720 (Atlantic Highlands, NJ, 1995). 118 john theibault impel them to leave their ancestral homeland and set up elsewhere. Th e experiences of nearly all early modern social groups were simultaneously rooted in a specifi c location and connected to the world beyond that location. In cases such as the participation of the nobility in the Compromise of the Nobility, “boundaries” mattered a great deal. Nobles participated in the Compromise because they thought of themselves as part of a bounded community. And they might escape punishment by physically leaving that community and crossing a boundary, even if it did not take them far from home. But in cases such as advancement of a lineage through a military career, boundaries meant little. Th e international character of the military (and also courtier) nobility increased the opportunities and the geographical distance for transfers of local identity. Th e networks of the Tserclaes of Tilly ranged across Europe: Th e Pomeranian Junker von Schierstadt solidifi ed Martin’s ties to the international military nobility; that led the Limburger Baron of Reckheim to give John and Jacob their start; the Italian Duke of Parma raised them to the status of commanders, the Norman Duke of Mercoeur helped them become independent military contractors in Hungary; the archbishop of Segovia recommended them for elevation to Princes of the Holy Roman Empire; the Duke of Bavaria fostered their territorial acquisitions. In turn, other nobles from the southern Low Countries besides Anthony Tserclaes benefi ted from their association with John Tserclaes Count of Tilly and his network of connections. Before 1594, John Tserclaes, Count of Tilly, was a Brabanter to the core; but he readily traded that in because he was also a nobleman to the core. Th e ambiguity of the boundaries lay between the social role and the places where that role was lived. THE GEOGRAPHIC EXTENT OF THE DUTCH BOOK TRADE IN THE 17TH CENTURY AN OLD QUESTION REVISITED

Laura Cruz

In a 1952 article entitled “Th e Geographic Extent of the Dutch Book Trade in the Seventeenth Century” David W. Davies described the range of the Dutch international book trade based on the meager number of available commercial records, especially the documents from Amster- dam booksellers collected (and published) by M.M. Kleerkooper and W.P. Van Stockum. He looked at these records with the simple aim of outlining the scope of the Dutch trade in books outside of Holland and his conclusion refl ects this: [A]t least enough evidence has survived to show that it was not at all unusual for Dutch seventeenth century booksellers to trade in Poland, Lithuania, Denmark, Germany, France, Italy, Smyrna, Spain, Portugal, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, England and Scotland.1 His was one of the fi rst baby steps towards the creation of a history of the Dutch trade in books, a worthy goal that has still not seen comple- tion. In light of recent developments in the scholarship of the Dutch book, especially the increased availability of source material, the issue of the distribution of Dutch books in the seventeenth century is ripe for reexamination and refi nement. Th e history of books in the Netherlands has indeed received a great deal of attention since 1952 including the creation of the Short-Title Catalogue, Netherlands (1460–1800), consisting of over 110,000 titles; and the publication of numerous primary source materials, notably I.H. van Eeghen’s impressive multi-volumed history of the Amsterdam book trade (1960) and Bert van Selm and J.C. Gruys’ microfi che collection of Book Sales Catalogues (1990). Several universities now off er intensive programs in book-related disciplines, including Leiden’s Center for the Book. Th ere has been an upsurge in scholarship of the Dutch

1 David Davies, “Th e Geographic Extent of the Dutch Book Trade in the Seventeenth Century,” Het Boek 31 (1952–54): 22. 120 laura cruz book, which has gone from being the preoccupation of bibliographers to including scholars of history, language, and economics. Th anks to projects such as these we know a great deal more about the interworkings of the Dutch trade in books and, like so many things in history, we fi nd that nothing is that simple. While Davies’ work sketched the outlines of the trade, he was less concerned with the ‘how’ and ‘why’ of the Dutch book trade. He made some broad suggestions about transportation networks, literacy, lack of censorship, and the uncanny ability of the Dutch to cut costs and fi nd “starved markets”, arguments that have all received continuing treatment by historians. Many of these arguments fall under the broad heading of the ‘precocious modernity’ thesis, which posits that Dutch economic success came because of their possession of attributes more familiar to the twentieth century than the seventeenth, especially the adherence to political, economic, and cultural liberty. More recent scholarship, such as Simon Groenvelt’s article “Th e Mecca of Authors” has cast doubts on the liberal thesis and the degree to which the Dutch enjoyed freedom of ideas remains an open question. Groenveld argued that the Dutch did not lack censorship because of an ideological commitment to the importance of free speech, but rather the Estates Generate lacked the ability to enforce such laws and to prosecute transgressions.2 Others have looked at other aspects of the thesis, such as republicanism, and cast similar aspersions on the idea that the Dutch were really forward-thinking, fi nding reasons for their exceptionality fi rmly imbedded in the historical context of the seventeenth century, not the twentieth. Th ese fi ndings have pushed historians of the Dutch book to seek new explanatory frameworks for Dutch success. Davies also tended to treat the Dutch trade in books very mono- lithically and assumed that Amsterdam was representative of national trends. While this may have been true in the golden years of the Plantijn Press, circumstances were diff erent in the age of crisis. In the sixteenth century, the European book markets had been relatively open. Printers with desired merchandise could expect to sell to any interested parties they might fi nd (though that was the tricky part). In the United Provinces, as elsewhere, print shops proliferated at exponential rates.

2 S. Groenvelt, “Th e Mecca of Authors? States’ Assemblies and Censorship in the Seventeenth-Century Dutch Republic,” In Too Might to Be Free: Censorship and the Press in Britain and the Netherlands. Ed. A.C. Duke and C.A. Tamse, (Zutphen: De Walburg Press, 1987), 75. the geographic extent of the dutch book trade 121

By 1600, there was at least one printshop for every 5,000 residents, a ratio that was at least double that of the next closest country.3 Th is was no longer true by the fi rst quarter of the seventeenth century. Government intervention in the book trade became ubiquitous in the form of censorship, distribution monopolies, and privileges. Because the academic market was international, it remained relatively open (with the major exception of the Catholic/Protestant divide). Because of this, competition was keen and profi t margins were razor thin. Every printer without an assured source of patronage had to consider the academic markets and he had to print books at prices lower than his competitors. Lower profi t margins meant that less capital was available for future projects. As capital became more precious, every publication became more risky. Whenever possible, printers turned to books that were proven winners and were less and less likely to publish new or controversial material. Whereas in the sixteenth century small printing and bookselling establishments had proliferated throughout Europe, by the seventeenth century large fi rms increasingly dominated the trade. In many places, one publisher reigned over a constellation of smaller workshops. In Paris, for example, Sebastien Cramoisy published under his auspices 1/10 of all the books produced from 1625–1660, but not with his own presses.4 Some of the largest fi rms were not privately owned. With a general increase in regulation of the book trade, the government print shop emerged as a major presence in the European book market, especially in the Catholic world. Th e Vatican press, the Imprimerie Royale in Paris, and the Royal Publishing House in Naples were all important book producers in the seventeenth century.5 In Holland, the opposite was the case. In the seventeenth century, the Dutch book trade was still characterized by its small scale. Th ere were a handful of large print shops in Holland, but they were exceptional. In Amsterdam, the Blaeu press, best known for publishing Th e Great

3 Jan de Vries and Ad van der Woude, Th e First Modern Economy: Success, Failure and Perseverance of the Dutch Economy, 1500–1815. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 317. 4 Lucien Febvre and Henri-Jean Martin, Th e Coming of the Book: Th e Impact of Printing 1450–1800. (London and New York: Verso Press, 1993), 127. 5 For examples see Horatio Brown, Th e Venetian Printing Press, 1469–1800 (Amster- dam 1969); E. Leuschner, “Th e Papal Printing Privilege,”Print Quarterly 15 (1998): 359–70; and G. Lombardi, “Printing, papermaking and the book trade in seventeenth century Naples,” Studi Storici 39 (1998): 137–159. 122 laura cruz

Atlas, opened in 1637 with nine regular presses and six copper plate presses, but it did not survive a devastating fi re.6 As in other countries, several large print shops owed their existence to government patronage. Th e Van Wouw print shop at Th e Hague, for example, handled all offi cial business for the States General, and the Van den Rade shop (1586–1613) was the offi cial printers for the University at Franeker as well as the States of Friesland. Towards the end of the century, a number of large fi rms in Amsterdam began to take on the characteristics of other large European fi rms. Th e widow Schipper’s Scepter press (Amsterdam 1671–1684), the Huguetan family press (Amsterdam 1687–1703), and the Van Ravesteyn family press (Amsterdam 1609–1670) all printed bibles and other church books primarily for export.7 In Leiden, university patronage had initially resulted in a few large fi rms, such as the Offi cina Plantiniana and Jean Maire’s press, but aft er 1620 even the largest establishments with university connections did not approach the size of major printing houses elsewhere in Europe. Th e Elsevier press, one of the most well known fi rms in Europe, may have been an exception. Th eir impressive output, though, was the cumulative eff orts of four print shops run by diff erent members of the Elsevier family at Leiden, Th e Hague, Amsterdam and Utrecht. Although the diff erent branches coordinated their eff orts, they were largely independent operations. Under Bonaventura and Abraham (1626–1652), the university press issued approximately twenty new books per year. Even at the shop’s mid-century peak, Abraham and Bonaventura operated only four presses, as compared to the Offi cina Plantiniana in Antwerp that operated with an average of ten presses until well into the eighteenth century.8 Th e number of establishments fell off as the century unfolded and their distribution became more concentrated in particular cities and in particular specialities. Materials, taxes and rents in Holland were relatively expensive, so printers there could not compete in established markets based on price. Th e diff erent towns in Holland reacted to the price squeeze and the infl ation of risk diff erently. Th e smaller towns,

6 Herman de la Fontaine Verwey, “Th e Netherlands Book: An Historical Sketch,” In Wytze Gs Hellinga, ed. Copy and Print in the Netherlands: An Atlas of Historical Bibliography. (Amsterdam: North Holland Publishing), 36. 7 I.H. van Eeghen, De Amsterdamse Boekhandel 1680–1725, vol. VI (Amsterdam: Scheltema and Holkema, 1960), 42. 8 Leon Voet, Th e Golden Compass (London: Routledge, 1969–72), 437–438. the geographic extent of the dutch book trade 123 such as Gouda, got out of the publishing business altogether and retained only a bookshop or two to serve the local population. Th e printers of Rotterdam also ceased to produce many new books, but instead specialized in binding. Books were shipped in unbound and then re-exported by Rotterdam binders. Amsterdam used its position as a major commercial city to monopolize raw materials and to create a large publishing sector that catered to merchants and to its resident foreign populations. As an international entrepot, Amsterdam had unique access to information and distribution networks that supported the book trade. Th e Amsterdam book trade was big business and controlled by infl uential international merchants.9 Poised between the two extremes (Gouda and Amsterdam), the printers of Leiden faced a dilemma. Th ey suff ered from the high costs of raw materials and Leiden did not have a resident paper merchant.10 On the other hand, although they did not possess the commercial advantages that Amsterdam had, they did have a signifi cant export-oriented textile industry and a major university in their midst. Aft er 1620, the printing industry centered on the university continued to thrive, but the number of printers devoted to academic printing declined. Overall, the spectacular early growth of the university had slowed down by mid- century. Aft er many years with multiple new appointments, the number of permanent faculty members at the university stabilized aft er 1618, limiting the supply of new material. Th e remaining faculty, while still outstanding in their chosen fi elds, did not possess the universal appeal of their humanist predecessors. Th ose printers offi cially affi liated with the university held on to their predominant positions and most of their wealth and social status, but they became increasingly disconnected from the rest of the book trade in Leiden. For those without university patronage, the switch away from book production to book distribution was the logical answer to the dilemma. Most printers had bookshops alongside the presses, so they already had experience and infrastructure. Bookselling, although usually less profi table than printing, helped to spread risk because they could carry many diff erent books. By 1674, only 6% of the guild members still had

9 For a discussion of this division of labor amongst Dutch cities, see Laura Cruz, Th e Paradox of Prosperity: Th e Leiden Booksellers’ Guild and the Distribution of Books in Early Modern Europe. (New Castle, DE: Oak Knoll Books, 2009), 103–146. 10 J.W. Enschedé, “Papier en Papierhandel gedurende de zeventiende eeuw,” Tijd- schrift voor Boek en Bibliotheek Wesen (1909): 100. 124 laura cruz presses.11 Books that did not sell could be exchanged with stocks from other booksellers, a system called the ruil. By the mid-seventeenth century, the Holland ruil was well developed and diff erent bookshops across the province were connected by mail and by water transport, facilitating the exchange. Th rough the ruil, even booksellers with little capital could maintain themselves with less fear of bankruptcy. Th at is, if they could fi nd customers. Th e remaining printer-publishers, of course, already specialized in academic works so selling them was a natural outgrowth of printing them. Th e publishing sector gave the booksellers an expertise in the evaluation of such books. Despite the troubles elsewhere, the booksellers still possessed a network of university contacts to provide information about academic markets. But these contacts were initially useless because the academic book markets in most other places had already been carved out by other booksellers with advantages in either protection and/or price. In order to stay in business, the booksellers of Leiden needed either to fi nd a new product or to fi nd new customers to buy the old one. Th e latter task seems particularly daunting. How could they generate new demand for an object so traditional as the academic book? In sixteenth century Europe, the demand for books had come primarily from unsurprising sources. Nobles, princes, and government offi cials provided the primary market for luxury books, both as objects of prestige and patronage. Th e northern Netherlands had never had a large proportion of noble families. By 1550, nobles constituted less than 3% of the population. Th e Revolt took away the means to create new lineages, and the Dutch nobility began to decrease markedly aft er 1650.12 Catering to an elite luxury market did not represent a growth opportunity in seventeenth century Holland. Even if it did, Leiden would not have been the most likely choice for a printing industry catering to nobles. Th e House of Orange, the leading Dutch noble house, was head- quartered at Th e Hague, and in any case neither Maurice or Frederick Henry were known for their impressive libraries. Th e nobility retained more infl uence in the eastern provinces and were generally associated with agrarian interests rather than industrial ones.

11 J.G.C.A. Briels, Zuidnederlandse boekverkopers en boekdrukkers in de Republiek 1570–1630, Bibliotheca Bibliographica Neerlandica 6 (Nieuwkoop: De Graaf, 1974), 594. 12 H.F.K. Van Nierop, Th e Nobility of Holland: From Knights to Regents, 1500–1650 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), 51. the geographic extent of the dutch book trade 125

Th e Catholic church had also traditionally been a signifi cant source of demand for books. Liturgical works, luxury Bibles, confessionals, catechisms and other works sustained many sixteenth century printers. In the seventeenth century, the Church continued this role in Catholic countries. For example, in the 1580s, the Offi cina Plantini- ana in Antwerp, now called the Plantijn-Moretus house, obtained a lucrative monopoly over printing all church-related materials in the New World. Although Catholicism was not offi cially supported in the Republic, the stance on toleration allowed printers to print Catholic books. In Leiden, the Elseviers, drawing on their connections in their native southern provinces, published several liturgical works destined for Catholic countries.13 By 1656, there were some 6,000 Catholics living in Leiden, about 13% of the total population, but with only a handful of priests, they did not constitute a signifi cant source of demand for specifi cally Catholic books.14 Th e Reformed Church did not require liturgical texts outside of the Bible, but unlike Catholics, Protestant preachers emphasized the desirability for all adherents to learn to study the Bible for themselves. In order to study the Bible, most Protestants wished to own one and printing Bibles became big business. Th e Bible was not protected by copyright, as the struggle over the offi cial state Bible indicated, and many diff erent fi rms printed their own versions. In Leiden, the infl ux of refugees resulted in a population that was staunchly Calvinist and the town was a bastion of support for the Orthodox Calvinism of the Oran- gist party throughout the seventeenth century. Ironically, most Bibles were printed in Amsterdam, though the Leiden booksellers certainly included Bibles, psalm books and catechisms as part of their stocks. Th is meant that the booksellers had to try to sell their wares to new customers. Who else might be persuaded to buy their books? Books were objects of relative luxury in early modern Europe and, obviously, could only appeal to those who knew how to read. In this regard, it is worth noting that literacy in the early modern Netherlands was perhaps the highest in Europe. Some estimates have placed adult male literacy

13 Th . Clemens, ‘Th e Trade in Catholic Books from the Northern to the Southern Netherlands, 1650–1795,” in C. Berkvens-Stevelinck, et al. ed., Le Magasin d’univers: Th e Dutch Republic as the Centre of the European Book Trade (Leiden and New York: E.J. Brill, 1992), 86. 14 Jonathan Israel, Th e Dutch Republic: Its Rise, Greatness, and Fall 1477–1806. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), 380. 126 laura cruz in Holland as high as 85% between 1630 and 1780, and this in an age where in many place male literacy rates hovered around 30%.15 Start- ing around 1600, many Dutch children learned to read in an extensive public school system. Even girls were taught basic literacy skills.16 Th e high level of literacy seems to correlate most strongly with the urban tradition in the Netherlands. Th e area encompassing the modern Randstad (including the towns of Amsterdam, Leiden, Rotterdam, Utrecht and Th e Hague) was one of the most heavily urbanized regions in Europe at that time. By 1622, over one half of the population of Holland lived in a big city. Th e close proximity of people in urban areas was also a factor that enabled the booksellers to more eff ectively harness the demand for books. Th e cities of the Randstad were well connected with one another by water, land, and post. Th e leading citizens of these towns were the wealthy burgerij, a previously underutilized market for booksellers. From a very early date, the towns of the province of Holland were controlled by an oligarchy of wealthy merchants, organized into a town council known as the vroedschap. With the increase in commercial wealth that characterized the Golden Age, the Netherlands earned the monker “the merchant republic”. Th e merchants certainly possessed the means to generate demand for books. In seventeenth century Leiden, approximately 18% of the population fell into the category of middle or large burgerij, with incomes substantially above the means of subsistence. An additional 45% qualifi ed as the lower burgerij.17 Because Leiden was an industrial town, it did have a higher proportion of working class citizens than most of the other Randstad cities. Even so, while European trends in income tended towards stagnation, the Dutch labor force earned high

15 Ad van der Woude, “De alfabetisering,” in M. Cloet et al., ed., Algemene Geschie- denis der Nederlanden vol. 7 (Haarlem: Fibula-Van Dishoeck, 1980), 262. For literacy rates elsewhere, see Margaret Spuff ord, “Literacy, trade and religion in the commercial centers of Europe,” in Karel Davids and Jan Lucassen, ed. A Mirace Mirrored: Th e Dutch Republic in European Perspective (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 229–283. 16 E.P. de Booy, “Volksonderwijs in de Noordelijke Nederlanden,” in M. Cloet, ed., Algemene Geschiedenis der Nederlanden, vol. 7, 264–5. 17 Cruz, Paradox of Prosperity, 156. From tax records found in W.F.H. Oldewelt, “De Beroepstructuur van de bevolking der Hollandse stemhebbende steden volgens de kohieren van de familiegeld van 1674, 1715, en 1742,” Economische-Historisch Jaarboek 24 (1950–2): 80–61, 167–248 and Gerrit Jan Peltjes, Leidse Lasten: Twee Belastings- kohieren uit 1674. (Leiden: Nederlandse Archief, 1995), cd-rom. the geographic extent of the dutch book trade 127 wages, and despite increases in some prices and expenditures, such as excise taxes, the latest data suggests that from approximately 1580 to 1730, “nominal wages in the Western Netherlands stood at a higher level than in surrounding countries and the purchasing power of those wages broke away from the common European trend aft er 1580.”18 Th is does not mean that every Dutch worker was fabulously wealthy, but part of the Dutch economic achievement was the ability to withstand downward pressure on income that burdened most other Europeans. How did the Leiden booksellers use this situation to their advantage? Aft er exhausting or losing out on traditional markets for books, the small booksellers concentrated their eff orts on cultivating the increasingly prosperous burgerij. In art, a similar phenomenon occurred. Aft er losing the traditional sources of patronage, such as the Catholic Church and the great courts, artists in the northern provinces courted the new wealth of the middle classes. Th is led to a revolutionary change in subject matter—from the large, awe-inspiring canvases of the Northern Renaissance to the more everyday objects and people portrayed in the work of Vermeer, Rembrandt, and their contemporaries. Th e change has led some critics to refer to the new art derisively as ‘living room art’, but that was precisely the impetus behind many changes. Artists had to adapt their work to new customers and new venues. So did booksellers. One of the fi rst changes they made was to print more books in Dutch. By the mid-seventeenth century, book markets were not just suff ering from an increase in competition and government regulation. Although many scholars continued to use Latin, the use of vernacular languages was on the rise. It is a common misconception that this was a signifi - cant disadvantage to Dutch booksellers and printers because the Dutch linguistic area was so small. Th at may be true in modern Europe, but in the early modern world, the diff erences between Dutch and other languages were not as large. Th e country was still, of course, quite small but it was densely populated. In 1600, there were approximately 2.5 million Dutch speakers, versus an English-speaking population of fi ve million, if Ireland and Scotland are included.19 Th e diff erences are further minimized if the higher literacy rates in the Netherlands

18 de Vries and van der Woude, Th e First Modern Economy, 631–2. 19 In the late twentieth century, the diff erence is much larger-approximately 20 million Dutch speakers versus over 500 million English! 128 laura cruz are taken into consideration. At universities, the use of Dutch as the language of instruction increased and the number of theses and other materials written in Dutch rose. Th e printers and booksellers shift ed their stocks accordingly. Th e trend was certainly marked in publishing. Between 1637 and 1651, Amsterdam printer Broer Jansz published an annual list of all books published in the Netherlands. An analysis of these lists shows that the number of Dutch titles outnumbered titles in Latin by 4% and other languages by over 40%. In Leiden, the percentage of titles in Latin (67%) refl ects the continued importance of academic publishing, but Dutch and other languages gained in importance there as well.20 Th e small number of works in English (four) is surprising, as the Dutch were known to supply a large number of works to English markets, and some enterprising Amsterdam booksellers even nosed their way directly into London markets by the end of the century.21 In the late seventeenth century, Leiden bookseller Pieter van der Aa carried on an extensive trade with London merchants. From his correspondence with London bookseller Samuel Smith, it can be surmised that van der Aa supplied Smith with books from his own stocks as well as books obtained at auctions. Further, it would seem that Smith had little to off er van der Aa in return, since their business was done almost exclusively on a cash basis, a rarity in the book world.22 Van der Aa’s dealings with Smith indicate that leading Leiden booksellers took advantage of export markets for their stocks. How did Leiden booksellers increase demand for their stocks outside the borders of their own country? Classical economic models assume that economic actors, such as the Leiden booksellers, were independent actors fully capable of acting upon their own rationality. Th is is not the assumption that underlies most of studies of the book trade. If the seventeenth century Dutch book trade was complex, responsive, and possessed most, if not all, of the attributes associated with a modern, ‘capitalist’ industry, there is a major exception to that fl exibility. Much of her industry and

20 Broer Jansz. and H.W. de Kooker, ed., Th e Catalogues Universalis: A Facsimile Edition of the Dutch Booktrade Catalogues compiled and published by Broer Jansz Amsterdam 1640–1652 (Utrecht: Hes Publishers, 1986), passim. See also the further interpretation of these in Cruz, Paradox of Prosperity, 203. 21 Katherine Smith, ‘Dutch Penetration of the London Market for Books, c. 1690– 1730,” Le Magasin d’Univers, 268. 22 P.G. Hoft ijzer, “Th e Leiden Bookseller Pieter van der Aa (1659–1733) and the international book trade,” in Le Magasin d’Univers, 174–5. the geographic extent of the dutch book trade 129 trade were controlled by guilds—those quaint medieval organizations whose very existence is considered to be antithetical to all of those characteristics the Dutch economy possessed, including technological innovation, the spread of markets, and the mobility of labor.23 In 1657, Pieter de la Court vividly decried the perniciousness of Leiden’s guilds. He believed that the prosperity of the town was in imminent danger and the only path to future success was the promotion of free enterprise and the elimination of economic regulation including guilds, monopolies, and marketplace restrictions. De La Court had a particular grudge against the booksellers of the town, whom he depicted as selfi sh monopolists preying on innocent students and foreigners.24 Th e printer/booksellers’ guild, he argued, would cause the Leiden book trade to lose its commercial competitiveness and, because of its high international visibility, would drag the fortunes of the town and the university down with it.25 Many scholars since De La Court have also contended that guilds are antithetical to economic growth. Adam Smith himself reserved particular venom for guilds, calling them “real encroachments upon natural liberty.”26 Th e classical economists supported his claims and emphasized how guild privileges interfered with the ability of the market to produce the optimum allocation of both goods and labor. For the early modern period, neo-classical economists posited the proto-industrialization thesis, which suggested that economic growth stemmed only from industries that could escape guild restrictions. Marxist economists, too, have supported the idea that guilds inhib- ited the development of capitalism, although they were more inclined to see their removal as a tragedy rather than a victory.27 Between the fourteenth and seventeenth centuries, wealthy merchants gradually

23 For an overview of the work being done on guilds in the Netherlands, see Maarten Prak, et al. Craft Guilds in the Early Modern Low Countries: Work, Power, and Repre- sentation (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006). 24 Van Eeghen, De Amsterdamse Boekhandel, vol. VI, p. 242. 25 Pieter de la Court and B.W. Witewall, ed., Proeve uit een Onuitgegeven Staathuis- houdkundig Geschrift het Welvaren der Stad Leyden (Th e Hague: Martinus Nijhoff , 1929–74), 160. 26 Adam Smith, An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations (Chicago: University of Chicago Press 1976), 493. 27 For approaches that utilize Marxist approaches to economic history, see Henri Pirenne, Medieval Cities. (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1925) or George Unwin, Industrial Organization in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries. (New York: A.M. Kelley, 1963/1904). 130 laura cruz forced more and more urban workers in the Low Countries to give up their independent status and to become wage dependent. Th e concentration of capital in the hands of powerful entrepreneurs allowed for an increase in the scale of production with which individual artisans could not compete.28 For many years, the scholarly consensus on all sides was that guilds were obstacles to the expansion of markets and overall economic growth. Using the Leiden guilds, Robert DuPlessis and Margaret Howell suggested an alternate, hybrid model of economic development which they called ‘small commodity production’.29 Under this system, the goal was to increase production, whether through increasing inputs (such as the infusion of immigrant labor) or through technological innovation (such as the development of the so-called new draperies), in order to capture export markets, but to do so through a network of independent master artisans organized into guilds.30 Essentially, it was capitalist production without traditional capitalist forms of organization. Under the small commodity production model, guilds were not ineff ectual holdovers but rather possessed important non-economic functions. DuPlessis and Howell found that town magistrates supported such a system because in retaining the traditional ethics of work, they could more easily contain potential social unrest while expanding the town’s economy at the same time. Guilds played an integral role in this system, as regulators of inputs and outputs into the urban economy, and as the arbiters of social values and, therefore, keepers of the peace.31 DuPlessis and Howell added a new dimension to the study of economic growth, the role of governments. Most Dutch guilds were not grass-roots organizations and the vast majority owed their existence to the initiative of the town governments, not the craft smen themselves. As DuPlessis and Howell emphasize, local magistrates supported the organization of workers as independent artisans rather than wagework- ers because they believed it buttressed political stability. Local government intervened in specifi c sectors with legislation designed either to

28 James M. Beshers, Urban Social Structure (New York: Th e Free Press, 1962), 72. 29 Robert DuPlessis and Martha C. Howell, “Reconsidering the Early Modern Urban Economy: Th e Cases of Leiden and Lille,” Past and Present n. 94 (1982): 51. 30 Ibid. 31 Revising guild history has other proponents. See especially James Farr, Artisans in Europe: 1300–1914 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000) and S.R. Epstein and Maarten Prak, ed. Guilds, Innovation, and the European Economy 1400–1800 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008). the geographic extent of the dutch book trade 131 prevent the concentration of capital in fewer hands or to support the continuation of businesses with small amounts of capital. Th e system encouraged a more equitable distribution of wealth and more cooperation among citizens from diff erent ranks, all of which was in keeping with the humanist-inspired belief in harmony and balance.32 Th e small commodity production model goes further than traditional economic theories because it recognizes the wider context in which industries operated. However, it has two disadvantages which limit its applicability to the book trade. First, DuPlessis and Howell were concerned primarily with the production of goods and did not see a role for the guilds in the distribution of fi nished goods—that was in the hands of their merchant overseers. Th is refl ects a common assumption made by many guild scholars. Because most guild privileges concentrated on the control over production and/or the supply of goods, their role in expanding markets can easily be overlooked. By the mid-seventeenth century, the Leiden booksellers had ceased to produce books on a large scale, but their contribution to economic growth expanded. Could there be such a thing as a small commodity distribution model? The small commodity production model, as well as others, has another limitation. Most historians suggest that the impetus to be market-driven came almost entirely from either the civil authorities or large merchants, two categories that frequently overlapped. Th ey make little provision for the market orientation of artisans and/or small merchants. It is generally assumed that their horizons were low and that their main concern was survival. In Leiden, however, the history of the book trade was shaped by the strategies of relatively small opera- tors, the little guys, who worked between the international markets, the town governments, and the interests of the university. So how did they fi nd new markets for those same old books? For the Leiden booksellers, the libraries, the professors and their colleagues were good customers, but their numbers were always relatively small and by the mid-seventeenth century, direct access to such potentially lucrative clients was increasingly limited to those with offi cial appointments and monopolies. For those left out, the rise of the university also brought Leiden printers another potential customer base, the students. Students needed textbooks and the number of students at Leiden grew exponentially

32 DuPlessis and Howell, “Reconsidering the Early Modern Urban Economy,” 61. 132 laura cruz aft er the military situation stabilized. By the early seventeenth century, Leiden was one of the largest universities in the Protestant world. From 1626–50, Leiden boasted over 11,000 students, “compared with 8,400 at Cambridge, the largest university in Britain, and 6,700 at Leipzig, the largest in Germany.”33 Th e student population of Leiden was not only large by the standards of the day, it was also unusually diverse. A large proportion of foreign students enrolled at Leiden , and unlike the majority of new immigrants, most of these students were not from the southern Netherlands and some were not even Protestant. Students came to Leiden from Scandinavia, Eastern Europe, Austria, Bohemia, and from as far away as Persia, the Turkish Empire, and the North Afri- can states.34 In 1603, Th omas Basson set up the fi rst independent press to cater to the student clientele. Others would follow his example. Th e student market suited the printers because it did not require them to print original texts. A number of printers reprinted classics and other Latin texts for student consumption. Andries Cloucq, for example, published two guides to the life and writing of Erasmus, both in Latin. Th e Elsevier fi rm became renowned for the publication of popular texts in small (duodecimo) format, making them cheaper and more available to the student market.35 Booksellers frequently enrolled in university courses themselves in order to get a feel for university life and to gain student contacts.36 Th e booksellers used their special relationship to the students of the university in order to pioneer what might at fi rst glance appear to be a minor organizational innovation, the book-sale auction and catalogue. Th ere is indirect evidence of books auctions beginning as early as 1584, but Louis Elsevier, a Leiden bookseller originally from Antwerp, received the fi rst offi cial permission to auction books in 1596.

33 Israel, Th e Dutch Republic, 572. 34 David Davies, The World of the Elseviers 1580–1712. (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff , 1954), 14. 35 Davies, Th e World of the Elseviers, 146. 36 Th e printers and booksellers did not have untrammeled access to the student population, especially because the curators and the magistrates both had a vested interest in cultivating Leiden’s reputation as a gezellig (congenial, cozy) place for foreign students. In 1592, the Leiden magistrates offi cially admonished those booksellers who were buying second hand books from students for a ‘very small’ price and, therefore, in the opinion of the magistrates, taking advantage of young and naïve students (modern college students would be fortunate to have such protection). Source: GA Leiden, Afl essingsbouck F, inv. nr. 691, fol. 40r–v. the geographic extent of the dutch book trade 133

Th e practice consisted of an agent serving as the representative to the heirs of the estate of the owner of a library who would sell the books to the highest bidder. Th e booksellers received a percentage, usually 5%, of the total value of the sale. Buyers were attracted through printing a list of the books to be sold. Th e printed list was circulated to potential buyers who would either come personally to bid or appoint local agents to do so in their stead. Before the technique began to catch on elsewhere, the Leiden booksellers sought to establish their dominance over the market. One way in which they accomplished this was through the sales of spectacular libraries from the University of Leiden. Th e auctions of libraries of such well-known professors as Josephus Justus Scaliger (auctioned in 1609) and Bonaventura Vulcanius (auctioned in 1610 and 1615) helped to establish Leiden as the cynosure for high quality second-hand books. Th e early auctions also contained rare and unique books, including works in Spanish, French, Latin, German, Italian, and even Chinese.37 Th e high quality and desirability of the books was enhanced by their sheer number. Even the auctions of the collections of non-scholars, like the merchant Daniel van Meulen, ran into thousands of titles. Th e exact number of titles is diffi cult to ascertain since these early catalogues were divided into numbered lots but did not always provide numbers for individual texts. Even so, the average number of lots was over 1100.38 To boost sales, the Leiden small booksellers also pioneered the use of fi nancial expedients for the absent or temporarily penurious bidder. Th e system, adapted from the book fairs, worked as follows: a bibliophile or his agent could bid on his books, take them home, and would be required to pay for them aft er a specifi ed period of time, usually sixty days. Essentially, the auctioneers allowed their customers to run credit accounts. Pieter de la Court, writing in 1659, bemoaned this system and suggested that it would be the death of the book trade in Leiden.39 He believed that it tempted buyers to get into debt beyond their means to pay, which would cause the booksellers to go bankrupt. Th ere is little evidence that default was a widespread problem, although it is likely

37 Bert van Selm, Een menighte treff elijcke boecken. Nederlandse Boekhandelscata- logi in het begin van de zeventiende eeuw. (Utrecht: Hes, 1987), 328. Van Selm refers specifi cally to the book catalogue of Cornelis Claesz, printed in 1605, which contained numerous Chinese book titles. 38 Van Selm, Een menighte treff elijcke boecken, 152–163. 39 De la Court and Witewall, ed., Proeve, 62. 134 laura cruz that the extension of credit facilitated the fetching of higher prices for books at auctions. Th e university also helped to reinforce this early advantage by providing a network of contacts. Rather than sending out catalogues randomly, the Leiden bookseller targeted members of the university, who would pass the word along to their friends in other countries. In 1586, Louis Elsevier assumed the duties of pedel, or beadle, of the university and he was expected to serve as “usher, doorkeeper, messenger and something of a secretary” for the entire establishment.40 He was well placed to avail himself of his university contacts and he certainly did so. Th e university scholars, especially the diverse students, were the initial conduit through which word spread about what books would be off ered for sale and they acted as de facto agents for absentee book buyers. In addition to their information networks and prestigious sales, the Leiden booksellers also gained experience in running this type of auction. Pricing and fi nding buyers for such a wide range of oft en esoteric texts was not something just any bookseller could do. For these sales, a reputation for expertise and good contacts was paramount. When the heirs of an estate wished to sell a library, they naturally would be disposed to choose an agent who had success and profi t in previous sales. Experience built upon experience and what might have been only a slight advantage at the onset became a substantial one as time elapsed. By mid-century, Leiden had become one of the premiere place for quality used book auctions across Europe. And one which they worked hard to protect. Prior to the rise of book-sale auctions, Leiden did not have a guild. Th ey formed one specifi cally to safeguard their rights to perform auctions themselves. Th ey successfully petitioned to keep the auctions in their own hands and out of the grubby mitts of an offi cial, town-appointed auctioneer, as was the custom in the other Dutch towns. A 1687 petition written by the opzienders, Pieter van der Meersche, Jacob Manneke, and Daniel van Gaesbeek, spelled out the advantages of leaving auctioneering in the hands of the experts, and consequently, the competitive market. A single auction master, the petition argued, would subject the practice of auction-holding to abuse. He could jack up prices, sell books of poor quality, and engage in other practices that would bring dishonor

40 David W. Davies, Th e World of the Elseviers, 9. the geographic extent of the dutch book trade 135 onto the town’s international reputation for book auctions. Prestigious customers such as professors, preachers, lawyers, and doctors would stop coming to the town because of the deceitful trade (bedrjegelijcken handle), and heirs would be ashamed to have their ancestors’ libraries auctioned there because of the association with defective or neglected books (defeckte of verslonste boecken).41 In short, the guild made it clear that the book trade should be left in the hands of those who recognize the importance of maintaining its reputation. Unlike every other auction-holding town in Holland and Europe, they prevailed. Th e book-sale auction provided an important boost to the profi ts of Leiden’s booksellers, but at fi rst some sellers saw it as the biggest threat to the survival of the small bookshops. Small shops selling new books to students proliferated in the 1620’s and 30’s, but the auctions threatened to drive them out of business. Th e largest print shops, especially the University press, had privileged access to the upper echelons of academia and, therefore, the libraries of the most prominent scholars. Because auctions were more profi table than ordinary bookselling, the small booksellers believed that the successful auctioneers would be able to accrue a disproportionate amount of capital. With more capital, the printers could aff ord to undercut the prices of books off ered at the shops. Th e guild, with the university, thwarted the eff orts of the small booksellers to limit auctions, but with the town, they also worked to ensure that the holding of auctions did not become a monopoly in the hands of the largest printers, just as DuPlessis and Howell might have predicted. Between the interests of the town on one side and the university on the other, the Leiden booksellers negotiated a space that allowed them to unleash their entrepreneurial energy. To compete against the large fi rms, the small booksellers had to pursue auctioneering aggressively, and the number of small booksellers holding auctions rose proportionately throughout the seventeenth century. For many of them, auctioning books became a full-time job. To stay competitive, they had to seek out libraries and customers across Europe and to some extent, the world, that others had not yet found. Th is momentum fueled an increasingly wider and wider market for used books.

41 Missieven-, Requesten-, ordonnantien- en besonjeboeck, 1636–1751, GA Leiden n. 61, 25v. 136 laura cruz

Just how far had the daring Leiden booksellers of the seventeenth century succeeded in creating demand for their books? Th ere is a great deal of indirect, impressionistic evidence to support the claim that the Leiden booksellers made an impact on the trade in books. Scholarly libraries across Europe, both personal and institutional, stocked more books in more subject areas than ever before. Th e correspondence of Leiden professors contains increasing references to the book auctions and their colleagues in other places oft en consulted about books at auction. Books were clearly part of the ‘embarrassment of riches’ that characterized Dutch material culture. Gerrit Dou (1613–1675), perhaps Leiden’s premiere painter and founder of the fi jnschilder school, painted a book in the hands of many of his subjects.42 However, the question may never be answered directly. Th e Dutch controlled a large percentage of the European book trade, but how much of that can be attributable specifi cally to the Leiden booksellers is uncertain because used books are particularly diffi cult to trace. The conventional sources for material culture, such as probate inventories, do not list the ownership history of books. Auction catalogues do not list the name of the purchasers. It is not known who read the auction advertisements, or who received a French newspaper from a Leiden smuggler. We may never be able to precisely determine if the booksellers enticed new buyers onto the market or if they tempted old buyers into buying more books. What can be determined is that the small booksellers survived a period of rising costs and lower profi ts and they did so while maintaining their independence, in what might be called the small commodity distribution model. Th e booksellers of Leiden took advantage of an economic and political environment that gave them the opportunity for entrepreneurship. With all the trappings of conservatism and corporat- ism that are anathema to economists, the printer/booksellers’ guild made small but infl uential innovations in the way that books were distributed, created a market for second-hand books where none had existed, and promoted a division of labor among Dutch cities. On one hand, Pieter de la Court was right—they never rivaled Amsterdam as a center for the production of books. On the other hand, this strategy prevented them

42 See for example, Self Portrait (1645); Self Portrait (1665), Old woman reading a lectionary (Rembrandt’s mother) (1630), Astronomer by Candlelight (1665); Th e Hermit (1670), Painter with Pipe and Book (1645), Painter in his Studio (1647), and Th e Physician (1653). the geographic extent of the dutch book trade 137 from slipping into a class of dependent artisans as lackeys to a handful of important publishers, as became the case in Amsterdam. Th e Leiden printer-booksellers weathered the crisis of the seventeenth century and maintained a comfortable balance between capitalism outside their borders and traditional ideas of order and work within them.

PRAGMATIC AGENTS OF EMPIRE DUTCH INTERCULTURAL MEDIATORS AMONG THE MOHAWKS IN SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY NEW NETHERLAND

Mark Meuwese

Recently, historians of colonial North America have paid much attention to intercultural mediators. Because these individuals frequently crossed cultural boundaries as interpreters, diplomats, and negotiators, they are fascinating characters for scholars studying interactions between native peoples and European colonists. In the recent historiography there have been basically two diff erent interpretations about the role of mediators in intercultural relations. Th e fi rst one argues that intercultural mediators were able to successfully bridge Native American and European cultures. According to this interpretation, the individuals who served colonial offi cials as interpreters and negotiators became people in between who brought radically diff erent cultures closer together. Some of the mediators even created new identities by blending Indian and European cultural practices. Historian Margaret Connell Szasz, who edited a collection of biographical studies of intercultural brokers in North America, concluded that “intermediaries were, by defi nition, receptive to other cultural worlds, and inherent in this receptivity was the belief that those cultures off ered something of value.”1 Th e second interpretation of intercultural mediators is more sober- ing. According to this interpretation, negotiators were never sincerely interested in bringing the two cultures together. Instead, mediators only accommodated to native customs and practices in order to further colonial

1 Margaret Connell Szasz, ed., Between Indian and White Worlds: Th e Cultural Broker (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1994), p. 300 (quote). In this collection almost all contributing scholars argue that the mediators were sincerely interested in blending Indian and European-Western cultures. For similar arguments about intercultural mediators, see Patricia Galloway, “Talking With Indians: Interpreters and Diplomacy in French Louisiana,” in Winthrop D. Jordan and Sheila L. Skemp, eds., Race and Family in the Colonial South (Jackson: University of Mississippi Press, 1989), pp. 109–129; Nancy L. Hagedorn, “ ‘A Friend to Go Between Th em’: Th e Interpreter as Cultural Broker During Anglo-Iroquois Councils, 1740–1770,” Ethnohistory 35 (1988): 60–80; idem, “Brokers of Understanding: Interpreters as Agents of Cultural Exchange in Colonial New York,” New York History 76 (1995): 379–408. 140 mark meuwese expansion at the expense of native peoples. In his innovative recent study about intercultural mediators in eighteenth century Pennsylvania, historian James H. Merrell persuasively demonstrated that Indian and European negotiators, “were not, it turns out, denizens of some debat- able land between native and newcomer; almost without exception, they were fi rmly anchored on one side of the cultural divide.” Although colonial mediators closely cooperated with their native counterparts to preserve intercultural peace, they were unable and unwilling to shed their prejudices and negative feelings about Indians.2 While there have been a considerable number of studies about negotiators and interpreters of colonial New York under English rule, there has not yet been a systematical study of intercultural mediators in the colony of New Netherland which was governed by the Dutch West India Company (WIC) from 1624 to 1664. In this paper I analyze whether Dutch mediators in New Netherland should be viewed as people in between who tried to blend Indian and Dutch cultures, or as individuals who only pragmatically accommodated to native peoples in order to further colonial expansion.3 Although the Dutch in New Netherland were in frequent contact with various indigenous peoples, I focus here only on Dutch mediators among the Iroquoian-speaking Mohawks who lived in the region west of the Upper Hudson Valley. I have selected the Mohawk-Dutch relationship for analysis rather than Dutch interactions with other

2 James H. Merrell, Into the American Woods: Negotiators on the Pennsylvania Frontier (New York: Norton, 1999), p. 37. For similar studies arguing that mediators did not want to coexist or extensively intermingle with Native Americans, see Karim M. Tiro, “James Dean in Iroquoia,” New York History 80, No. 4 (1999): 391–422; Peter Cook, “New France’s Agents of Intercultural Diplomacy: Th e Western Frontier, 1703–1725,” in A.J.B. Johnston, ed., Proceedings of the Twentieth Annual Meeting of the French Colonial Historical Society, Cleveland, May 1994, (Cleveland: French Colo- nial Historical Society, 1996), pp. 59–79. I thank Peter Cook for providing me with a copy of his essay. 3 For studies about intercultural mediators in colonial New York aft er the English conquest of New Netherland, see Hagedorn‘s essays “ ‘A Friend to Go Between Th em’ ” and “Brokers of Understanding.” See also Daniel K. Richter, “Cultural Brokers and Intercultural Politics: New York-Iroquois Relations, 1664–1701,” Journal of American History 75 (1988–1989): 40–67; Nan A. Rothschild, “Social Distance between Dutch Settlers and Native Americans,” in Alexandra van Dongen, ed., Another Man’s Trash is Another Man’s Treasure: Th e Metamorphosis of the European Utensil in the New World (Rotterdam: Museum Boymans-van Beuningen, 1996), pp. 189–201. William A. Starna, “Assessing American Indian-Dutch Studies: Missed and Missing Opportunities,” New York History 84 (2003): 30, argues that there are no intercultural mediators to be found in the Dutch colonial records until the end of WIC rule in New Netherland. dutch intercultural mediators among the mohawks 141 native peoples in New Netherland because the relationship between the Dutch and Mohawks remained largely peaceful throughout the period of Dutch colonial rule. This was in contrast to the Lower Hudson Valley where the Dutch were oft en in violent confl ict with the various Algonquian-speaking Indian peoples. Dutch interactions with the Mohawks remained largely peaceful because of the development of an intercultural trading system. While the Mohawks supplied Dutch colonists with beaver furs and other animal hides, the Dutch provided the Mohawks with a variety of manufactured goods, the most important of which were textiles, liquor, metal tools, and above all guns and ammunition. In other words, if there was any possibility in New Netherland of mediators who would extensively blend Dutch and Indian cultures, it was on the Upper Hudson Valley where the Dutch and Mohawks maintained a mutually advantageous system of economic and material exchange.4 To maintain the valuable economic relationship with the Mohawks, New Netherland authorities made use of experienced interpreters and intermediaries. When hiring intercultural mediators Dutch offi cials looked for colonists who could fulfi ll two particular requirements. The fi rst requirement was to have a practical knowledge of Indian languages and diplomatic customs. Like other Indian-European frontiers in colonial North America, all offi cial talks and diplomatic negotiations between colonists and Indians in New Netherland were held in native languages rather than in a European tongue. Because the Spanish, French, English, and Dutch initially lacked the demographic numbers and military means to force Indian peoples to speak their language, European colonial powers were forced to use native languages to facilitate communication. For the same reasons, Europeans also adopted native diplomatic customs such as the use of metaphorical language, the

4 Th e best introduction to Indian-Dutch relations in New Netherland is still Allen W. Trelease, Indian Aff airs in Colonial New York: Th e Seventeenth Century (orig. published in 1960) (reprint: Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1997). For Mohawk-Dutch relations, see Daniel K. Richter, Ordeal of the Longhouse: Th e Peoples of the Iroquois League in the Era of European Colonization (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1992), chapter 4. For a recent study of Dutch relations with the Algonquian peoples see Paul Otto, “New Netherland Frontier: Europeans and Native Americans along the Lower Hudson River, 1524–1664,” (Ph.D. Dissertation, Indiana University, 1995). Lois M. Feister, “Linguistic Communication between the Dutch and Indians in New Netherland, 1609–1664,” Ethnohistory 20 (1973): 25–38 is an interesting study, but Feister is concerned with the development of communication rather than with the actual interpreters. 142 mark meuwese use of symbolic kinship terms in council meetings, and the exchange of presents.5 Since the frontier exchange economy brought Dutch colonists in frequent contact with the Mohawks, many colonists were able to communicate with their Indian neighbors at a basic level. For example, a Mohawk-Dutch wordlist made by the barber-surgeon Harmen Meyn- dertsz van den Bogaert during an expedition to the Iroquois in the early 1630s primarily consisted of words and phrases that were useful for exchange such as the names of fur bearing animals, a list of trade goods, and numbers. According to most scholars, the language that Dutch colonists and Mohawks used was a trade jargon, or a very simplifi ed version of the language that the Mohawks spoke amongst themselves. Most colonists failed to gain a deeper understanding of the actual Mohawk language, primarily because the Iroquoian language was hard to learn for Europeans. One Protestant minister who tried to make a more detailed Mohawk vocabulary during the early 1640s concluded in frustration that even Dutch colonists who had been in extensive contact with the Mohawks for many years did only have a rudimentary understanding of that Indian language.6 Despite these linguistic problems, a small number of colonists eventually gained a more sophisticated knowledge of the Mohawk language. In the mid-1640s the Colonial Council based in Fort Amsterdam on Manhattan appointed Cornelis Anthonisz van Slijck and Dirck Dirck- sen Coe as offi cial Dutch interpreters to the Mohawks. Although it is

5 James H. Merrell, “ ‘Th e Customes of Our Countrey’: Indians and Colonists in Early America,” in Bernard Bailyn and Philip D. Morgan, eds., Strangers in the Realm: Cultural Margins of the First British Empire (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1991), pp. 118–156, esp. 140; Gilles Havard, Th e Great Peace of Montreal of 1701: French-Native Diplomacy in the Seventeenth Century, translated by Phyllis Aronoff and Howard Scott (Montreal and Kingston: McGill University Press, 2001), chapter 1. 6 For the term frontier exchange economy, see Daniel H. Usner, Jr., Indians, Set- tlers, and Slaves in a Frontier Exchange Economy: Th e Lower Mississippi Valley before 1783 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1992). Charles T. Gehring and William A. Starna, eds., A Journey into Mohawk and Oneida Country, 1634–1635: Th e Journal of Harmen Meyndertsz van den Bogart (wordlist and linguistic notes by Gunther Michelson) (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1987). For the trade jargon in New Netherland, see Ives Goddard, “Th e Use of Pidgins and Jargons on the East Coast of North America,” in Edward G. Gray and Norman Fiering, eds., Th e Language Encounter in the Americas, 1492–1800: A Collection of Essays (New York: Berghahn Books, 2000), pp. 61–78. On Megapolensis’ inability to make a Mohawk-Dutch vocabulary, see his “A Short Account of the Mohawk Indians,” (1644) in J. Franklin Jameson, ed., Narratives of New Netherland, 1609–1664 (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1909), p. 172. dutch intercultural mediators among the mohawks 143 unknown to what extent these two colonists could actually speak the Mohawk language, their formal selection as translators by the Dutch colonial government suggests that Van Slijck and Coe must have been more fl uent in the Mohawk language than other colonists.7 Th e second requirement that Dutch offi cials were looking for in intercultural mediators was reliability and trust. As historian Luuc Kooijmans has recently reminded us, trust was an important social value among Dutch overseas merchants. In a time when long-distance transportation was slow and linguistic communication was diffi cult, loyalty and reliability were highly regarded among Dutch merchants and offi cials who were involved in interactions with non-Dutch speaking peoples. Because the mediators were the offi cial representatives of the colonial government in its relations with indigenous peoples, local Dutch authorities therefore needed individuals who could be trusted to convey delicate political messages to the Mohawks.8 Th e social background of the intercultural mediators was varied and included “ordinary colonists” as well as members of the Dutch colonial elite. Some mediators had a background as poor or middling farmers and artisans. From all social groups in colonial society, these “ordinary colonists” were in most contact with the Mohawks because they wanted to supplement their meager wages and pay off debts by obtaining valuable beaver pelts from the Native Americans. As a result of their frequent interactions with the Mohawks, “ordinary colonists” quickly obtained some understanding of the Mohawk language, which made them good candidates for the position of mediators.9 Dutch offi cials also recruited go-betweens from their own ranks. Because the export of beaver furs remained the most profi table economic

7 E.B. O’Callaghan, ed., Th e Register of New Netherland, 1626–1674 (Albany: 1865), p. 133. For the emergence of skilled interpreters in New Netherland see also Feister, “Linguistic Communication,” pp. 33–37. For a short biography of Van Slijck, see A.J.F. van Laer, ed. and trans., Van Rensselaer Bowier Manuscripts: Being the Letters of Kiliaen van Rensselaer, 1630–1643, and Other Documents Relating to the Colony of Rennselaerswyck (Albany: University of the State of New York, 1908), p. 809. 8 Luuc Kooijmans, “Risk and Reputation: On the Mentality of Merchants in the Early Modern Period,” in C. Lesger and L. Noordegraaf, eds., Entrepeneurs and Entre- peneurship in Early Modern Times: Merchants and Industrialists within the Orbit of the Dutch Staple Market (Th e Hague: Stichting Hollandse Historische Reeks, 1995), pp. 25–34. On the importance of trust for interpreters, see Hagedorn, “ ‘A Friend to go Between Th em’ ”. 9 For the term “ordinary colonists”, see David Lee Preston, “Th e Texture of Contact: European and Indian Settler Communities on the Iroquoian Borderlands, 1720–1820,” (Ph.D. Dissertation, William and Mary College, 2002), introduction. 144 mark meuwese pursuit for colonists on the Upper Hudson Valley, ordinary colonists as well as members of the local mercantile and political elite were in regular contact with the Mohawks to obtain the coveted animal skins. Moreover, mediators from a prominent social background were considered reliable and trustworthy because they shared the same social status as the colonial offi cials who employed them. Th e willingness of the local colonial elite to closely interact with the Mohawks was well-demonstrated by the Rensselaerswijck offi cial Arent van Curler. Like many other sons of prominent Dutch families, Van Curler wanted to gain experience in the world of overseas commerce. By using family ties to his great-uncle Kiliaen van Rensselaer, who was the director of the semi-private colony of Rensselaerswijck that extended along both sides of the Upper Hudson Valley, Van Curler was able to obtain a position as junior offi cial in Rensselaerswijck in 1637. Although Van Rensselaer complained about Van Curler’s willingness to associate closely with the nearby Mohawks, Van Curler quickly acquired practical linguistic and diplomatic skills that made him an indispensable mediator to the Mohawks. From the 1640s until his death in 1667, Van Curler personally met on numerous occasions with the Mohawks to discuss diplomatic matters. At the same time, Van Curler rose to prominence in the colony by becoming a permanent member of the judicial court of Rensselaerswijck. Th is court closely cooperated with the court of Fort Orange, the nearby WIC fort, in managing Dutch policies toward the Mohawks. Van Curler’s expertise in intercultural diplomacy was so valuable that the English governor Richard Nicolls even employed him as an offi cial mediator to the Iroquois and the French in Canada aft er the English conquest of New Netherland in 1664.10 Aft er having provided a short social profi le of the Dutch mediators among the Mohawks, I will now analyze to what extent these Dutch individuals associated with their Mohawk neighbors. Were these Dutch intermediaries truly people in between who sincerely tried to bring the Dutch colonists and Mohawks closer together or did they only

10 James Homer Williams, “Arent van Curler,” in John A. Garraty and Mark C. Carnes, eds., American National Biography (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999), volume 22, pp. 176–178. Mark Meuwese, “Arent van Curler,” in Peter Eisenstadt, ed., Encyclopedia of New York State (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, forthcoming). On the practice of sending the sons of prominent Dutch mercantile families to travel overseas, see Kooijmans, “Risk and Reputation.” dutch intercultural mediators among the mohawks 145 pragmatically cooperate with the Mohawks in order to further colonial expansion? If we take a close look at the various ways in which Dutch mediators interacted with the Mohawks it is clear that the colonial go-betweens extensively adapted to the cultural diplomatic practices of their native neighbors. Dutch mediators either traveled to Mohawk villages or they received Mohawk delegates at Fort Orange or Rensselaerswijck. During these formal meetings the mediators shared food, drinks, and exchanged symbolic gift s with the Mohawks. Dutch mediators also adopted the Indian practice of using fi ctive kinship titles such as “brothers” to sym- bolize their alliance with the Mohawks. An especially important diplomatic medium that Dutch mediators adopted from Native Americans was the use of wampum or sewant, which were white or purple colored beads made out of perforated seashells. Like other Indian peoples of Northeastern North America, the Mohawks used belts of wampum strings to convey specifi c political messages of war and peace. While colonists in New Netherland primarily used wampum as a form of currency in daily exchanges among themselves, colonial mediators quickly recognized the value of wampum in Indian diplomacy.11 Colonial mediators did not only manage the Dutch relationship with the Mohawks but also committed themselves to the making of peace between the Mohawks and their French and Indian enemies. In August 1658 the Beverwijck resident Henderick Martensen accompanied a Mohawk delegation to Montreal in order to exchange prisoners between the Mohawks and the French. Similarly, in the spring of 1664 Jacob Loockermans and the experienced interpreter Jan David or Dareth traveled with several Mohawk envoys to Algonquian-speaking Indians in New England to make peace between them and the Mohawks.12

11 For the use of Indian diplomatic customs by Dutch mediators, see for instance Charles T. Gehring, ed. and trans., New Netherland Documents Series Volume 16, part 2: Fort Orange Court Minutes, 1652–1660 (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1990), pp. 146–147 (use of wampum), 455–456 (use of metaphorical language). For the role of wampum in diplomacy, see for instance Merrell, Into the American Woods, pp. 187–193; Havard, Great Peace of Montreal, pp. 23–25. For the Dutch uses of wampum, see Jaap Jacobs, Een Zegenrijk Gewest: Nieuw-Nederland in de Zeventiende Eeuw (Amsterdam: Prometheus-Bert Bakker, 1999), pp. 175–180. 12 Gehring, Fort Orange Court Minutes, pp. 400–402 (Dutch mission to Montreal on behalf of Mohawks); Fernow, ed., Documentary Records Relating to the Colonial History of the State of New York 13 (Albany: Weed, Pearson, and Company, 1881): 380–382 (journal of Dareth and Loockermans). 146 mark meuwese

Several colonial mediators even established intimate relations with Mohawk women. Although some Dutchmen may have been attracted to native women in the (initial) absence of many available European women in New Netherland, most Dutchmen who entered into liaisons with Indian women did so because these unions gave them better access to the valuable beaver furs. By establishing a formal relationship with a Mohawk woman, a Dutchman was able to obtain beaver furs directly from his new indigenous relatives rather than from Mohawks whom he did not know or could not trust. For their part, the Mohawks, like most other Native American peoples, used temporary liaisons and formal marriages to strengthen bonds with outsiders and allies. By promoting intimate relations between their women and Dutchmen, the Mohawks attempted to solidify the alliance with the Dutch who supplied them with strategic trade goods such as guns and ammunition. While Dutch offi cials and Calvinist ministers condemned these unions between Christians and non-Christians as immoral, colonists from all social ranks concluded that these liaisons strengthened intercultural relations and provided them with easier access to valuable beaver furs.13 It is therefore not surprising that Cornelis van Slijck and Arent van Curler, two of the most prominent mediators, both established long- term liaisons with Indian women. Van Slijck established an intimate relationship with a Mohawk woman out of which at least two children were born during the 1640s. Two of these children eventually became valuable Indian interpreters for the colonial government of New York aft er the English conquest of New Netherland. Although the sources do not mention if Arent van Curler’s Indian partner was actually a Mohawk, his extensive association with the Mohawks makes it likely that his intercultural liaison was a Mohawk woman rather than a member from another indigenous people.14

13 For Indian uses of intimate liaisons in relations with “strangers”, see Kirsten Fischer, Suspect Relations: Sex, Race, and Resistance in Colonial North Carolina (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2002), chapter 2, especially pp. 70–74. For condemnations by Dutch offi cials and ministers, see Megapolensis, “Account of the Mohawks,” p. 174; A.J.F. van Laer, ed. and trans., New York Historical Manuscripts Dutch: Volume IV: Council Minutes, 1638–1649 (Baltimore: Genealogical Publishing, 1974), p. 33 (Colonial offi cials accuse a Dutch sergeant of having slept with Indian women). 14 Th omas E. Burke, Jr., Mohawk Frontier: Th e Dutch Community of Schenectady, New York, 1661–1710 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1991), pp. 147–149. Charlotte Wilcoxen, “Arent van Curler’s Children,” New York Genealogical and Biographical Record 110 (1979): 82–84. dutch intercultural mediators among the mohawks 147

All these examples of accommodation to Mohawk cultural practices suggest that Dutch mediators closely and even intimately associated with their Mohawk neighbors. Th is would suggest a successful blending or hybridization of Mohawk Indian and Dutch cultures. However, the surviving sources reveal that the Dutch mediators to the Mohawks always continued to identify themselves as colonists and never as people in between. Th ere were two reasons why Dutch mediators continued to maintain a cultural distance from their Mohawk neighbors. First, the Mohawks frequently intimidated and bullied their Dutch neighbors, making it unappealing for many Dutch mediators to associate too closely with their Iroquois neighbors. As historian José António Brandão has recently pointed out, the Mohawks and the other Iroquois peoples who lived west of the Upper Hudson Valley used the Dutch for their own political aims just as much as the Dutch attempted to exploit the Indians of New Netherland for their economic purposes. Th e Mohawks primarily used their Dutch neighbors as suppliers of fi rearms and ammunition. Armed with these guns the Mohawks attempted to establish political control over their Iroquoian- and Algonquian-speaking Indian neighbors. As long as the Dutch continued to supply them with these powerful weapons, the Mohawks remained friends with the Dutch. However, when the Dutch did not provide them with the necessary trade goods, the Mohawks forcefully complained to or threatened their Dutch neighbors.15 Many formal meetings between the Mohawks and the Dutch were fraught with tensions and mutual suspicions. One example of such a tense Mohawk-Dutch council was vividly described by Brant Aertsz van Slichtenhorst, the director of the semi-private colony of Rens- selaerswijck during the 1640s and early 1650s. Van Slichtenhorst was greatly irritated when Mohawk leaders descended upon the headquarters of Rensselaerswijck because the Indian envoys demanded large qualities of food and drink during their stays among the Dutch colonists. When Van Slichtenhorst protested the exorbitant Mohawk demands, the Mohawk delegates haughtily answered the Dutch offi cial that they “required the Christians [the Dutch in this case] to supply them with everything, otherwise the Christians might just as well go back over the great water.” On other occasions Mohawk delegates threatened to

15 José António Brandão, “Competing Ambitions: Native-Native and Native-Dutch Relations in the Era of Beverwijck,” De Halve Maen 76 (2003), no. 3: 52–56. 148 mark meuwese take their beaver furs to the French in Canada if the Dutch did not provide them with the desired trade items. Because of this belligerent Mohawk attitude toward the Dutch many colonial mediators were probably reluctant to mingle too closely with their aggressive Iroquois neighbors.16 Th e second reason why Dutch mediators never became the founders of a multi-ethnic Mohawk-Dutch community on the Upper Hudson Valley was because most mediators were more concerned with fur- thering colonial expansion than in mixing the two peoples. Almost all Dutch interpreters and diplomats who worked among the Mohawks frequently used their cross-cultural skills for their own benefi t and for the benefi t of colonial society. Many prominent Dutch mediators exploited their linguistic and cultural expertise to obtain lands from the Mohawks for colonial development. For example, soon aft er his arrival in the Upper Hudson Valley, Arent van Curler coveted the lands of the Mohawks for his own colonial ambitions. Aft er his first documented diplomatic visit to the Mohawks in 1642, Van Curler enthusiastically reported to his great-uncle in the Dutch Republic about the fertile plains that were located on the eastern border of the Mohawk lands. In 1661, Van Curler fi nally received permission from Director-general Petrus Stuyvesant to buy the lands from the Mohawks. Because they were severely weakened by epidemic diseases and intertribal warfare at that time, the Mohawks were desperate for trade goods and they quickly agreed to sell the lands in question to Van Curler. Soon aft er this transaction Van Curler established the community of Schenectady on its place. While Van Curler was also interested in using Schenectady as a trading post with the Mohawks, he also invested in cattle and livestock to turn the colonial community into a profi table agricultural

16 For these tense meetings, see Mark Meuwese, “ ‘For the Peace and Well-Being of the Country’: Intercultural Mediators and Dutch-Indian Relations in New Netherland and Dutch Brazil, 1600–1664,” (Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Notre Dame, 2003), pp. 437–457. For Van Slichtenhorst’s description, see Rijksarchief Gelderland, Arnhem, Netherlands, Oud Rechterlijk Archief, Veluwe en Veluwezoom, 0203, inv. No. 438: item 7: “Dossier bestaande in kopieen van stukken van een proces . . . tusschen Brant Aerts van Slichtenhorst als gewezen directeur en Johan van Rensselaer als patroon der kolonie van Rensselaerswijck in Nieuw-Nederland, 1656–1663”, folios 71–72. See also Janny Venema, “Th e Court Case of Brant Aertsz van Slichtenhorst against Jan van Rensselaer,” De Halve Maen 75 (2001), no. 1: 3–8. dutch intercultural mediators among the mohawks 149 center for European farmers in which his Mohawk neighbors would likely play no major role.17 Th e unwillingness of Dutch mediators to internalize the cultural values of the Mohawks became also evident in their constant concern for Frenchmen who had been captured by the Mohawks. Th roughout the seventeenth century, the Mohawks were frequently at war with French colonists, traders, and soldiers in the Saint Lawrence Valley. Th e roots of this confl ict were the French commercial and diplomatic alliance with the Hurons and the Algonquian peoples of the Great Lakes region, which were longstanding enemies of the Mohawks. Th e Mohawks also aggressively resisted attempts by French Jesuits to convert them to Christianity. In their wars against the French, Mohawk warriors oft en captured colonists, soldiers, as well as Jesuit missionaries.18 Although the French Catholic colony in southern Canada was a direct economic and religious threat for the Dutch Protestant offi cials on the Upper Hudson Valley, Dutch mediators repeatedly asked their Mohawk “brothers” to release captured Frenchmen. For the Dutch the unfortunate Frenchmen were fellow Christians who had to be released out of the hands of non-Christian peoples. However, the Mohawks did not want to give up their French captives, even when Dutch mediators promised them valuable trade goods as ransom money. Like other Iroquois peoples, the Mohawks oft en ceremonially tortured and killed captives to avenge the deaths of their own kinsmen. Th e Mohawks also wanted to hold on to their French captives in order to use them as bar- gaining chips in negotiations with the French. By frequently asking the Mohawks to release their French captives the Dutch go-betweens demonstrated that they felt more affi nity with French Catholics than with their non-Christian Mohawks “brothers”. Even though the Mohawks were important trading partners for the Dutch, the colonial mediators considered the fate of captive Frenchmen more important.19

17 For Van Curler’s interest in and buying of the lands west of Fort Orange, see Burke, Mohawk Frontier, chapters 1–2. For the crises of the Mohawks during the early 1660s, see Daniel K. Richter, Th e Ordeal of the Longhouse, pp. 58–59. 18 For the Mohawk confl ict with the French and their Indian allies, see Richer,Ordeal of the Longhouse, chapters 3–4. See also José António Brandão, “Your Fire Shall Burn No More”: Iroquois Policy toward New France and Its Native Allies to 1701 (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1997). 19 On Iroquois treatments of captives, see Brandão, “Your Fire Shall Burn No More”, chapter 3; Daniel K. Richter, “War and Culture: Th e Iroquois Experience,” William and Mary Quarterly, 3rd Series, XL (1983): 528–559. 150 mark meuwese

Th e willingness of Dutch go-betweens to endanger the strategic relationship with the Mohawks in order to save Frenchmen became especially clear when Van Curler provided shelter and food to French soldiers who had attacked Mohawk villages in January 1666. Unfortu- nately, we don’t know how the Mohawks responded to Van Curler’s remarkable hospitability and compassion for the French soldiers. How- ever, the Mohawks must have felt betrayed aft er Van Curler, who was one of the Dutch mediators with whom they dealt with on a frequent basis, openly aided their enemies.20 Although the Mohawks continued to meet with Van Curler aft er this incident, the Indians did not forget his active support of the French. Th e ambivalent attitude of the Mohawks toward Van Curler was perhaps best illustrated by the contradicting Mohawk responses to his death. In the summer of 1667, Van Curler drowned in Lake George in upstate New York during a sudden storm while traveling to French offi cials in Montreal on behalf of English colonial authorities. A Mohawk man who had accompanied Van Curler in his canoe testifi ed to local Dutch colonists later that Van Curler had drowned because he could not swim. Upon hearing of the news of Van Curler’s death, a delegation of Mohawks visited Van Curler’s residence in Schenectady to off er their condolences. According to the Dutch interpreters who accompanied the Mohawks to Van Curler’s house, the Indians “bewail his death [saying] that they are sorry that he, who so long resided in this country and ruled in this region, should have perished.” Th e Mohawk visitors also told the Dutch that “there will doubtless come another chief, but they expect that he will not rule so well.” To further indicate that they mourned the loss of Van Curler the Mohawks fi nally distributed a large amount of wampum among the assembled Dutch colonists.21 While the Mohawks commemorated Van Curler in their diplomatic relations with the Dutch as a close friend in order to maintain the valuable trade relationship with the colonists, a later oral tradition circulating among the Mohawks revealed that their memories of Van Curler were not entirely positive. With Van Curler’s active aid to French soldiers fresh in mind, the Mohawks developed an oral tradition of his

20 Richter, Ordeal of the Longhouse, p. 103; Burke, Mohawk Frontier, pp. 77–78. 21 A.J.F. Van Laer, ed. and trans., “Documents Relating to Arent van Curler’s Death,” Dutch Settlers Society of Albany, Yearbook III (1927–1928): 30–34 (quotations on pp. 30–31). See also Burke, Mohawk Frontier, pp. 80–82; Richter, Ordeal of the Longhouse, p. 104. dutch intercultural mediators among the mohawks 151 death that diff ered from the version they had told Dutch colonists. isTh later account argued that Van Curler perished because he had insulted spirit beings that lived in the waters of Lake George. Aft er he had mocked the Iroquois belief in a spirit being that resided at a rock on Lake George by showing his buttocks to the rock, a violent storm suddenly came up and drowned the hapless Van Curler. By remembering Van Curler as a person who ridiculed Iroquois traditions and beliefs, the Mohawks emphasized that Van Curler, for all his close interactions with the Mohawks, was not one of them.22 Th e failure of Dutch mediators to bring the Dutch and the Mohawks closer together is revealed by the lives and careers of the Indian-Dutch children of Arent van Curler and Cornelis van Slijck. Because of the matrilineal character of Mohawk Iroquois society, the children of Dutch fathers and Mohawk women were raised in native villages rather than in colonial society. Since the Mohawks were not literate in this era it is unknown how many children of Dutch-Mohawk descent lived in Mohawk villages. Th e only references to these children are in the surviving Dutch colonial records. Th ere is only one documentary mention of Van Curler’s daughter born of his relationship with a native woman and this record reveals that the court considered her an Indian and not a colonist. Th e two children born of Cornelis van Slijck’s relationship with a Mohawk woman initially also grew up as Mohawks. However, when they had become young adults they resolved to live in the nearby Dutch communities during the 1660s. It is unknown why both persons suddenly wanted to relocate to the society of their father but there is strong evidence that the daughter, named Hilletie, was attracted to Christianity. Signifi cantly, Hilletie’s Mohawk mother scorned her for this decision to relocate to colonial society.23

22 Richter, Ordeal of the Longhouse, p. 24 (story of Van Curler insulting the spirit beings). Richter speculates that the Mohawks may even have assassinated Van Curler because of his aid to the French, see idem, p. 104. However, the testimony of the Mohawk man to Dutch offi cials shortly aft er Van Curler’s death is too detailed to be a cover up. Moreover, several Dutchmen who accompanied Van Curler on his expedition to Montreal never stepped forward to indicate that their companion was murdered by Mohawks. See Van Laer, “Documents,” p. 31. 23 For Van Curler’s child, see Wilcoxen, “Arent van Curler’s Children,” p. 83. For Van Slijck’s children, see Burke, Mohawk Frontier, pp. 148–149. For Hilletie, see Wil- liam Bryan Hart, “For the Good of Our Souls: Mohawk Authority, Accommodation, and Resistance to Protestant Evangelism, 1700–1780,” (Ph.D. Dissertation, Brown University, 1998), pp. 76–80. 152 mark meuwese

Moreover, Dutch colonists remained initially suspicious of the ethnic identities of Hilletie and her brother Jacques. In one of the colonial records Jacques is described as “formerly an Indian,” which indicated that he had apparently successfully persuaded colonists that he was really like them. Unfortunately, the sources do not mention how Jacques had convinced his colonial neighbors that he had become one of them. However, it is most likely that Jacques had adopted Dutch clothes, a hairstyle that was similar to that of most Dutch colonists, and other easily recognizable symbols that demonstrated his identifi cation with Dutch colonial society. Th is transformation from Indian to Dutch identity was easier to accomplish for Jacques than for Hilletie. According to Jasper Danckaerts, a Dutch Labadist minister who visited the Dutch town of Schenectady in 1680, local townsmen sometimes insulted Hil- letie by calling her a “converted sow.” Danckaerts suggested that the colonists scorned Hilletie primarily because of her strong personal interest in Christian piety. By referring to Hilletie as a “converted sow” Dutch colonists surely implied that they considered her not fully one of their own. Despite these insults and obstacles, Jacques and Hilletie eventually integrated into the Dutch colonial communities and during the early eighteenth century they became valuable Indian interpreters for colonial offi cials in New York. However, only aft er the two siblings had convinced local colonists that they were no longer Indians were Hilletie and Jacques fully accepted into the Dutch colonial society of the Upper Hudson Valley. As the experiences of the two children of mixed descent demonstrate, Dutch-Mohawk liaisons did not result in the development of a new people who blended two radically diff erent cultures.24 Th e absence of a distinct people of mixed Dutch-Mohawk descent on the Upper Hudson Valley was in marked contrast to the western Great Lakes region where formal and informal cohabitations between French traders and native women during the eighteenth century did lead to the creation of a distinct Métis population which based its ethnic identity upon a true blending of French and Indian cultures. In the western Great Lakes region the emergence of a mixed French-Indian population

24 For the quotation about Jacques, see Burke, Mohawk Frontier, p. 93. For Hilletie’s ordeal, see Jasper Danckaert, “Journal of a Voyage to New York and a Tour in Several of the American Colonies in 1679–1680,” (1680) in Dean R. Snow, Charles T. Gehring, and William A. Starna, eds., In Mohawk Country: Early Narratives about a Native People (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1996), pp. 196–197. dutch intercultural mediators among the mohawks 153 was greatly facilitated by the persistence of the fur trade and by the lack of European migration to the area from the mid-seventeenth century until the early nineteenth century. Since the fur trade strengthened not only the economic but also the social ties between the relatively small group of European male traders and the local indigenous peoples it is not surprising that a mixed French-Indian population developed over time in that area. Th is development was in great contrast to the Upper Hudson Valley where the fur trade was already declining during the fi rst half of the eighteenth century. Th is was partly due to the depletion of fur bearing animals in the region but also because the growing European colonial population of the Upper Hudson Valley was more interested in securing Indian lands for farming than in obtaining beaver furs from their native neighbors. If the Upper Hudson Valley had remained a fur trading zone inhabited by a small population of mostly male traders it is very well possible that a mixed Dutch-Mohawk population may have emerged there overtime. However, already long before the Eng- lish conquest of New Netherland in 1664 the Dutch communities of the Upper Hudson Valley had transformed themselves from isolated fur trading posts into economically and demographically diversifi ed villages. As we have seen, the mediators to the Mohawks were active supporters of this transformation process. By expressing an interest in obtaining Mohawk lands for future economic development, Arent van Curler shrewdly used his close ties with the Mohawks to further the growth of the Dutch communities.25 By analyzing the attitudes of Dutch mediators toward the Mohawks it is clear that these colonial go-betweens did not want to bring about a true mixing of Indian and European cultures. Although the available sources do not indicate that the Dutch intermediaries considered

25 For the genesis of the Métis in the western Great Lakes region, see Jacqueline Peterson and Jennifer S.H. Brown, eds., Th e New Peoples: Being and Becoming Métis in North America (Winnipeg: University of Manitoba Press, 1985). For the decline of the fur trade in colonial New York (the Upper Hudson Valley was the most important supplier of furs in colonial New York) during the early eighteenth century, see Daniel K. Richter, Facing East from Indian Country: A Native History of Early America (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2001), pp. 178–179. Recent scholarship has demonstrated that the Dutch villages on the Upper Hudson Valley were not simply fur trading posts but rather economically and demographically diversifi ed towns which shared many similarities with communities in the Dutch Republic. See for instance Jacobs, Zegenrijk Gewest, and Janny Venema, Beverwijck: A Dutch Village on the American Frontier, 1652–1664 (Hilversum and Albany: Verloren and State of New York University Press, 2003). 154 mark meuwese

themselves racially superior to the Indians, the mediators who closely worked with the Mohawks never abandoned their identities as Dutch colonists. For all their close relations with the Mohawks, individuals such as Van Slijck and Van Curler considered themselves fi rst and foremost Dutch colonists and not people in between. Th e Dutch mediators pragmatically accommodated to Mohawk cultural practices in order to strenghten diplomatic relations with the powerful Mohawks, to gain better access to the beaver trade, and to further their own careers in colonial society. Even the Mohawk-Dutch children of Van Slijck and Van Curler were not able or willing to create a hybrid community that blended the two radically diff erent cultures. When Jacques and Hilletie van Slijck wanted to live among the Dutch colonists the latter pressured them to abandon their identities as Indians. For all the Dutch reluctance to blend the two cultures, we should not solely fault the Dutch for maintaining a cultural distance from their Mohawk neighbors. As we have seen, the aggressively expanding Mohawks, who frequently bullied the Dutch into supplying them with fi rearms, were just as responsible for keeping a cultural divide between Europeans and Indians on the Upper Hudson Valley during the seventeenth century. When assessing the behavior of European intercultural mediators among non-Western peoples we therefore need to take into account both the personal motives of the mediators and the behavior of the indigenous peoples they were working with and living among. PART TWO

THE MODERN AGE

NEUTRAL BORDERS, NEUTRAL WATERS, NEUTRAL SKIES PROTECTING THE TERRITORIAL NEUTRALITY OF THE NETHERLANDS IN THE GREAT WAR, 1914–19181

Maartje M. Abbenhuis

Ever since the ‘nation-state’ became the predominant political unit in nineteenth-century Europe, the borders of European countries, represented by the bold lines on geo-political maps of the time, have assumed special signifi cance. Borders mark the limits of a state’s territorial sovereignty—the area in which a country’s government holds absolute legal jurisdiction—and they delineate the precise boundaries where other governments take over that jurisdiction. Of course, borders have associated cultural defi nitions including that of forming the physical representation of the ‘nation’, a supposedly easily identifi able entity for citizens.2 Yet, as we know, borders are far from the static, unalterable, or uncontroversial lines in which they are represented on maps. Because they function both as the boundary separating states and the place where these countries and their peoples meet, the relationship between states can oft en be defi ned in terms of their borders.3 Borders also act as ‘political membranes’ through which people, goods, information, and wealth pass from one nation-state to another.4 It is therefore, vital for governments to control what and who move across their borders, especially when relations with their neighbors are not open or peaceful. In this sense, borders act as agents as well as instruments

1 A slightly diff erent version of this paper was previously published as: Maartje Abbenhuis, ‘Neutral Borders, Neutral Waters, Neutral Skies: Protecting the Territo- rial Integrity of the Netherlands in the Great War’ in Hans Andriessen, Martin Ros, Perry Pierik, eds., De Grote Oorlog. Kroniek 1914–1918. Deel 9. Essays over de Eerste Wereldoorlog. (Soesterberg: Aspekt, 2005), pp. 87–108. 2 Malcolm Anderson, Frontiers. Territory and State Formation in the Modern World (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1996), p. 1. 3 Th omas M. Wilson, Donnan Hastings, ‘Nation, state and identity at international borders’ in Th omas M. Wilson, Donnan Hastings, eds., Border Identities. Nation and States at International Frontiers (Cambridge: Cambridge, University Press, 1998), p. 9; J.R.V. Prescott, Political Boundaries and Frontiers (London: Allen & Unwin, 1987), p. 7. 4 Wilson et al., ‘Nation, state and identity’, p. 9. 158 maartje m. abbenhuis of national interests and security.5 In time of war, protecting and defending the nation, and hence its borders, assumes even greater importance, since the continued existence of the state may depend upon it. As Lord Curzon of Kedleston wrote in 1907, they ‘are indeed the razor’s edge on which hang suspended the modern issues of war and peace.’6 For neutral states upholding the strict territorial integrity of their nation is fundamental. Neutrality is a legal concept that existed long before the arrival of the nation-state, dating as far back as the sixth century B.C. when Milesians refrained from interfering in the aff airs of Ionean Greece and Persia.7 During the nineteenth century, neutrality became a prized foreign policy option for European states wishing to guarantee their independence by abstaining from wars initiated by others. By the time of the signing of the Second Hague Peace Treaty in 1907, the fundamental rights and obligations of neutral states had been laid down in international law.8 In time of war, neutrals primary responsibility was the protection of their territorial sovereignty: they had to ensure that they had the means to protect their borders from international law violations. In terms of border abuse, the law set down strict military parameters. Th us, a neutral had to guarantee that belligerents derived no advantages for their war eff ort from neutral territory: whether to transit or transport military personnel or materials; to recruit soldiers; to trade in military equipment; to coal, supply or arm war-ships; or even to fund their war campaigns.9 Eff ectively, the neutral had to prevent transgressions of its land, sea and air borders by foreign armed forces.10 A neutral was also expected to act with complete economic and political impartiality towards the combatants, to refrain from trading in contraband, and to avoid expressing public favor towards one or other belligerent. In other words, neutrality created numerous obligations for states that adopted it as foreign policy. But it

5 Ibid. 6 As quoted in Prescott, Political Boundaries, p. 5. 7 Gregory A. Raymond, ‘Neutrality Norms and the Balance of Power’, Coopera- tion and Confl ict. Nordic Journal of International StudiesXXXII, no. 2 (June 1997), p. 123. 8 1907 Hague Convention V and XIII, in Adam Roberts, Richard Guelff , eds., Documents on the Laws of War. Second Edition (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1989), pp. 63–68, 110–116. 9 Ibid. 10 ‘Declaration of neutrality of the Netherlands in the European war. August 5, 1914’, in Amry Vandenbosch, Th e Neutrality of the Netherlands During the World War (Grand Rapids, Michigan: Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing, 1927), Appendix I, p. 318. neutral borders, neutral waters, neutral skies 159 also off ered the prospect of numerous benefi ts, not least the avoidance of armed confl ict and invasion. A full day before the Dutch government announced the general mobilization of the conscript army and navy, in the midst of the July crisis 1914, it ensured that the country’s borders were protected by calling all border guards to military service.11 Th e land border with Ger- many and Belgium presented the most signifi cant neutrality frontier— if German, Belgian or (later) British and French troops crossed it unopposed, Dutch neutrality would cease to exist and the Netherlands would become a combatant. Of course, border guards had another task, to forewarn of a possible invasion, an eventuality that the Dutch (like their neutral Belgian colleagues) feared and one that predicated the end of neutrality. When Germany professed it had every intention of upholding the territorial integrity of the Netherlands on 2 August 1914, despite its crude rejection of Belgium’s neutral status, the Dutch armed forces most important responsibility became the security and inviolability of the nation’s borders, in the air, at sea, and on land.12 As early as 10 August 1914, the Commander-in-Chief, General C.J. Snijders, instructed the Commander of the Field Army, Lieutenant-General G.A. Buhlman, that neutrality maintenance superceded defense as the primary responsibility and obligation of the mobilized forces.13 Th is had inevitable consequences. On several occasions over the following years, Snijders openly despaired at the negative impact the military’s neutrality obligations had on its ability to prepare and mount adequate defense.14 Securing the Netherlands’ land border was already an extremely diffi cult task in peacetime, and would prove impossible in the Great War, even with patrols of thousands of soldiers along it. Th ere were (and still are) few identifi able geographic features that mark Dutch terrain

11 Staatsblad 30 July 1914, no. 331. 12 James John Porter, ‘Dutch Neutrality in Two World Wars’ (Ph.D. dissertation, Boston University, 1980), p. 110. 13 Commander-in-Chief, C.J. Snijders, ‘Bijzonder Instructie voor den Comman- dant van het Veldleger, geldende van 10 Augustus 1914 tot nadere kennisgeving’ 10 August 1914, NA ‘Archieven van de Generale Staf’ 2.13.70, 1 (Nationaal Archief, Th e Hague). 14 Maartje Abbenhuis, ‘Rustig te midden van woedende golven: De moeilijke verdediging van de Nederlandse neutraliteit’ in Hans Andriessen, Martin Ros, Perry Pierik, eds., De Grote Oorlog. Kroniek 1914–1918. Deel 1 (Soesterberg: Aspekt, 2002), pp. 306–307; Hubert van Tuyll van Serooskerken, Th e Netherlands and World War I. Espionage, Diplomacy and Survival (Leiden: Brill, 2001), p. 8. 160 maartje m. abbenhuis from Belgium and Germany, excepting the Maas River in the south, separating Dutch Limburg from Belgian Flanders, and the mouth of the Eems River in the north, sovereignty over which was shared by Germany and the Netherlands. It would take a super-human eff ort to guard 900 kilometers of border territory, especially when so few natural obstacles existed to aid its isolation. In several places, where the border ran exactly was unknown and required hurried investigations during the fi rst months of war. Decades of peace and friendly relations between border regions—what anthropologists label ‘frontier zones’—had ensured that strict demarcation of the border was rarely needed, and there was a fl uid movement of people and goods across it. Dutch, Belgians and Germans living in the frontier zone worked, shopped, visited family and friends, married each other, and attended churches on either side. Th e border, of course, existed but had little to no signifi cance for the activities of their daily lives. Some towns had, in fact, grown right across the border. Farms straddled both sides, and even houses sat on top of the invisible line.15 In the province of Zeeland, for example, residents on one side of a main road in the town of Putte were offi cially ‘Dutch’, while on the other side ‘Belgian’.16 Before the war, this distinction would have meant very little for Puttenaaren: perhaps refl ecting the fl exible conceptions of nationality and citizenship in frontier zones.17 Once Germany invaded Belgium however, the exact position of the border would prove extremely relevant. Similarly, in October 1914, residents of Baarle-Nassau, a small Belgian enclave surrounded by Dutch territory in the province of Noord Brabant, found themselves shut off entirely from their home country and from the Netherlands as well. Neutrality necessitated that the precise juridical defi nition of the boundaries of the Dutch state were adhered to, so that the standards of behavior demanded of the neutral by international law could be enforced. Th is meant none of the ambiguities that existed about the placement of the border could continue. Whether you lived on the Dutch or Belgian side, now, made a massive impact on the everyday lives of frontier residents.

15 Commander-in-Chief to Minister President, P.W.A. Cort van der Linden, 27 August 1914, in NA 2.13.70, 95. 16 Commander of the Cavalry Brigade to Commander of the Field Army, 25 August 1914, in NA ‘Archief van het Hoofdkwartier Veldleger’ 2.13.16, 148. 17 Wilson et al., ‘Nation, state and identity’, pp. 13, 21. neutral borders, neutral waters, neutral skies 161

While the Dutch government would let its citizens leave the Neth- erlands for certain purposes, for example to work in Germany, trips across the border for any other reason (whether to shop, visit relatives or attend church) became increasingly more diffi cult.18 As we shall see, smuggling, espionage, and other ‘unneutral’ activities all played their hand in directing and limiting border traffi c. In time, even working in Germany became dependent on neutrality conditions and the Nether- lands’ own employment and mobilization needs. For example, Dutch citizens could not work in German armaments industries because it breached the condition that neutrals did not advantage a belligerent militarily. Border guards were ordered to apprehend all employees of foreign weaponry and munitions factories at the frontier.19 Exit permits were also denied to Dutch men between the ages of 19 and 41, to ensure they remained conscriptable.20 Furthermore, as of October 1915, qualifi ed miners, engineers, construction workers, smithies, car mechanics, bicycle repairers, saddlers, bank-tellers, toolmakers, metal workers, shipbuilders and industrial machinists could not receive a passport or leave the Netherlands due to shortages of skilled labour in these industries.21 Th e German authorities had even more reason to curb access to the Netherlands for Belgians, although they were lenient about the cross- border movements of their own citizens. It meant that within weeks of the outbreak of war, residents in Kieldrecht in Belgium could not trade as they normally did with their customers in Nieuw-Namen, on the Dutch side of the nearby border in southern Zeeland.22 Houses situated on top of the border had to choose which country they wanted to belong to, and subsequently had all exits on the other side timbered or concreted shut. Th e town of Putte was cut in two: soldiers patrolled the street delineating the border and houses on the Dutch side kept their

18 Commander-in-Chief to Minister of Foreign Aff airs, John Loudon, 21 August 1914, in NA 2.13.70, 122. 19 Minister of Foreign Aff airs to Commander-in-Chief, 3 March 1915, NA 2.13.70, 178. 20 Territorial Commander Friesland, ‘Handleiding ter gebruike bij het controleeren der “Militiepapieren” over te leggen ingevolge de Verordening van de Territorialen Bevelhebber voornoemd, betreff ende dienstplichtige zeevarenden en zeevisschers’ [1917] NA 2.13.70, 667. 21 Oranjeboek: Overzicht der voornaamste van Juli 1914 tot October 1915 door het Ministerie van Buitenlandsche Zaken behandelde en voor openbaarmaking geschikte aangelegenheden. (1915), p. 38. 22 J. Erkens, Tusschen oorlog en vrede (Yerseke: J.J. van der Peijl, 1917), p. 81. 162 maartje m. abbenhuis doors, windows and shutters closed at all times.23 Occasionally, German and Dutch border guards allowed some leeway, carefully supervising the combined mussels market in Kieldrecht, for example, or giving leave to farmers harvesting their crops and tending their cattle across the frontier.24 In Baarle-Nassau, the authorities painted diff erent colored house numbers to show which residences were in the Netherlands and which in Belgium.25 In time, border guards fenced off the Belgian area and supervised all traffi c leaving and entering across the four main roads.26 Th ey also tried to oversee and scramble radio messages sent from Baarle-Nassau on equipment that the local commander believed had been smuggled there by the Allies.27 In fact, all along the southern frontier, the military authorities confi scated residents’ radio and telegraph transmitters to counter potential espionage.28 While the border was controlled and restricted from both sides, in reality border traffi c continued with remarkable regularity. As omas Th Wilson and Donnan Hastings astutely observed, borders create reasons for people to cross them—the barriers and hindrances put in place to prevent such crossings only underline the opportunities and highlight the requirements for states to keep people from capitalizing on those opportunities.29 For Dutch authorities, neutrality maintenance had everything to do with keeping undesirable or dangerous people out of the Netherlands. Hence, border guards were responsible for checking every person that entered the country. In accordance with international law, they disarmed and interned foreign military personnel. Nearly 35,000 Belgian, British and German troops on crossing the border on foot, as well as the odd French and American pilot on landing their

23 Commander of Division Group Brabant, ‘Militair Gezag’ poster, 14 September 1915, in SMG/DC ‘Handschrift nr: 39’ 93/1 (Sectie Militaire Geschiedenis, Koninklijke Landmacht, Th e Hague). 24 Erkens, Tusschen Oorlog en Vrede p. 81; A.R. Bauwens et al., In Staat van Beleg. West Zeeuws-Vlaanderen en de Eerste Wereldoorlog (Aardenburg: Gemeentelijk Arche- ologisch Museum, 1993), p. 87. 25 J. Burger, ‘Fragmenten uit het dagboek van een brigadecommandant’ Militaire Spectator 1922, p. 356. 26 Alex Vanneste, Kroniek van een Dorp in Oorlog. Neerpelt 1914–1918. Het dagelijks leven, de spionage en de elektrische draadversperring aan de Belgisch-Nederlandse grens tijdens de Eerste Wereldoorlog, vol. 1, (Deurne: Uitgeverij Universitas, 1998), p. 266. 27 Chief of Radio-Telegraphy in the Field Army to Commander Division Group Brabant, 16 October 1915, in NA 2.13.70, 177. 28 Commander of Coastal Battery in Neuzen to Commander-in-Chief, 2 August 1914, in NA 2.13.70, 98. 29 Wilson et al., ‘Nation, state and identity’, p. 22. neutral borders, neutral waters, neutral skies 163 aircraft on Dutch soil spent the rest of their war years imprisoned in one of several internment camps set up around the country.30 Th eir military equipment, vehicles and horses were also placed under guard, awaiting repatriation at the end of the war. Offi cially, neutrals could not use the equipment—they did not own it—nor could they buy it from belligerents while they were still at war, since that would be paramount to an illegal war loan.31 In practice, the Netherlands fl edgling air force profi teered from the hundreds of foreign airplanes that landed in the country. Th ey did this by off setting the costs of maintaining a particular country’s interned soldiers, which was the responsibility of the belligerent and not the neutral, against the market value of that nation’s interned aircraft .32 Hence the ‘purchase’ of interned military machinery did not break international laws, since the warring side did not profi t in real money from the sale. In turn, the Netherlands managed to improve its air force, an invaluable addition given the lack of a productive national aircraft industry at the time.33 Quite in contrast to foreign military personnel and their equipment, foreign civilians wishing to enter the Netherlands were rarely apprehended at the border, except when suspected of smuggling or espionage.34 Even German troops on leave and in civilian dress could

30 C. van Tuinen, ‘De militaire handhaving van neutraliteit en gezag’ in H. Brugmans, ed., Nederland in den oorlogstijd. De geschiedenis van Nederland en van Nederlandsch- Indië tijdens den oorlog van 1914 tot 1919, voor zoover zij met dien oorlog verband houdt (Amsterdam: Uitgevers-Maatschappij ‘Elsevier’, 1920), p. 68; F.J. van Lier, ‘Internering van vreemde militairen in Nederland tijdens de eerste wereldoorlog’ Ons Wapen. Tweemaandelijks Tijdschrift voor de Koninklijke Marechaussee(1967), p. 53; W. de Vries, ‘Nederland als non-belligerente natie en de internering van buitenlandse militairen gedurende de eerste wereldoorlog’ Mededelingen Sectie Militaire Geschiedenis 3, no. 1 and 2 (1980), Appendix V, p. 125. 31 Article 12 of 1907 Hague Convention V, in Roberts et al. (eds.), Documents on the Laws of War, p. 64. 32 Staatscommissie ingesteld bij Koninklijk Besluit van 12 December 1910, No. 56— Legercommissie, Waarnemingen bij de Gemobiliseerde Landmacht (Th e Hague: Alge- meene Landsdrukkerij, 1918), p. 13; Charles Albert Watson, ‘Britain’s Dutch Policy, 1914–1918, the View from the British Archives’ (PhD dissertation, Boston University Graduate School, 1969), pp. 112–113. 33 Th e Trompenburg factory managed to build only nine fl yable Farman aircraft in 1915, by 1917 this model was outdated and of little use other than as a training aircraft (Staatscommissie, ingesteld bij Koninklijk Besluit van 12 December 1910, no. 56-Legercommissie, Verslag Betreff ende de Voorziening in de Behoeft en aan Geschut, Mitrailleurs, Geweren, Munitie en Vliegtuigen (Th e Hague: Algemeene Landsdrukkerij, 1918), p. 14). 34 Commander Division IV, ‘Verslag ingevolge art. 6’, 5 May 1920, p. 7, in NA 2.13.70, 708. 164 maartje m. abbenhuis spend their holidays in the Netherlands as long as they notifi ed the local military commander of their whereabouts and refrained from wandering around military installations.35 In the opening months of the war, as Germany invaded Belgium, the border proved enormously attractive to tens of thousands of Belgians fl eeing the battlefi elds in and around their homes and villages.36 Th e Netherlands off ered a place of exile. In October 1914, hundreds of thousands of Antwerp’s residents similarly sought out the Dutch border, desperately hoping to escape the German siege of their city and, subsequently, clogging every road, railway line and waterway into the provinces of Noord Brabant and Zeeland. Th e Dutch could not and did not attempt to halt the exodus of nearly one million people. Th e Antwerp refugee crisis off ered a humanitarian emergency, increasing the Netherlands’ population by one-sixth practically overnight. When more than twenty thousand Belgian and British troops, who were cut off from the fighting around Antwerp, arrived at the border alongside the civilian refugees, the situation was further complicated. Obviously, the internees posed the most immediate neutrality concern, but the question remained: how does one disarm, organize, and move so many thousands of men when the entire frontier zone was in chaos? For several weeks, the entire nation focused its attentions on caring for the foreigners. Th e army built camps for the internees, purposely away from the borders in case the urge to escape was great. Th e government, with support from the German occupation authorities in Antwerp, urged and then used ‘zachte drang’ (mild pressure) to return the city’s inhabitants home.37 At least 100,000 remained as permanent refugees in the Netherlands. Most of them were hosted in bleak refugee camps set up at Nunspeet, Uden, Eden and Gouda.38

35 Commander of Field Army to Commander-in-Chief, 17 March 1915, NA 2.13.70, 178. 36 For some good overviews of the Belgian refugee crisis, see E.A. van den Heuvel- Strasser, ‘Vluchtelingenzorg of vreemdelingenbeleid. De Nederlandse overheid en de Belgische vluchtelingen, 1914–1915’ Tijdschrift voor Geschiedenis 99, no. 2 (1986), pp. 184–204; Martin Bossenbroek, J.B.C. Kruishoop, eds., Vluchten voor de Groote Oorlog. Belgen in Nederland 1914–1918 (Amsterdam: De Bataafsche Leeuw, 1988); Evelyn de Roodt, Oorlogsgasten. Vluchtelingen en krijgsgevangenen in Nederland tijdens de Eerste Wereldoorlog (Zaltbommel: Europese Bibliotheek, 2000). 37 Bossenbroek et al., eds, Vluchten voor de Groote Oorlog pp. 25–26. 38 Paul Moeyes, Buiten Schot. Nederland tijdens de Eerste Wereldoorlog 1914–1918 (Amsterdam: De Arbeiderspers, 2001), p. 101. neutral borders, neutral waters, neutral skies 165

Other individuals fl eeing wartime Europe and seeking refuge, shelter or escape in the Netherlands during the war included tens of thousands of deserting German soldiers in 1917 and 1918 (who had, for obvious humanitarian reasons, to be treated as refugees),39 and thousands of Allied soldiers escaping from German prisoner-of-war camps (who had the right by international law to a safe passage home or, if this proved impossible, to settle in the Netherlands itself).40 Far from isolating the Netherlands, for thousands of foreigners the neutral border served as a symbol of hope. It guaranteed a steady fl ow of people traffi c into the country. Th e Great War proved to be the fi rst real test of Dutch neutrality since the end of the Napoleonic Wars. It was also the fi rst time two of the Netherlands’ neighbors were at war with each other. Inevitably, as the presence of 35,000 internees proved, violations of border neutrality occurred. During 1914, when the invading German armies passed within hundreds of meters of the Dutch frontier in Belgium, neutrality was in the gravest danger. At times, border guards would give soldiers who stepped across the frontier the opportunity to turn back into Belgium rather than to intern them, but this could only happen if offi cial word did not reach the respective neutral or belligerent governments. A potentially damaging and embarrassing incident eventuated on the fi rst day of the invasion of Belgium (4 August 1914), which subsequently made the Dutch military and political leadership eager to avoid future infringements. According to the Belgian, British and French governments, German troops had used a road that passed through Dutch territory near where the borders of the Netherlands, Germany and Belgium met at the town of Vaals.41 Th e Belgian and French press made much of the incident, including printing maps and eyewitness reports.42 In turn, the Dutch government clamped down on

39 Estimates of the numbers of deserters arriving in the Netherlands range from 10,000 (J.H. Zanten, ‘De zorg voor vluchtelingen uit het buitenland tijdens den oorlog’ in Brugmans, ed., Nederland in den oorlogstijd, p. 352) to 80,000 (Roodt, Oorlogsgasten, p. 242). 40 Article 13 of 1907 Hague Convention V, in Roberts et al., eds., Documents on the Laws of War, p. 65. 41 For more on the Vaals incident, see Moeyes, Buiten Schot, pp. 85–86; L.J. Hartog, ‘Met de Dikke Bertha naar Luik’ in R.L. Schuursma, ed., 14–18 De Eerste Wereldoorlog (Amsterdam: Amsterdam Boek, 1975–1976), pp. 205–210. 42 P.H. Ritter, De Donkere Poort. Een boek, behelzende tal van Persoonlijke Herin- neringen van vooraanstaande Mannen, Stemmingsbeelden, Indrukken, Beschouwingen, Belangrijke en Onbelangrijke Gebeurtenissen, Verhalen en Anecdoten over Nederland 166 maartje m. abbenhuis its journalists, steadfastly denying the alleged infringement and citing German troop orders to prove its case.43 Th e Dutch were well aware that if France and Britain were convinced of the neutrality violation, they could force the country into the war. Th e Vaals incident caused years of diplomatic wrangles—especially aft er January 1915, when France published excerpts from a captured German soldier’s diary describing the event.44 Th e Dutch diplomatic corps also had to call in a number of favors to ensure their German counterparts retracted a map published in June 1915 that showed the route of the Belgian invasion passing through Limburg near Vaals.45 Even aft er the war, the controversy failed to go away,46 not surprisingly since territorial integrity lay at the heart of what it was to be neutral. Whether the Germans did or did not enter the Netherlands on 4 August 1914 is still a subject of historical debate. At the time, the controversy inspired the authorities to become extra careful. Snijders issued strict guidelines on border security and even prevented Red Cross workers from bringing wounded from Belgian battlefi elds into the Netherlands without fi rst requesting their consent.47 He severely reprimanded border guards for failing to stop a Red Cross car carrying able-bodied Ger- man offi cers that had taken a wrong turn and ended up in Maastricht in Limburg, rather than Aachen in Germany.48 When on 9 August, a photo appeared of Dutch and German troops fraternizing on the border

in de jaren 1914–1918, vol. 1 (Th e Hague: D.A. Daamen’s Uitgeversmaatschappij, 1931), pp. 93, 116. 43 Moeyes, Buiten Schot, pp. 85–86. 44 ‘Rapport betreff ende een ingevolge mondelinge opdracht van de Opperbevelhebber van Land- en Zeemacht door F.J. Quanjer, Kapitein van den Generalen Staf, ingesteld onderzoek naar de in het zakboekje van den in Frankrijk in krijgsgevangenschap ger- aakte Duitschen offi cier de Cavalrie Baron Speck von Stemburg’ 15 January 1915, in NA ‘Kabinetsarchief e. a. van het Ministerie van Buitenlandse Zaken 1871–1940 (Ministerie van Buitenlandse Zaken, Kabinet en Protocol, 1871–1940)’ 2.05.18, 231. 45 Dutch Minister in Berlin, W.A.F. Gevers, to Dutch Minister of Foreign Aff airs, 3 June 1915, in NA 2.05.18, 231. 46 Dutch Minister in Paris to Dutch Minister of Foreign Aff airs, H.A. van Karne- beek, 18 November 1930, in NA 2.05.18, 231; Tuyll, Th e Netherlands and World War I, pp. 269–270 47 H.Ch.G.J. van der Mandere, Geschiedenis van het Nederlandsche Roode Kruis (1867–19 Juli–1917) Schets van geschiedenis en beteekenis van het Roode Kruis, zijn optreden in Nederland en in het bijzonder zijn werkzaamheid tijdens de mobilisatie (Amsterdam: Algemeene Uitgevers-Maatschappij, 1917), p. 129; Commander-in-Chief to Commander 13 Regiment Infantry in Maastricht, 8 August 1914, in NA 2.13.70, 1. 48 Commander 13 Regiment Infantry to Commander-in-Chief, 9 August 1914, in NA 2.13.70, 1. neutral borders, neutral waters, neutral skies 167 near Maastricht, the offi cer in charge had to personally explain to the Commander-in-Chief why the Germans were not interned when some of them had stepped onto Dutch soil.49 Th e correspondence on this matter was stamped ‘confi dential’ and the photo clearly marked: ‘not for publication’.50 In other words, the border had to seem inviolable, while in practice it oft en was not. A soldier’s memoir about his mobilization experiences aptly describes one clandestine visit by Dutch troops to their German counterparts on the other side of the border: Many of us crept, along a detour path, across the border and stepped with a ‘guten Abend’ into the guardhouse of the Germans. It looked far nicer than our barracks! A beautiful villa, with splendid furniture. Everywhere you noticed beautiful tapestries, armchairs and whatever you could name. I could stick it out here! . . . When we visit them we take cigars, sugar, white bread or cheese with us. Th ey are quick to respond. Th ey pour us a delicious glass of wine or beer, just what we needed. By midnight the mood is certainly pleasant, we drink to each other’s health, and sing cheerful songs.51 Maintaining border integrity had as much to do with keeping undesirable people out as it did with keeping desirable people and their goods in. Th e most time-consuming task for border guards and other troops during the war was preventing and policing smuggling. Before August 1914, military personnel had no hand in dealing with smugglers, imports or exports.52 Given the immense importance of economic warfare between the Allies and Central Powers during the Great War, however, the economic potential of neutral countries featured prominently in belligerents’ strategic calculations.53 European neutrals had their trade checked, regulated and, at times, halted by the great powers, oft en in direct contravention of international neutrality laws. Great Britain and, as of February 1917, the United States were especially demanding of the Netherlands, and felt warranted to impose blockade measures, which

49 Commander of 13 Regiment Infantry to Commander-in-Chief, 11 August 1914, in NA 2.13.70, 37. 50 Commander-in-Chief to Commander in Maastricht, 9 August 1914, in NA 2.13.70, 37. 51 F. van de Vrande, Grensleven. Met de 3e Compie aan de Nederlandsch-Belgische grens tijdens de mobilisatie van 1914 (Velsen: Schuyt, no year), pp. 206–207. 52 Commander-in-Chief to Territorial Commander in Overijssel, 20 October 1914, in NA 2.13.16, 150. 53 B.J.C. McKercher, ‘Economic Warfare’ in Hew Strachan, ed., Th e Oxford Illus- trated History of the First World War (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), pp. 123–124, 129–131. 168 maartje m. abbenhuis were sometimes as restrictive as those aff ecting Germany and Austria- Hungary.54 Unless the Netherlands could guarantee imports were for domestic consumption only, ships could not get through the Allied blockade in the North Sea or Channel. German authorities had little compunction about demanding equally stifl ing economic regulations, and refused to trade in vital goods, like coal and timber, if the Dutch did not provide foodstuff s in return.55 Since the Netherlands was not self-suffi cient in either commodity,56 it really was caught ‘between the devil and the deep blue sea’.57 Because of its inability to meet the economic demands of the warring parties, a threat of war hung over the neutral through 1917 and, especially, 1918. As a result, both economic necessity and national security required that border traffi c was carefully regulated, an onerous task left largely to military personnel under supervision of the Ministry of Finance. It would be no exaggeration to describe smuggling out of the Netherlands in the years 1915 and 1916 as uncontrollable. It was not uncommon for hundreds of thousands of tons of foodstuff s and other materials to cross illegally into Germany and Belgium every night.58 As smuggling undermined the economic agreements between the Neth- erlands and the Allies,59 and interfered in the impartial distribution of its trade, it posed one of the most serious neutrality concerns of the Dutch government. Smuggling also decreased stocks of essential goods in the country, contributing to increases in rationing and popular dis-

54 For more on the impact of the Allied blockade on the Netherlands, see Marc Frey, ‘Trade, Ships, and the Neutrality of the Netherlands in the First World War’ International History Review 19, no. 3 (August 1997), pp. 541–562. 55 Blaine F. Moore, Economic Aspects of the Commerce and Industry of the Nether- lands, 1912–1918. (Washington D. C.: Government Printing Offi ce, 1919), p. 14. 56 Porter, ‘Dutch Neutrality’, pp. 107–108. 57 Th e Dutch Minister of Foreign Aff airs, John Loudon, used the sentence ‘between the devil and the deep blue sea’ to describe the Netherlands’ impossible trading position between Germany and Britain, in a letter to the Dutch Minister in London, Reincke de Marees van Swinderen, 26 November 1915, in C. Smit, ed., Bescheiden betreff ende de buitenlandsche politiek van Nederland 1848–1919. Derde Periode 1899–1919. Vierde Deel 1914–1917 (Th e Hague: Martinus Nijhoff , 1962), p. 482. 58 H.A.R. Smidt, ‘De bestrijding van de smokkelhandel door het leger tijdens de Eerste Wereldoorlog’ Mededelingen van de Sectie Militaire Geschiedenis. 15 (1993), p. 49; Harm Anthon Smidt, ‘De Regulering van de Nederlandse Uitvoer naar Duit- sland tijdens de Eerste Wereldoorlog’ (Doctoraalscriptie, Rijksuniversiteit Groningen, 1990), pp. 87–88. 59 For ease of reference, the United States is referred to here as an Allied power, although offi cially it classifi ed itself as an ‘associate’ (rather than ally) of Britain and France. neutral borders, neutral waters, neutral skies 169 satisfaction through 1917 and 1918. Hence, the government had every reason to deal harshly to smugglers. Not only goods were smuggled, of additional concern was the smuggling of information, intelligence and people into and out of Belgium and Germany. Foreign spies, their documents, radio waves and telegraph transmissions all violated the principle that neutral territory could not be used for warring ends. Th e border had to be kept free from external military interference. As a result, border guards spent most of their time tracking down, apprehending, and shooting at suspicious individuals on or near the frontier. Although records are scanty, numerous smugglers were killed in this manner.60 Even the declaration of a ‘state of emergency’, initially in border provinces but by 1916 also further inland, did not deter smugglers. By early 1918, the government had imposed a ‘state of siege’ (staat van beleg) in 75 per cent of all municipalities with the aim of using the armed forces to regulate the movement, distribution and consumption of goods, and, thus, to prevent them from being smuggled out.61 Th e ‘state of siege’ provided the armed forces with extraordinary powers to interfere in civilian life. In the process, the unorthodox use of the law to regulate economic aff airs and the complications it created for municipal governments saw the High Court spent months trying to defi ne what was and was not allowed in the ‘state of siege’, causing chaos, confl ict and disorganization and stretching the resources of military and civilian authorities that used the emergency powers even further.62 Smuggling clearly destabilized not only the viability and integrity of the Netherlands’ border it also threatened neutrality and complicated the government’s relationships with the warring powers. Smuggling whether in peace or war is an activity that undermines the power of the state.63 Given that illegal trade posed a threat to national security and that the government made residents aware of the potentially fateful consequences of such activities, the question must be asked: Why did Netherlanders continue to smuggle with seeming disregard for the

60 Smidt, ‘De Regulering van de Nederlandse Uitvoer’, p. 86; Moeyes, Buiten Schot, p. 131. 61 J.A. Eigenman, ‘De pracktijk der “Oorlogswet” en de “Gemeenten” ’ Militair- Rechtelijk Tijdschrift 15 (1919), p. 362. 62 Th e ‘state of siege’ is discussed fully in: Maartje Abbenhuis, Th e Art of Staying Neutral: Th e Netherlands in the First World War, 1914–1918 (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2006). 63 Wilson et al., ‘Nation, state and identity’, pp. 21–22. 170 maartje m. abbenhuis neutral status and security of the nation? Much more work needs to be done on the ways in which neutrality impacted on how Netherland- ers viewed themselves and how their experiences in the war impacted on their sense of loyalty to the Dutch state and to the maintenance of its neutrality. Th is was a particularly prescient for residents living near the country’s land borders because that was the ‘place’ where neutrality violations were most likely going to occur. Furthermore, as the interdisciplinary scholarship on border zones tells us, identity formation is most transient in border regions, which may suggest one reason for the rise in smuggling, namely that border residents did not feel particularly loyal to the concept of the Dutch state or to neutrality and that their loyalties actually lay across the border, particularly to their Belgian and German neighbors living close by.64 Smuggling in this respect was an activity undertaken out of loyalty to people living on the other side of the frontier. In this way, the smugglers had no real loyalty to a nation in particular (although they undoubtedly had their preferences as well as opinions about the war and neutrality), but felt that the state (whether Dutch, German or Belgian) had no right to interfere in their daily aff airs. Th is is not necessarily to suggest that the smugglers felt more loyalty to Belgium or Germany than they did to the Netherlands, but rather that they were more concerned with local issues. Obviously, the potential profi ts to be made by smuggling off er a compelling, if much more mundane, explanation for the increase in smuggling activity as well. At any rate, it is clear that smuggling was an activity that illustrated that the neutral border was not sacrosanct either from within or outside the country. Nor was the problem ever satisfactorily solved during the war, despite the immense eff ort of the Dutch government, judiciary, and military authorities to do so. It was not only the Dutch government that worried about the integrity of the nation’s borders, German authorities has similar concerns. Germany was the closest and arguably most threatening belligerent for the Netherlands. Once it had invaded and occupied all but a small

64 For more on this, see: Maartje Abbenhuis, ‘Where War Met Peace. Th e borders of the neutral Netherlands with Belgium and Germany in the First World War, 1914–1918’ Journal of Borderlands Studies. 22, no. 1 (Spring 2007), pp. 53–77; Maartje Abbenhuis, ‘Als de oorlog aan de deur klopt: de aantrekkelijkheden, gevaren en mogelijkheden van neutraliteit aan de grenzen van Nederland, 1914–1918’ in Martin Kraaijestein, Paul Schulten, eds., Wankel Evenwicht. Neutraal Nederland en de Eerste Wereldoorlog. (Soesterberg: Aspekt, 2007), pp. 32–61. neutral borders, neutral waters, neutral skies 171 strip of Belgium by late 1914, Germany was the Netherlands’ only land neighbor. Naturally, the Dutch were concerned about the consequences of encirclement.65 In terms of border security, however, what is most poignant is the attitude of the German authorities to Dutch neutrality. During the invasion of Belgium, and despite the Vaals incident, German soldiers did their utmost to avoid the Dutch frontier. Th is brings into question the reasons for Germany’s actions. It certainly had nothing to do with the sanctity of international law, since Belgium’s neutrality was dealt to pitilessly. Th e answer may lie in the alterations to Germany’s strategic blueprint for war, the Schlieff en Plan. When Count Alfred von Schlieff en created his now infamous military strategy in 1904–1905 it projected the invasion of Belgium and the Dutch province of Limburg, with the hope of utilizing railway routes there.66 Schlieff en’s successor, General Helmuth von Moltke altered the plan to carefully avoid the Netherlands in 1908–1909. Many historians have sought to answer why von Moltke made these changes and their debates center on the issues of military strategy and economic foresight.67 Did von Moltke favor military prudence by avoiding the defeat of two hundred thousand Dutch troops? Or, did he seek to use the Netherlands as an economic windpipe, luft röhe (breathing space), so Germany could receive vital imports through the port of Rotterdam, while its own harbors faced blockade?68 Th ere is much to be said for both scenarios. Certainly, by the outbreak of war in 1914, German authorities were very concerned about the economic consequences of a long war with France and Rus- sia, and, until late 1916, the Dutch provided them with invaluable resources.69 Th ere was every reason, therefore, for Germany to protect the Netherlands’ borders and to uphold its neutrality.

65 C. Smit, Nederland in de Eerste Wereldoorlog. Deel 2 1914–1917 (Groningen: Wolters Noordhoff , 1972), pp. 14–20. 66 Captain ‘Candid’ of the Netherlands Army, An Episode of the Great War. Th e Limburg Manoeuvre of August 1914. A Study of the Strategic Position of Dutch-Limburg (Utrecht: Bruna, 1919), p. 12; Tuyll, Th e Netherlands and World War I, p. 27. 67 J.A. Fortuin, ‘Nederland en het Schlieff enplan. Een onderzoek naar de positie van Nederland in het Duitse aanvalsplan voor de Eerste Wereldoorlog’ Militaire Spectator 149 (1980), p. 32; Hubert van Tuyll, ‘Th e Dutch Mobilization of 1914: Reading the ‘Enemy’’s Intentions’ Th e Journal of Military History 64 (July 2000), pp. 711–738; Tuyll, Th e Netherlands and World War I, pp. 24–28. 68 Helmuth von Moltke, in C.M. Schulten, ‘Th e Netherlands and its Army (1900– 1940)’ Revue Internationale d’Histoire Militaire 58 (1984), p. 78. 69 Archibald Bell, A history of Th e Blockade of Germany and of the countries associated with her in the great war. Austria-Hungary, Bulgaria, and Turkey. 1914–1918 172 maartje m. abbenhuis

A clear indication of the importance attached by Germany to Dutch neutrality has to be the erection of an electric fence along the Belgian- Dutch frontier. Building of the fence started in April 1915 and when completed many months later stretched 300 kilometers from Vaals to the edge of the Schelde River.70 Its purpose was to prevent Belgians from using the Dutch border to escape, to smuggle, or to spy for the Allies.71 Th e occupation authorities showed concern about the tens of thousands of Belgian men that had fl ed through the Netherlands to Great Britain and France to join the Allied armies.72 People and information smuggling from occupied Belgium into the neutral Netherlands occurred frequently and provided one of the easiest ways for Allied intelligence gatherers to gleam information about the German side of the Western Front. All along the border, Belgian villages acted as espionage posts, with resident smugglers (also known as passeurs) traversing the border with surprising regularity.73 Th e fence existed to make their task more diffi cult. Th at the German government spent so much money, and sank so much time, energy and resources into building, maintaining, guarding and improving the electric fence must illustrate how highly Dutch neutrality featured in Germany’s war plans. Why else go to all this expense and eff ort? Th e answer surely lies in the manner Germany dealt with its other border with the Netherlands, namely with Germany proper. Here, the freedom Germany offi cially (and unoffi cially) gave its own citizens and Dutch residents to smuggle goods as well as to work in German industries, suggests that the economic advantages of Dutch neutrality were very important indeed.74 At the outbreak of war, the Germans even removed all custom duties on Dutch products.75 Germany sought as much material benefi t from the Netherlands as possible, and was very willing to invest in an electric fence if it prevented its enemies from

(London: Her Majesty’s Stationery Offi ce, 1937), p. 279; Frey, ‘Trade, Ships, and the Neutrality of the Netherlands’, p. 547. 70 Vanneste, Kroniek van een Dorp (vol. 1), p. 249. 71 Ibid. pp. 236–242. 72 E.H. Kossmann, De Lage Landen 1780/1980. Twee Eeuwen Nederland en België. Deel II 1914–1980 (Agon, 1986), p. 12; Sophie de Schaepdrijver, De Groote Oorlog. Het koninkrijk België tijdens de Eerste Wereldoorlog. (Olympus, 1997), p. 123. 73 Vanneste, Kroniek van een Dorp in Oorlog (vol. 2), pp. 480–566. 74 Marc Frey, Der Erste Weltkrieg und die Niederlande, Ein neutrales Land im poli- tischen und wirtschaft lischen Kalkül der Kriegsgegner(Berlin: Akademi Verlag, 1998). 75 H.A.R. Smidt, ‘Dutch and Danish Agricultural Exports during the First World War’ Scandinavian Economic History Review 2 (1996), p. 143. neutral borders, neutral waters, neutral skies 173 capitalizing too greatly on Dutch neutrality. Of course, the Germans themselves had little compunction about using the neutral for espionage ends either, as witnessed by a famous joke of the war years that ‘every waiter in Th e Hague was an undercover agent for the Kaiser’.76 Th e electric fence also helped Germany control occupied Belgium better, isolating the territory and turning the country, as Sophie de Schaep- drijver described, into ‘even more of a large prison’.77 In this sense, the Dutch border provided a beacon of opportunity and hope for many Belgians and gave them the chance to escape occupation. Th e electric fence was an attempt at dimming the beacon. In the process, it killed thousands of people and numerous animals.78 It was a rather drastic and only partially successful way of forcing the isolation of the border, but it does signal that in time of war no means were too extreme for the achievement of Germany’s desired goals. Yet despite all Germany’s eff orts to heighten, strengthen, light and guard the electric fence, and despite Dutch patrols on their side, people, goods and information continued to cross the frontier regularly. Border residents became very clever in their ways of circumventing the fence and avoiding detection. Even aft er the erection of the fence, thousands of Belgian men escaped into the Netherlands and fl ed to Britain. Intelligence gathering continued unabated, as did smuggling. Th e border, therefore, remained an ambivalent frontier in that it both undermined and underlined neutrality: the combatants seized every opportunity to use the neutral border to advance and support their own war needs. Th e Netherlands’ sea and air borders were, of course, equally important to its neutrality as its land frontier. However, upholding territorial integrity at sea or in the air proved even more trying. Trade restrictions, contraband shipments, and smuggling were as much a problem at sea as on land. As a result, the most time-consuming task faced by the Royal Dutch navy was checking every ship and fi shing vessel that entered and left ports, harbors, river mouths and sea-inlets. Th e limits of Dutch sovereignty stretched from its coastline three miles (or 5,556 meters) into the North Sea.79 Except when in distress, neutrality required that

76 C. Smit, Tien studiën betreff ende Nederland in de Eerste Wereldoorlog (Groningen: H.D. Tjeenk Willink, 1975), p. 11. 77 Schaepdrijver, De Groote Oorlog, p. 239. 78 Vanneste, Kroniek van een Dorp (vol. 1), p. 315. 79 Tuinen, ‘De militaire handhaving’, p. 82. 174 maartje m. abbenhuis foreign war ships could not enter Dutch territorial waters.80 Yet very few war ships were apprehended and interned by the navy. Th e small size and relative weakness of the fl eet prevented it from intercepting infringing vessels, especially where an altercation between the neutral and belligerent could result in the fi ring of torpedoes, the sinking of ships, and, subsequently, a declaration of war. Naval commanders were instructed to avoid military encounters if at all possible—although an exception was made for the Schelde River, a waterway deemed so stra- tegically signifi cant for entering and exiting occupied Belgium that the strictest neutrality standards applied there. As a result, breaches of the sea border were spotted, but rarely enforced. What was far more likely was that a foreign war ship entered Dutch waters, the Dutch protested, and the violating nation apologized. In July 1917, for example, a British naval patrol pursued and then fi red at German merchant ships within the Netherlands’ three-mile zone.81 Th is was a serious breach of neutrality, since the Dutch navy did not stop the incident nor apprehend and intern the transgressors. But in this case, as in many others, fl exibility was possible because Britain and Germany had no desire to see the Netherlands enter the war. Britain apologized for its ‘navigational error’ and both Germany and the Netherlands graciously accepted. A crisis was averted. Th e face of territorial integrity was preserved, even if in reality it was tenuously upheld. Territorial sovereignty in the air was a novel concept in 1914. Th e airplane was a relatively modern innovation, and military use thereof even more recent: the Italian-Turkish war of 1911–1912 in Tripoli saw the fi rst use of aircraft in a European military context.82 During the Great War, all belligerents used aircraft and dirigibles for military ends: to reconnoiter, direct artillery and bomb enemy targets. Inevi- tably, British and German aircraft fl ew over the Netherlands.83 Th ey even dropped bombs on Dutch towns, mistaking them for Belgium or Germany.84 Th e idea that a nation-state’s dominion extended to the air

80 ‘Declaration of neutrality of the Netherlands in the European war. August 5, 1914’ in Vandenbosch, Th e Neutrality of the Netherlands Appendix I, p. 318; Staatscourant no. 185, 8 August 1914. 81 Ritter, De Donkere Poort (vol. 2), pp. 226–229; Smit, Nederland in de Eerste Wereldoorlog. Derde deel 1917–1918, pp. 50–51. 82 Prescott, Political Boundaries, p. 26. 83 NA 2.13.70, 37 and 176. 84 Hans van Lith, Plotseling een vreselijke knal. Bommen en mijnen treff en neutraal Nederland (1914–1918) (Zaltbommel: Europese Bibliotheek, 2001). neutral borders, neutral waters, neutral skies 175 above the ground had not yet arisen in international law and would not do so until 1919.85 Th e Dutch, however, were aware of attempts by the French and Germans to defi ne territorial airspace and the limita- tions thereof in 1913, and voluntarily imposed the same restrictions on their airspace.86 As of 3 August 1914, foreign aircraft fl ying over the Netherlands were breaching neutrality and could be shot down. Th ey were equally adamant that the Netherlands should be preventing their enemies from using its airspace,87 but there was little the Dutch armed forces could do: they only had a small number of anti-aircraft guns (mostly converted artillery pieces), and lacked a sophisticated air force to intercept airplanes. Inevitably, most transgressions went unopposed. It was another element of neutrality and border relations that remained entirely unsatisfactory. But aerial neutrality was deemed very important indeed, in recognition of the immense strategic value of aircraft in the war and of the Netherlands’ geo-strategic position fl anking the western front and Germany. In fact, the German General Erich Ludendorff went as far in 1918 to threaten war with the Netherlands if it did not do more to prevent Allied violations of its airspace.88 Th at the German leader was so willing to go to war with a country his government had tried to keep neutral for more than three years, illustrates how the value of Dutch neutrality had fundamentally changed. By early 1917, the Netherlands could no longer provide Germany with the economic privileges it enjoyed at the start of the war. In fact, the Allied blockade, the requisite Agricultural Agreements, and the war at sea, which prevented merchant ships from reaching the Netherlands, ensured that the country’s stocks of foodstuff s and vital goods had either disappeared or were earmarked for domestic consumption.89 Very little

85 Paris Convention, October 1919, came into force July 1922, in Prescott, Political Boundaries, p. 26. 86 ‘Schreiben des Botschaft ers der Französischen Republik in Berlin an de Sta- atssekretär des Auswärtigen Amtes’ 26 July 1913, in NA ‘A-Dossiers van de Ministerie van Buitenlandse Zaken 1871–1918’ 2.05.03, 591; Staatsblad no. 354, 3 August 1914. 87 Alexander Baer, ‘Th e Anglo-German antagonism and trade with Holland, with special reference to foodstuff s, during the First World War’ (PhD dissertation, Cam- bridge University, 1997), p. 279. 88 Tuyll, Th e Netherlands and World War I, pp. 190–191. 89 G. Vissering, J. Westerman Holstijn, ‘Th e Eff ect of the War upon Banking and Industry’ and E.P. de Monchy, ‘Commerce and Navigation’ in H.B. Greven, ed., Th e Netherlands and the World War. Studies in the War History of a Neutral (vols. II–IV, New Haven: Yale University Press, 1928), vol. IV, pp. 251–278, and vol. II, pp. 115–162. 176 maartje m. abbenhuis remained to be legally exported or illegally smuggled across the border. Hence, Ludendorff had few reasons to recognize and support Dutch neutrality, unless Germany received other advantages in return. He was very willing to pressure the Dutch for further concessions on their neutrality, economy and sovereignty. Th e entry of the United States into the war in February 1917 had increased pressure on the Netherlands from the Allied side as well, especially for economic concessions detrimental to Germany. Th at the neutral government managed to avoid invasion in 1917 and 1918 had, as a result, much to do with its willingness to compromise on its sovereignty and economic well being, its ability to negotiate neutrality conditions and terms mutually acceptable to both sets of combatants, and its aptitude at policing these new arrangements at the country’s sea, land and air frontiers. Although by international law, neutrality required strict territorial isolation of neutrals from belligerents, the relationship between the Netherlands’ border, the country’s territorial sovereignty and the maintenance of neutrality during the Great War was uncertain. Th is had numerous consequences for the Dutch state, for residents on both sides of the border, as well as for the viability of neutrality as foreign policy. Not only did external factors impact on the government’s ability to protect the inviolability of the nation’s border region, it also infl uenced the actions of frontier residents, who readily smuggled and spied for the belligerents. Th e behavior of border residents may refl ect the elastic relationship that existed between frontier zones, state control and the choices of the individual. While, for all intents and purposes, neutrality was a rigid concept, when tested in time of war it had to be as malleable as possible, to adapt to the security and economic needs of the state in which it was adopted. It also had to be fl exibly applied to the outer limits of the state, namely at its borders. Th e border was the fi rst line of defense where neutrality could be maintained or broken. Yet neither neutrality nor the border could shield the Netherlands from the ‘evil chances of the War’,90 although they both helped to keep the Dutch from having to fi ght in that confl ict.

90 F.E. Posthuma, ‘Food Supply and Agriculture’ in Ibid. (vol. II), p. 284. LAST CHANCE BELGIUM AT VERSAILLES

Hubert P. van Tuyll

Culture, Diplomacy, and the Belgian Situation

“[P]ays prussiens habits par une race d’origine et de traditions hollanda- ise” [Prussian lands inhabited by a race of Dutch origin and tradition].1 So André Tardieu described western Germany in his memoirs of the Versailles peace conference, where he had been chair of the Commis- sion on Belgian Aff airs and had favored transferring German territory to the Netherlands as compensation for Belgian annexation of Dutch lands. Th e transfers never happened, and Tardieu’s comment can alert us as to one of the reasons why. A century ago, language such as Tardieu’s about the cultures of nations was common. It lost favor. References to race became suspect, generalizations about national behavior seemed stereotypical, and studies of international relations treated nations as theoretical abstractions without a past, whose cultural diff erences were massaged out of the data. Th is was understandable. It’s hard to attribute nations’ collective behavior to culture without relying on stereotypes which are easily punc- tured by exception-laden scholars. Venturing into cultural explanations is not easy. In the words of Filip Matthijs, “[i]dentiteit is immers bijna ongrijpbaar, en iets ongrijpbaars levert al gauw een zoektocht naar een houwfast op.”2 But it is being tried. In the journal Diplomatic History, the “cultural approach” is described as “illuminating a signifi cant but neglected dimension of actors and forces in international relations.”3

1 André Tardieu, La Paix (Paris: Payot, 1921), 246. 2 Filip Matthijs, review of Angus Roxburgh, Preachers of Hate. Th e Rise of the Far Right (London: Gibson Square Books, 2002); Marysa Demoor, Th e Fields of Flanders (Rouselare: Globe, 2002), and Paul Gillaerts, Hilde van Belle and Luc Ravier, eds., Vlaamse identiteit: mythe én werkelijkheid (Leuven: Acco, n.d.)., Ons erfdeel 46 (April 2003), 315. 3 Nigel Gould-Davies, “Th e Logic of Soviet Cultural Diplomacy,”Diplomatic History 27 (April 2003), 193. In the same issue, and certainly on the same theme, there is a review essay by Karal Ann Marling entitled “Politics and Cocktail Bars,” examining 178 hubert p. van tuyll

Victor Davis Hanson has reinforced the idea that culture explains outcomes in warfare in his recent Carnage and Culture.4 We may avoid race-laden and stereotypical language as much as we can, but we cannot ignore how diff erences in national culture aff ect the results of confl ict, be they on or off the battlefi eld.5 I suggest today that diff erences in national cultures is one of the reasons why the land transfers envisaged by Tardieu did not take place. In 1919 various Belgian leaders sought changes ranging from minor (unrestricted use of the Schelde) to major (annexation of Zeeuwsch Vlaanderen, Dutch Limburg and Luxembourg). Versailles was Belgium’s last chance to change the borders established by treaty in 1839. Th e Belgian and Dutch governments sought get the major Entente powers to see things their way. Belgium, however, was not united on the border issue. Th is refl ected complex internal ethnic/linguistic divisions which in turn led to an uncertain campaign at Versailles. Th ere, the leading Belgian representative, Foreign Minister Paul Hymans, relied on a highly public approach while the Dutch responded on many levels. In a sense, Belgium pursued many goals with a single strategy, while the Netherlands had one goal achieved through multiple strategies. Th is refl ected the diff erent natures of the two countries. In this paper I will explore the Belgian side of the cultural-diplomatic divide. Belgium’s political divisions over annexation refl ected much more than the usual political squabbles. It was a young state moving towards fi nding its identity. (Sensitivity to slights on the nation contributed to a certain prickliness at Versailles.) Consider the immense interest in Henri Pirenne’s Histoire de Belgique which located the origins of Belgian civilization in the Middle Ages, not the revolution of 1830.6

Annabel Jane Wharton’s Building the Cold War: Hilton International Hotels and Modern Architecture (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001), 291–93. 4 For the role of culture as a determinant in military victory, one recent source is Victor Davis Hanson, Carnage and Culture: Landmark Battles in the Rise of Western Power (New York: Anchor Books, 2002). 5 I suggest that there are three ‘levels’ of analysis possible. One would be to look at the confl ict between states in the abstract, treating them as nearly identical and comparable ‘actors.’ Another would be to look at the individual behaviors and decisions of leaders and diplomats. A middle approach is to focus on their cultures, as I do in this paper. 6 Sophie de Schaepdrijver, Het koninkrijk België tijdens de Eerste Wereldoorlog (Amsterdam and Antwerp: Atlas, 1997), 39, 40. last chance: belgium at versailles 179

Signifi cantly this view had been enunciated earlier by Paul Hymans’ father in his 1860 Histoire populaire de la Belgique.7 Hymans’ rise to the foreign ministry was tied to the question of post- war demands. Eugène Beyens had lost the job because he was regarded as timid over the issue, and was replaced by Prime Minister Charles de Broqueville, who then lost the post because he had encouraged peace negotiations with the German governor-general in Brussels. Hymans discovered quickly that formulating an open annexationist policy would be diffi cult. Neither the government nor the country was united; parliamentary support was strong but not unanimous. Many politicians hid their positions. Some, like Colonial Minister Louis Franck, were openly opposed, while others like Pierre Nothomb fought publicly for expansion. Th e majority of the cabinet apparently hoped for great gains without actually demanding them (which was Hymans’ approach at Versailles). In the words of socialist leader Emile Vandervelde, the government “laissait dire et laissait faire.”8 Nobody was sure about public opinion. Th ere was no irredentist movement. Limburg was not Alsace-Lorraine. While some newspapers, such as Vingtième Siècle, Le Soir, and La Nation belge, sought to mobilize public support for annexation, they largely failed.9 Hymans’ own delegation refl ected the national uncertainty. Vander- velde demanded and got a spot on the delegation, which Hymans certainly did not want. Th ey disagreed immediately over annexation.10 Vandervelde’s Parti Ouvrier was vigorously opposed and supported direct Belgium-Netherlands talks (which was the last thing Hymans

7 Robert Fenaux, Paul Hymans: Un homme, un temps: 1865–1941 (Brussels: Offi ce de Publicité, 1946), 20n. 8 Paul Hymans, Mémoires, 2 vols. Ed. by Frans van Kalken and John Bartier (Brussels: Éditions de l’institut de sociologie Solvay, 1958), 157, 162–64, 254; Robert Devleeshouwer, “L’opinion publique et les revendications territoriales belges à la fi n de la Première Guerre mondiale 1918–1919,” 207–38 in Melanges off ers à G. Jacquemyns (Brussels: Institut de sociologie Solvay, 1968), 235; Fenaux, Hymans, 193, 206–207. Th e government did renounce annexationism, but only aft er the eff ort had clearly failed. See Hymans, Mémoires, 485. 9 Devleeshouwer, “L’opinion publique,” 207, 215–16; Fenaux, Paul Hymans, 188–90; Lucien Marchal, La défaite de la Belgique à Versailles en 1919 (Brussels: Éditions F.D., 1931), 19–20. 10 Fenaux, Paul Hymans, 192, 233–34; Hymans, Mémoires, 296–97. On Vandervelde’s claims regarding his position, see Émile Vandervelde, Souvenirs d’un militant socialist (Paris: Les Éditions Denoël, 1939), 286. 180 hubert p. van tuyll wanted). During a mass meeting in Brussels, socialists sang the Interna- tionale and the Wilhelmus. Socialist annexationists were disavowed.11 But these diff erences paled in comparison to the Flanders/Flemish/ French/Wallonia issues. Hymans was not the man to confront them. Even his sympathetic biographer concedes that he “ne savait pas le fl amande.”12 Although his ancestry was Dutch (his grandfather came from Dordrecht), he apparently did not speak Flemish. Th is certainly guaranteed him a hostile reception among the more extreme fl amin- ganten. Th ey thought that expansion would benefi t the fransquillons and some extreme separatists even stayed in Holland to publicly protest annexationism—with unoffi cial Dutch support. But more moderate Flemings such as Antwerp mayor Frans van Cauwelaert were also anti-annexation.13 Language was a large part of the picture. Although Flemings constituted a majority of the population, it was not until the 1890s that Flemish was recognized as an offi cial language. In 1910 Albert became the fi rst king to swear his oath in both languages. Class played a role as well. Th e Flemish upper classes spoke French, which was necessary for any advancement in Belgian offi cialdom. So the internal language border of Belgium was both geographic and social. Th e war had exacerbated the issue because Germany had sought to exploit the division. But the eff ect on international politics was even more complicated. The Francophone papers in Flanders did not support annexation. Hymans’ francophonism did not make him automatically pro-French. ‘Wallo- nia’ was still a relatively new concept and a walligant movement had developed only slowly. Th e only thing that truly united Francophones across Belgium was their dislike for pro-Flemish politicians, who some newspapers called fl amboches.14

11 Devleeshouwer, “L’opinion publique,” 223–24, 234; Fenaux, Paul Hymans, 208; Tardieu, La paix, 246. 12 Fenaux, Paul Hymans, 331. 13 Devleeshouwer, “L’opinion publique, 220–21; Hymans, Mémoires, 253, 253n; Internal memo, 4 March 1919, Algemeen Rijksarchief—Tweede Afdeling, Binnen- landse Zaken—Kabinet, nr. toegang 2.04.06.02, inv nrs 696–98; Geyl to Gerretson, 26 November 1920, P. van Hees and G. Puchinger, eds., Briefwisseling Gerretson-Geyl (Baarn: Bosch & Keuning, 1979), 448–49;Marchal, La défaite, 32. 14 De Schaepdrijver, Het koninkrijk België, 25–27, 35, 37–38, 300–303; Marchal, La défaite, 75–78; David Owen Kieft , Belgium’s Return to Neutrality: An Essay in the Frus- trations of Small Power Diplomacy (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1972), 35; Devleeshouwer, “L’opinion publique,” 222. According to the above sources 61 percent of Belgium was Flemish—and 54 percent spoke Flemish. last chance: belgium at versailles 181

Ironically, while many Flemings thought annexation favored only the fransquillons, Belgium’s powerful prelate, Cardinal Désirée Mercier, thought precisely the reverse. Although the Netherlands worked in Rome to get the Vatican to pressure the Belgian church, this was not necessary. Mercier thought that annexation would only increase the infl uence of the Flemish, whom he did not like. Not surprisingly Flem- ish radicals, some clergy, and even two bishops attacked the cardinal, which probably did not increase his love for Flanders.15

The Border

Th e borders that Belgium (or part of it) sought to change in 1919 can trace their history to the 14th century. Th e Versailles dispute, however, had its roots in two well-known treaties. Th e fi rst of these, the Treaty of Münster (1648), gave Holland both banks of the Schelde and cut Antwerp off from the sea. Amsterdam was delighted. Th e arrangement nearly unraveled under Austrian pressure in 1784.16 Th e French revolutionary conquest and the union of 1815 rendered the issue moot—but not for long. Th e revolution of 1830 put it back on the table. France favored an independent Belgium. Russia and Prussia favored the Dutch, but were preoccupied with unrest in Poland. In 1831, the great powers decided that the Netherlands would keep both banks of the Schelde, Luxembourg, and Limburg. Belgium refused to accept

15 David A. Boileau, Cardinal Mercier: A Memoir (Herent, BEL: Peeters, 1996), 32; Elsse Witte and Jan Craeybeckx, Politieke geschiedenis van België sinds 1830: Spanningen in een burgelijke democratie, 2nd ed. (Antwerp: Standaar wetenschappelijke uitgeverij, 1983), 190–92; Paul Moeyes, Buiten schot: Nederland tijdens de Eerste Wereldoorlog 1914–1918 (Amsterdam: Arbeiderspers, 2001), 351; John A. Gade, Th e Life of Cardinal Mercier (New York and London: Scribner’s, 1934), 270; De Schaepdrijver, Het koninkrijk België, 122, 195, 202, 245. 16 J.A.A.H. de Beaufort, Vijft ig jaren uit onze geschiedenis, 1868–1918 (Amsterdam: P.N. Kampen & Zoon, 1928), II:232; A.J. Barnouw, Holland under Queen Wilhelmina (New York: Scribner’s, 1923), 215, 219; De Stuers to Loudon, 27 December 1915: Aide mémoire from Fallon, 3 January 1916, C. Smit, ed., Bescheiden betreff ende de buitenlandse politiek van Nederland, 1848–1919, derde periode, 1899–1919, pt. 4, 1914–1917 (‘s-Gravenhage: Martinus Nijhoff , 1962), 504–505, 509, nos 488, 494; Jeremy Black, Brit- ish Foreign Policy in an Age of Revolutions (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 424; D.H. Th omas, Th e Guarantee of Belgian Independence and Neutrality in European Diplomacy, 1830’s–1930’s (Kingston, RI: D.H. Th omas Publishing, 1983), 551, 554–55; Fenaux, Paul Hymans, 171; A. Eyffi nger, “Moraal uit noodzaak: Het Nederlands buitenlands belied en de internationale rechtsorder,” 145–164 in R.E. van Dithuyzen, A.E. Kersten, A.L.M. van Zeeland, and A.C. van der Zwaan, eds., Tweehonderd jaar Ministerie van Buitenlandse Zaken (Den Haag: SdU Uitgevers, 1998), 150. 182 hubert p. van tuyll these terms, leading to a second protocol that stated that Belgium and Holland would negotiate the future of Luxembourg and Limburg. Th e Netherlands refused and, in a rare moment in its history, unsheathed its sword and chose to go to war.17 Th e resulting “Ten Days’ Campaign,” gave the Dutch that rare event in their military history: victory on land. When the French arrived, however, the Dutch had little choice but to withdraw. France proposed that Holland would keep Limburg and both banks of the Schelde. The Belgians accepted, but now Dutch King William I refused to sign. Belgium occupied Limburg and Luxembourg until, in 1838, the Netherlands agreed to accept the terms of the (fi nal) 1831 treaty. This required Belgium to evacuate Limburg and Luxembourg.18 Th e Dutch were not shy aft er World War I about reminding the Belgians that they had chosen their fate. Belgium, provoking the division in 1830, has thereby caused that once again the historical Northern Netherlands would exist with its own particular interests. We know these and do not off er them to Belgium.19 Th e Belgians felt just as warmly toward the Dutch. At the peace conference, Foreign Minister Paul Hymans claimed that his country’s enforced neutrality under the 1839 agreement was actually a form of Dutch revenge on the Belgians for revolting.20 Belgium had never claimed Zeeuwsch-Vlaanderen, only the right of access to the sea. With Limburg around Maastricht, things were more complicated. Conquered by the Dutch in 1632, its sovereignty was shared with the bishop of Liège until the French conquest of 1795. Napoleon’s collapse led Prussia to appoint administrators for the region but William I made sure his commissioners got there fi rst. Th e latter

17 Jane Kathryn Miller, Belgian Foreign Policy Between Two World Wars 191–1940 (New York: Bookman Associates, 1951), 15–17; G.P. Gooch and J.H.B. Masterman, A Century of British Foreign Policy (Port Washington, NY and London: Kennikat Pressm 1971 (1917)), 7–8. 18 Miller, Belgian Foreign Policy, 17; P. Forbes Wels, De Nederlandse cavalerie (Bus- sum: C.A.J. van Dishoek, 1963), 117. 19 H.T. Colenbrander, Nederland en België: Adviezen en opstellen uit de jaren 1919 en 1925–27 (’s-Gravenhage: Martinus Nijhoff , 1927), 140. 20 Van Weede to Van Karnebeek, 26 October 1918: Van Vollenhoven to Van Kar- nebeek, 12 December 1918: Van Karnebeek to Ruys de Beerenbrouck, 27 May 1919, C. Smit, ed. Bescheiden betreff ende de buitenlandse politiek van Nederland, 1848–1919, derde periode, 1899–1919, pt. 5, 1917–1919 (’s-Gravenhage: Martinus Nijhoff , 1964), 698–701, 794–96, 1071–73, nos. 683, 812, 1061; Colenbrander, Nederland en België, 2. last chance: belgium at versailles 183 promptly asked the king to send troops commanded by an intelligent general. Th e settlement of 1839 stipulated that he would retain Maas- tricht and environs in return for the loss of a large part Luxembourg to Belgium.21 Th e Belgian demands refl ected a national sense of injury about the 1839 arrangement. Th e eastern border facilitated German invasion, it was argued; the Schelde situation had prevented resupply to Antwerp; the ‘cession’ of Limburg and Luxembourg had been a result of Prussian infl uence in the 1830s.22 Hymans put it clearly: Nous demandions, en terminant, réération de l’erreur dont la Belgique fût la victime en 1831, après la campagne de Dix Jours où la Hollande nous surprit et refoula nos troupes à peine formées et impropres, dans les premiers mois d’un regime nouveau, à fournir un eff ort sérieux et prolongé.23 But in attacking the borders, there were two problems. One was purely technical. Because the 1830s settlement had involved the great powers, Belgium desired that those countries participate. Th at would vastly improve Belgium’s chances. Hymans called the multiple treaties “branches of the same tree.” Professor Charles de Visscher argued that they “forment un seul tout.” André Tardieu got his commission to agree that the three treaties were an indivisible entity.24 But one of the treaties was signed by Belgium and the Netherlands only, and it included a clause to the eff ect that each country promised to renounce all claims to each other’s territory.25 (Of course, Belgium could argue that it signed the treaty under duress—but was this a wise argument at Versailles, where the allies would do precisely that to Germany? How many treaties would be voided if a signatory could argue that the signing was not 100 percent voluntary?) Th e second and greater problem was the linkage between Belgium’s position and its image—both abroad and at home. Th e territories could

21 Memorandum of Prof. Colenbrander (1918), Ministerie van Buitenlandse Zaken, Archief van het Gezantschap Groot-Brittanië (London), 1913–1937, inv. nr. 822. 22 Tardieu, La paix, 244; Hymans, Mémoires, 292; J. Zaaijer, Nederland-België. Her- ziening van het Verdrag van 1839 (Baarn: Hollandia-Drukkerij, 1933), 24; Cornelis Boudewijn Wels, Aloofness and Neutrality: Studies on Dutch Foreign Relations and Policy-Making Institutions (Utrecht: HES Publishers, 1982), 76. 23 Hymans, Mémoires, 292. 24 Ibid., 284–85, 291; Tardieu, La paix, 243–44. 25 Belgium, Ministerie van Buitenlandse Zaken, Diplomatieke documenten betreff ende de herziening der verdragen van 1839 (Brussels: M. Weissenbruch, 1929), 4. 184 hubert p. van tuyll not be claimed on the basis of popular desire.26 Claims of historical rights sounded suspiciously Vienna-like; claims of military/security need sounded suspiciously German. Lucien Marchal thought that Bel- gium had committed a fatal error by shift ing from “politics of honor” to outright imperialism. Belgium was transformed from “brave little Belgium” into, in the words of Sophie de Schaepdrijver, a “hebzuchtige lastpost.” 27 But this refl ected not only diplomatic behavior, but also national culture. Belgium was making Vienna-style arguments to revolt against the Vienna-like arrangement that had created it, while at the same time looking forward to a more justice-based, less power-oriented world. No one was more supportive of the League of Nations than Paul Hymans. Henri Pirenne’s thesis had placed Belgian identity as being European identity. Like Europe, Belgium was divided between a desire for a new diplomacy and an instinct to settle old scores.

The Offensive

Perhaps this explains why the Belgian campaign at Versailles had so many seemingly inexplicable shortcomings. Th ere was little real diplomacy, although Hymans pretended back home that there was. His approach consisted of long public speeches which annoyed even Belgium’s supporters. While hoping for both British and French support, he employed tactics that guaranteed neither. His reputation inside Belgium, however, remained as high as it was low among the great power governments. Was his behavior deliberately political, aimed at home consumption? Was it, as has been suggested (by me, among others) ineptitude? Or was it a refl ection of the complex and contradictory culture of the state that he represented? Certainly his own background contained some of the contradictions. Even some Belgians assumed, because of his name, that he was Flemish, but he was not; instead, he was ethnically a French-speaking Dutchman.28

26 See Colenbrander memorandum (1918). 27 Marchal, La défaite, 45–46, 71; De Schaepdrijver, Het koninkrijk België, 297. 28 Th e future foreign minister was born in 1865 in Ixelles (Elsene) just outside Brus- sels. His mother came from an aristocratic Wallonian family. He would eventually serve as foreign minister for 10 years between 1918 and 1934 and would serve twice as presiding offi cer of the League of Nations assembly Fenaux,Paul Hymans, 15, 19–20, 23; Hymans, Mémoires, 983–84. last chance: belgium at versailles 185

Territorial annexation was fi rst discussed offi cially in Belgian government circles in September 1914. (Interestingly, Dutch government circles began worrying about it at the same time.) Th e foreign ministry was the most interested. Beyens opposed the annexation schemes outright, although he did raise the Schelde access issue with the British. Th e annexationists vented their fury on Beyens, calling him a traitor, and this enabled De Broqueville to fi re the unpopular minister in July of 1917 and take the portfolio himself.29 Hymans was cautious during the war. He disclaimed support for annexation but was quite close to Nothomb, whom he made an offi cial and described as a “collaborateur bénévole.” His wartime attitude was pragmatic. Hymans, did not want to annoy Holland, which housed a hundred thousand Belgians during the war. He did, however, raise the future of the Schelde with his monarch and in London, where he served as minister for a year, and he foresaw the possibility of pushing the Belgian frontier to the Rhine.30 In January 1918 he became the third foreign minister in a half year. He spent his fi rst year making occasional forays to build support for his argument that the 1839 settlement was inherently unjust, but quickly encountered problems. France supported his position vis-à-vis Holland, but not Luxembourg; Britain was favorable vis-à-vis Luxembourg, but not Holland. Th e one dignitary with whom he had success was Colonel House. (Th e only foreign head of state who was unreservedly pro- Belgium was Nicholas II, but that was not the advantage it once had been) His own monarch remained supportive but reserved.31 In November of 1918, however, three things happened that strengthened his position. First, the Entente won the war. Second, the German Emperor was granted asylum in Holland. Th ird, more than 70,000 retreating German troops were allowed to cross Dutch Limburg on their way home. Indignation in Belgium was universal. Hymans labelled it an action of “pusillanimité et de complicité peut-être” and an abdication of

29 Devleeshouwer, “L’opinion publique,” 208–209, 211–12, 212n; Eugène Beyens, Un diplomate belge au service de son pays: Le baron Beyens, ministre des Aff aires étrangères 1915–1917 (Brussels: Centre Guillaume Jacquemyns, 1981), 6, 86–87, 98–100, 189; Fenaux, Paul Hymans, 157–58, 172–73. 30 Devleeshouwer, “L’opinion publique,” 232; Hymans, Mémoires, 1399, 155–58, 186, 288; Beyens, Un diplomate belge, 79. 31 Hymans, Mémoires, 160, 224, 299, 300, 304; Christian Calmes, Le Luxembourg au centre de l’annexionnisme belge (Luxembourg: Saint-Paul, 1976), 171; Devleeshouwer, “L’opinion publique,” 214. 186 hubert p. van tuyll neutrality. It appeared to play into Belgium’s argument that the Limburg borders were indefensible. Th e secretary-general of the foreign ministry proposed immediately moving the Belgian army to the Limburg border to enter the province once it was ceded.32 For the hardliners times could hardly be better. Th e foreign ministry encouraged the formation of the Comité de Politique Nationale (CPN) in December. Pierre Nothomb was the primary force behind it, but he quickly enlisted Ferdinand Neuray, who had pushed annexation through three diff erent newspapers, with the support of de Broqueville, and Eugène Baie, a journalist who had launched a major campaign for a Low Countries’ military alliance before the war. Th e CPN was vocal, its colored maps were known to all, but its grass-roots eff ects were limited. Hymans started to worry that the CPN was doing more harm than good.33 Th e conference began, then, with the Belgian delegation in a complicated position. Hymans clearly was an annexationist, but he could not say so publicly. He could demand that something be done, but not suggest exactly what it should be. A well-prepared, subtle and secret campaign of diplomacy was called for, but did not happen. Julius van den Heuvel, the third main delegate, expressed his unhappiness later about the lack of preparation. Hymans was prepared to present his case, but not to answer the many questions that arose. His government did take the important step of sending agents into Dutch Limburg to pro- pagandize for a transfer, but the population proved unresponsive.34 In his opening presentations Hymans had to do two things. First, he had to make sure that Belgium retained the position that it felt entitled to, that is, not to be labelled just another small country with

32 Hymans, Mémoires, 265–66, 269, 275; Witte and Craeybeckx, Politieke geschiedenis, 188–89. 33 Fenaux, Paul Hymans, 190; H. D. Mommaerts, “Het Belgisch Expansionisme bij de herziening van de verdragen van 1839 en de vredesbesprekingen te Parijs in 1919,” Wetenschappelijke tijdingen 36 (No 4 1977), 194; Devleeshouwer, 209–11, 234; Hymans, Mémoires, 380–82; Belgisch Gezantschap, ARA-II, inv. nr. 569. 34 Marchal, La défaite, 49–51; Wels, Aloofness and Neutrality, 74–75; De Schaepdri- jver, Het koninkrijk België, 297; Devleeshouwer, “L’opinion publique,” 233n159. It is worth noting that the Belgian secret operation in Limburg continued until October, well beyond the peace conference, and Hymans’ own role was exposed in August. Moeyes, Buiten schot, 352; Reports by M. Cappel to Ministerie van Binnenlandse Zaken, 22 October and 20 November 1919, and report of the Secretaris-Generaal to the minister, 2 January 1920, Binnenlandse Zaken—Kabinet, inv nr 696, ARA-II. For the exposure of Hymans’ participation in the secret campaign, see Mommaerts, Belgisch Expansionisme,” passim. last chance: belgium at versailles 187 special interests. In this he appeared to succeed, but at great cost, as he thoroughly annoyed his two main European allies. Second, he had to place the annexation issue before the allies without proposing a solution. Obviously he desired a revision of the treaties that would be brought about by and with the great powers, but even House was coming around to the view that the Dutch government would have to consent to changes. Worse, the Belgians discovered (because of a misaddressed envelope)35 that the British Admiralty opposed changing the status of the Schelde. Wartime experience had convinced them that neutrality worked best.36 Still, the Commission on Belgian Aff airs, shepherded by Tardieu, did accept Belgium’s claim that the treaties were unjust and that an international conference with Dutch participation should revise them. As Hymans observed, “Nous ne pouvions espérer plus ou mieux. La victoire était complète.” But there were ominous goings-on. Dutch diplomats were fl oating around Paris, and although the Belgians did notice them, there was no real speculation, let alone investigation, of what they were up to. Even more ominous, the pro-Belgian British diplomat James Headlam-Morley, wrote a colleague on the very day that the Belgian commission issued its favorable report that he saw little probability that Belgium would get what it deserved.37 Indeed, the attitude of the interested great powers so alarmed Hymans that he called upon his King to come to Paris, which Albert did. Hymans and the monarch appeared before the supreme council. Hymans sum- marizes the resulting discussions in his memoirs and claims that the visit restored Belgian issues to the top of the conference agenda.38 In so doing he glossed over what actually happened.

35 A clerk at the Admiralty had misaddressed the report to the Belgian Legation instead of the Belgian Commission. Sally Marks, Innocent Abroad: Belgium at the Paris Peace Conference of 1919 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1981), 261. 36 Hymans, Mémoires, 360–63, 421–22; Fenaux, Paul Hymans, 157. For an article about the British attack on Zeebrugge and Ostend (by implication showing that the Germans did not try to use the Schelde for bases of attack) see Mark Karau, “Twist- ing the Dragon’s Tail: Th e Zeebrugge and Ostend Raids of 1918,” Journal of Military History 67 (April 2003): 455–481. 37 Hymans, Mémoires, 379–80; Morley to John Bailey, 8 March 1919, in James Headlam-Morley, A Memoir of the Paris Peace Conference 1919 (London: Methuen, 1972; ed. by Agnes Headlam-Morley, Russell Bryant, and Anna Cienciala), 47. 38 Hymans, Mémoires, 444–47. 188 hubert p. van tuyll

During discussions about the Schelde, Lloyd George rejected his own admiralty’s position,39 but then went further and completely accepted Belgium’s need for unfettered access to the sea, without Dutch interference.40 Clemenceau jumped in immediately: “Th ere is no diffi culty in that.” Lloyd George responded: “No, the territorial question is another matter.”41 In other words, the British had just openly accepted an 80- year old Belgian demand for free passage. Th e window of opportunity was wide open. Th e King then said that, [c]oncerning Limburg, the important thing is to know if Holland can defend it.” Lloyd George, referring to the November 1918 passage, stated that “[i]t is certain that she has not done so.” Again he made clear that he wished to keep the Schelde and Limburg issues separate. Here, Hymans snatched defeat from the jaws of victory. Unbelievably, he insisted on keeping the issues together, and went even further. He denounced suggestions to make the Schelde an international waterway, instead demanding that Belgium be given complete sovereignty over the river. Th is would be a territorial transfer and clearly contradicted what Lloyd George had just said. Th e British Prime Minister responded rather subtly that he “would approve of everything which would give Belgium free use of the Scheldt” and—signifi cantly—changed the subject and moved the discussion to unrelated matters.42 Th e window of opportunity had slammed shut, and Hymans’ fi ngerprints were on the glass. What was he doing? He knew months before the conference that he would have to be careful to get French and/or British support—and he was anything but careful during Versailles. Perhaps, convinced of the rectitude of his position, he was not willing to be the Belgian diplomat/politician who accepted half a loaf (or less); whether for political reasons or because of his sensitivity to Belgium’s position and national culture, he felt more called to be an advocate for Belgium that to act as a diplomat.

39 Villiers to Curzon, 8 April 1919, and Balfour to Curzon, 12 April 1919, Bourne and Watt, British Documents, Part II, Series I, vol. 6, 146, nos. 58–59. 40 Mantoux’s Notes of Two Meetings of the Council of Four, April 11 1919,Link, Arthur S., ed. Th e Papers of Woodrow Wilson, vol. 56 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton Uni- versity Press, 1986), 592–93; Marks, Innocent Abroad, 69–70, 119–20, 260. 41 Mantoux’s Notes of Two Meetings of the Council of Four, April 11 1919, Link, Papers of Woodrow Wilson, v. 56, 593. 42 Ibid., 593. last chance: belgium at versailles 189

The counter-offensive; a comment

Th e Dutch had no need to posture publicly. Th e country was completely united and its self-image was secure aft er 350 years of independence. (Th e national indignation over the Belgian attempt probably contributed to the defeat of a 1925–26 treaty.)43 Th e only domestic concern was about the loyalty of citizens in Zeeuwsch-Vlaanderen and Limburg, and that issue was dealt with energetically. Even the religious divide was irrelevant, the country having its fi rst Catholic leader since Alva. Just as Holland was diff erent from Belgium, so its counter-campaign was diff erent as well. It was much quieter. It involved far more secret diplomacy. Every imaginable method and avenue was used. Hymans conceded that “La Hollande organisa une forte opposition.”44 Of course the Dutch eff ort had its weaknesses as well; one diplomat had to be sent home, a second resigned, and the minister-resident in Belgium left the diplomatic service under a cloud.45 But it was a far more eff ective eff ort.

Conclusions

“La Belgique . . . était mise en échec.”46 Such was Tardieu’s conclusion. It could have gone the other way. A quick glance at Articles 331 and 361 of the Versailles treaty shows that the Netherlands’ position was anything but secure.47 But Tardieu was right, at least from the perspective of both concerned countries. Lucien Marchal described the treaty’s terms; “C’est pitoyable.” Marchal wrote of the country which had dared defy Germany, but was now being fl attened by Holland!48 But most Belgians had little criticism for the government or Hymans. (Popular disenchantment had more to do with reparations than territory anyway.)

43 See Hees and Puchinger, Briefwisseling, 112–113n. 44 Hymans, Mémoires, 485. Th is view is echoed in Feneaux, Paul Hymans. 45 Gade, Mercier, 182. Th e documents on this episode are still closed. 46 Tardieu, La paix, 248. 47 Article 361 indirectly suggests that the transfer of southern Limburg to Belgium was a real possibility. Article 331 dealt with the internationalization of rivers, showing that this could have happened to the Schelde mouth—and perhaps more. 48 Marchal, La défaite, 42–43, 56, 69. 190 hubert p. van tuyll

History has been less kind to Hymans. His relationship with the great powers degenerated rapidly. He made a bad impression in his opening speech (Marchal labelled the speech an immense political error), attacked Clemenceau head-on during an early plenary session and in private continued to push for a favorable resolution on Luxembourg when the Frenchmen had made it clear he should stop. He chastised Lloyd George for being disrespectful and threatened him with public opinion, and belittled Britain’s sacrifi ces by stating it was now Europe’s richest country. Even Hymans later conceded that people thought him “onhandig.”49 De Schaepdrijver states: “De goed bedoelende notabele uit Brussel had voor grootmachtenpolitiek volstrekt geen talent . . .”50 Yet Hymans had a long political career behind him and two assembly presidencies of the League of Nations ahead. He can hardly have been completely devoid of tact. Perhaps, to quote Sally Marks, Belgium was an “innocent abroad.” Despite being a cosmopolitan center of Europe à la Pirenne, its experience in conducting international aff airs was limited. Hymans, according to Marks, had no capacity at all to see matters from the viewpoint of any other nation. In himself, he summed up Belgium’s insulated, parochial diplomatic history, and though he had many talents, they were not those most needed for eff ective competition in the tumultuous Paris scene.51 According to Marks, this refl ected his country; [Th e Belgians’] performance soon indicated that war and exile had not fully erased the eff ects of the historical fact that although Belgium had long been considered the crossroads of Europe, the Belgians themselves had been primarily bystanders there, watching the traffi c.52 Th ere was little public interest in foreign policy in Belgium. Th e newspaper Pourquoi Pas lamented that Belgians were more interested in potato prices, the central railway station, and the latest election in Molenbeek than in the Schelde, Luxembourg, or Malmédy. Th e government made no direct attempt to mobilize public opinion and told even parliament very little. In addition, the minister was not well positioned to build

49 Ibid., 11–14, 19; Hymans, Mémoires, 228n, 420, 434–35, 436–39; De Schaepdrijver, Het koninkrijk België, 297–98. 50 De Schaepdrijver, Het koninkrijk Belgié, 297. 51 Marks, Innocent Abroad, 85, 92–94. 52 Marks, Innocent Abroad, 18, 55, 63, 79–80. last chance: belgium at versailles 191 public support, given his mediocre relations with the Flamands.53 So his position neatly refl ected the cultural dichotomy of Belgium. Cultural interpretation of national behavior was a commonplace a century ago. Because of its inevitable reliance on generalizations and even stereotypes it has somewhat fallen out of favor. It is a challeng- ing method because culture is not static. But just because a method of analysis is diffi cult is not a reason to abandon it. I believe that it certainly enhances our understanding about why the Low Countries’ borders today are where they are—despite Versailles.

53 He did not speak Flemish (neither did Vandervelde) and his feelings toward them were mixed. Kieft , Belgium’s Return, 3; Devleeshouwer, “L’opinion publique,” 237, 238; Geyl to Gerretson, 25 April 1928, Hees and Puchinger, Briefwisseling, 273–74; Betreft het Verdrag van Versailles: Interpellatie van den heer HERMANS, aan de Regeeriing op 24 Februari 1931 (Brussels: Recht voor Allen, 1931), 16, 22.

THE DUTCH BORDER AREAS 1933–1945 INDUCEMENT FOR INCIDENTS OR OBJECT OF STRUCTURAL HISTORIOGRAPHICAL NEGLECT?

Bob de Graaff

In the late aft ernoon of November 9, 1939, a shoot-out and a hijacking took place in the small southern border town of Venlo, the Nether- lands.1 Th rough this incident Venlo unwittingly earned itself a place in the history textbooks of the Second World War, which had begun only two months earlier.2 On this fateful aft ernoon special forces of the SS kidnapped the two leading British intelligence offi cers in the Netherlands, Richard Stevens and Sigismund Payne Best. While this occurred on Dutch territory, the two men were taken across the border into Germany, where they would stay in captivity for the remainder of the war. An offi cer of the Netherlands’ intelligence agency GS IIIA (GS being the abbreviation for Generale Staf/General Staff), who accompanied the two British men, the young lieutenant Dirk Klop, was mortally wounded during the shoot-out. His body was also taken by the SS-forces. Th e two British intelligence offi cers had been in contact with some German counterparts in the Abwehr, the counterespionage organization of the German armed forces, who had been opposed to Hitler’s war plans. Th e German offi cers wanted to stage a coup d’etat against Hit- ler, but before doing so they wished to sound out the British reactions towards the peace arrangements they had in mind once their coup had

1 Th e author would like to thank Isabelle Duyvesteyn for the improvements of the English text. 2 For this incident see e.g. B. de Graaff , ‘Th e Venlo Incident,’ World War Investigator, nr. 13 (1990), 2–13; L. de Jong, Het Koninkrijk der Nederlanden in de Tweede Werel- doorlog II (’s-Gravenhage: Rijksinstituut voor Oorlogsdocumentatie, 1969), 80–115; L. Kessler, Betrayal at Venlo. Th e Secret Story of Appeasement and Treachery, 1939–1945 (London: Leo Cooper, 1991); C.A. MacDonald, ‘Th e Venlo Aff air,’ European Studies Review, VIII (1978), 443–464; S. Payne Best, Th e Venlo Incident (London: Hutchinson, 1950); B. de Graaff , ‘From seduction to abduction: how the Venlo Incident occurred’, B. de Graaf, B. de Jong & W. Platje (eds), Battleground Western Europe. Intelligence Operations in Germany and the Netherlands in the Twentieth Century (Amsterdam: Het Spinhuis, 2007) 49–70. 194 bob de graaff succeeded. Th rough a Dutch female agent, the SD, the security service of Hitler’s national-socialist party NSDAP, learned of these German- British peace-feelers and decided to replace the real schemers by some fake ones. When the SD-agents were no longer able to keep up their intelligence game, they lured the British intelligence offi cers to Café Backus in Venlo, only a few hundred yards from the German border. German counter-intelligence was surprised to fi nd out that an offi cer of the Dutch General Staff accompanied Stevens and Best. His presence at the spot would be one of the excuses the German government used six months later in their offi cial declaration of war on the Netherlands: its government had not adhered to its proclaimed policy of neutrality. As a result of the events in Venlo, the British government decided to disrupt all ‘peace feelers’ with Germans that were taking place across Europe at the time. From this moment on, First Sea Lord Winston Churchill, who, pressed by Prime Minister Chamberlain and Foreign Minister Halifax, had reluctantly agreed to the contacts of Stevens and Best, was now strongly against every contact with the German opposition, as was the British intelligence service MI6. Th us the Venlo incident led to a toughening of the British position. Th e British government relinquished its hope for ‘the other Germany.’ No less than total sur- render would be acceptable from then on. Th e incident near Venlo is one of the very few events from the time of Nazi rule in Germany that earned the border areas of the Netherlands a place in Dutch national historiography of its traumatic relations with the Th ird Reich. Dutch history writing on this era is almost wholly centered on the western part of the country.3 Th ere—in Th e Hague—was the seat of the government, where the policy of neutrality was formulated and executed, which aft erwards could be appraised by historians. There was the Fortress Holland, which would serve as the fi nal retreat for the Dutch authorities, military and business. If this retreat were used, the border areas would be given up. Th e offi ces of the major newspapers

3 Exceptions are: H. Lademacher, Zwei ungleiche Nachbarn. Wege und Wandlungen der deutsch-niderländischen Beziehungen im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert (Darmstadt: Wis- senschaft liche Buchgesellschaft , 1990), especially about the Reichsdeutsche Gemeinschaft , 148–149; H.J. Asma, H.A. Benneker and H. Boink, Kuieren langs de grens. Grens- Episoden uit Denekamp en omgeving (Denekamp: Stichting Heemkunde Denekamp, 1992); A.H. Paape, Donkere jaren. Episoden uit de geschiedenis van Limburg 1933–1945 (Assen: Van Gorcum, 1969). the dutch border areas 1933–1945 195 were also located in the western part of the Netherlands.4 Most of those relatively few political refugees from Germany that were allowed into the country aft er 1933 quickly found their way to Amsterdam and eTh Hague. Th e German striving for autarchy and the strangling of Dutch economic life by short term agreements that needed to be re-negotiated time and again under German conditions seemed mainly to pre-occupy politicians and offi cials in Th e Hague and businessmen and bankers in Amsterdam and Rotterdam. Aft er the German invasion started in the early morning of May 10, 1940, German troops raced through the border areas to the Gelders Valley and the Grebbeberg. In spite of some courageous acts by Dutch individuals,5 the defence lines along the rivers IJssel and Meuse were no real obstacles for the advancing German troops and they were taken on the fi rst day of military confl ict. Deceptive operations by German troops in Dutch army uniforms along the border had already taken place in the fi rst hours of the invasion before a general scare regarding fi ft h column activities took hold on the Dutch people.6 In hindsight it is ironic that the scare was greatest where there was the least justifi cation for it. Th e deception was most successful at the bridge near Gennep, which was taken by German soldiers and their accomplices in Dutch uniforms, aft er which the Dutch armed forces quickly gave up the Peel-Raam-stand, which to a certain extent would have facilitated a common Dutch-Belgian-French defence line. Aft er the Dutch capitulation the German occupation authorities established themselves predominantly in Th e Hague and Amsterdam. Th e forced concentration of the Jews took place in Amsterdam. Pic- tures of round-ups, of the isolation of the Jewish quarter and of Jews who were brought together in the Hollandsche Schouwburg (Dutch Th eatre) in order to be transported are inseparably connected with the Dutch capital. Conspicuous acts of resistance such as the lecture of the Leyden professor Cleveringa against the forced dismissal of the Jewish professors, the February strike against the anti-Jewish measures,

4 F. van Vree, De Nederlandse pers en Duitsland, 1930–1940 (Groningen: Historische Uitgeverij Groningen, 1989) about Het Volk, NRC, De Standaard and De Maasbode. 5 H.W. van den Doel, ‘Betwist terrein. De strijd in Limburg, Noord-Brabant en Zee- land,’ H. Amersfoort/P.H. Kamphuis (red.), Mei 1940. De strijd op Nederlands grondgebied (’s-Gravenhage: SDU, 1990), 173–175. 6 E.g. L. de Jong, De Duitse Vijfde Colonne in de Tweede Wereldoorlog (Amsterdam: Meulenhoff , 19772 (1953)); L. Elff erich, Rotterdam werd verraden (Rotterdam: Uniepers, 1990). 196 bob de graaff or the attack on the Amsterdam civil registry-offi ce also occurred in the western part of the Netherlands. Th e strike of April and May 1943 against the transportation into captivity of members of the Dutch military took place not only in the eastern and southern border regions, such as Twenthe, South-Limburg and the peat moors of Groningen, but also in western regions such as South-Holland, IJmond and the Zaan area.7 At the end of the war, the Hunger Winter of 1944–1945 took a great many victims among the western population—a picture that would continue to dominate the memories of the occupation period for a long time.8 Th e few studies that did put the border regions into the context of the Th ird Reich are remarkably asymmetrical. With respect to the years 1933–1940, the emphasis in publications about the border regions is on right-wing extremist phenomena such as the Nationaal-Socialist- ische Beweging (NSB, National-Socialist Movement) and the farmers’ organization Landbouw en Maatschappij (Agriculture and Society).9 During the provincial elections of 1935 the NSB won respectively 11.7 and 11.1 per cent in Limburg and Drenthe, which was considerably more than the national average of 8 per cent. Th e concentration of NSB voters in Southern Limburg was quite conspicuous. Out of a total of 61 communities where the NSB attracted more than 15 per cent of the votes, 29 were concentrated in this area.10 For certain communities it has been established that the contiguity of Germany played a role in generating voting for the NSB, be it for economic reasons or because of family connections across the border.11 However, the economic cri-

7 P.J. Bouman, De April-Mei-Stakingen van 1943 (’s-Gravenhage: Nijhoff , 1950), 25–26 and 47–49. 8 G. Trienekens, Tussen ons volk en de honger. De voedselvoorziening, 1940–1945 (Utrecht: Stichting Matrijs, 1985). 9 Maatschappij G.A. Kooy, Het echec van een “volkse” beweging. Nazificatie en denazifi catie in Nederland 1931–1945, (Assen: Van Gorcum, 1964; S.H. Quee, ‘De NSB in Twente,’ H.W. von der Dunk (red.), 116–154; In de schaduw van de depressie. De NSB en de verkiezingen in de jaren dertig, (Alphen aan den Rijn: Sijthoff , 1982); S.Y.A. Vellenga, Katholiek Zuid-Limburg en het fascisme. Een onderzoek naar het kiesgedrag van de Limburger in de jaren dertig (Assen: Van Gorcum, 1975); L. Buning, ‘Landbouw en Maatschappij in Drenthe,’ Nieuwe Drentse Volksalmanak, Jg. 91 (1974), 103–134; J.H. de Ru, Landbouw en Maatschappij. Analyse van een boerenbeweging in de crisisjaren (Deventer: Van Loghum Slaterus, 1979). 10 Paape, Jaren, 3; Vellenga, Limburg, 3, 5. 11 Kooy, Echec, 138–139, 278–279, 333; Quee, ‘NSB,’ 154; M.G. Buist, ‘Het vooroorlogse Groningen,’ E.A.J. Boiten a.o., Groningen in oorlogstijd. Aspecten van de bezettingsjaren 1940–1945 (Haren: Knoop en Niemeijer, 1980), 29. the dutch border areas 1933–1945 197 sis, especially in agriculture, and the weaker ties with the main parties in these parts of the Netherlands seem to have been more important reasons for NSB voting.12 In other border regions, such as Twenthe, the electoral results of the NSB were not diff erent from elsewhere in the Netherlands.13 Apart from special areas such as Drenthe and Southern Limburg, therefore, the NSB was mainly a phenomenon of the west, especially when one takes its membership into account.14 Less than two percent of the NSB membership lived in Drenthe for instance.15 Besides, in Southern Limburg, a reaction from the side of the Roman Catholic establishment against NSB voting soon set in, with considerable success. ‘Maybe, this can be explained,’ one reads in the 1950 commemorative book of the Catholic Labour Movement in Limburg, because we in Limburg were well aware of the danger presenting us from that side, because in no other part of the Netherlands was National-Social- ism propagated so early and so boldly as in Limburg with its extended eastern boundary and where moreover tens of thousands of Germans had been hosted with such hospitality for many years. Especially once the National-Socialist dictatorship in Germany had been established, the reckless behaviour of the German Nazis and their Dutch accomplices went out of bounds.16 Whereas publications about the border regions during the 1930s concentrate on right-wing extremism, those on the border regions during the occupation time concentrate on the organized resistance. Th e latter have in common that they pay little attention to the pre-war period, oft en not even by way of introduction.17

12 E.g. P.Th .F.M. Boekholt, ‘Nieuwe tijd 1850–1945’ in: J. Heringa a.o.,Geschiedenis van Drente, (Meppel/Amsterdam: Boom, 1985) 651 and 655; J. Bodewes, Buigen en barsten. De oorlog 1940–1945 in Noord-Nederland (Groningen: Bodewes, 1992), 14–15; Buist ‘Groningen’, 29. 13 Kooy, Echec, 278 ff . 14 De Jong, Het Koninkrijk I, 313. 15 Boekholt, ‘Tijd,’ 653. 16 E.g. J. Jacobs, Het gouden boek der K.A.B. in Limburg 1900–1950 (Heerlen: Winants, 1951), 209–210. 17 A.H. Bornebroek, De illegaliteit in Twente. Een onderzoek naar het ondergronds georganiseerd verzet in ’40–’45 (Hengelo: Twents-Gelderse Uitgeverij Witkam, 1985); C. Hilbrink, De illegalen. Illegaliteit in Twente & het aangrenzende Salland 1940–1945 (’s-Gravenhage: SDU, 1989); A. van Aernsbergen, Onze gevallenen. Herinneringen aan het verzet inb Limburg in de Tweede Wereldoorlog (Maastricht: Stichting Herdenking der Gevallenen van het Verzet in Limburg 1940/1945, 1964); A.P.M. Cammaert, Het verborgen front. Een geschiedenis van de georganiseerde illegaliteit in de provincie Limburg tijdens de Tweede Wereldoorlog, 2 vol. (Leeuwarden/Mechelen: Eisma, 1994). Most local histories also treat only the time of occupation and liberation, e.g. I. de Groot, Wat de oorlog bracht over 198 bob de graaff

Is this concentration of Dutch historiography about the relations with the Th ird Reich on the western part of the Netherlands in accordance with the historical facts? Before I answer this question, I would like to emphasize that to a certain extent it is at least understandable. Of course, there was a concentration of political, administrative and economic power in the west. And in crisis times centralist forces have a tendency to be strengthened even further. In spite of the pillarization of Dutch society according to Roman Catholic, Protestant, socialist and liberal ‘denominations,’ a growing part of the electorate gave their votes to the strong man of the Anti-Revolutionaire Partij (the Protes- tant Anti-Revolutionary Party, ARP) Hendrik Colijn. Th e international economic crisis, which had led to clearing as the only vehicle for trade between the Netherlands and Germany, strengthened the economic and fi nancial power within the Netherlands in Amsterdam, Rotterdam and Th e Hague. Furthermore, the threat of a national-socialist neighbouring country stimulated national feelings. Already before 1933 there had been growing concerns about Überfremdung and Eindeutschung, processes whereby the Netherlands threatened to become a cultural colony of Germany.18 Debates about the true colours of the Dutch fl ag and events—both sorrowful and happy—involving the royal family drew overwhelming attention. However, during the 1930s the people in the Netherlands were not active, militant nationalists, but instead were rather introverted. In a clever analysis of the pre-occupation Netherlands, the author Johan Brouwer, who would be executed in the summer of 1943 for his part in the attack on the Amsterdam civil administration, wrote aft er a few months of German occupation about the attitude in the previous years:

Zevenaar (Zevenaar: Drukkerij Spaan, 1985, 1947) and T. Wiegman, Enschede 1940–1945 (Enschede: Van de Berg, 1985); for an overview of local and regional war histories see B. de Graaff , Schakels naar de vrijheid. Pilotenhulp in Nederland tijdens de Tweede Wereldoorlog (’s-Gravenhage: Sdu Uitgeverij Koninginnegracht, 1995). 18 E.g. J. Huizinga, Nederland’s Geestesmerk (Leiden: Sijthoff , 19352 (1934), 15; Ch.F. Haje, Taalschut. Schrijf weer Nederlandsch (Leiden: Leidsche Uitgverij, 1932); G. Royen, Ongaaf Nederlands (Mededeelingen der Nederlandsche Akademie van Wetenschappen, afdeeling letterkunde) (Amsterdam: Noord-Hollandsche Uitgevers Maatschappij, 1941); C.G.N. de Vooys, Nedersaksische en Hoogduitse invloeden op de Nederlandse woordvoorraad (Mededeelingen der Nederlandsche Akademie van Wetenschappen, afdeeling letterkunde) (Amsterdam: Noord-Hollandsche Uitgevers Maatschappij, 1936). the dutch border areas 1933–1945 199

Th e people withdrew themselves, like in water-tight compartments, from everything that could remind them of the precariousness of life and of their moral responsibility for the future. Th e sounds of distress outside our borders, the catastrophe of war, civil strife, hunger, revolutions, persecutions, lives that had fallen apart, were admitted only in a muffl ed way, just loud enough to promote a philosophy of moderation, which one saw unwittingly as a peace off ering to the higher powers to solicit protection from such plagues.19 As during the 1930s, when troubles from abroad eventually reached the frontiers of the Netherlands, the border regions were condemned to play a buff er role between the Fortress Holland and the unruly world east of the Netherlands. Th roughout history people in the ‘West’ had thought that the West ended where unruliness began. Th e Dutch were no diff erent. In the mid-1930s the Dutch historian Johan Huizinga wrote that the borderline between West- and Central-Europe ran from Delfzijl to Vaals, i.e. along the Dutch border.20 However, if it were possible to discern international dangers at the Dutch-German border, this did not appear to have implications for the metropolitan part of the Netherlands, where decisions had to be made. Th ere a fearful need to disregard events at the periphery of the country prevailed. In the years leading up to the Second World War, the negligence of the elites in the canal houses of Amsterdam was not so much the result of arrogance as it was the result of fear; this left its mark on the post-war historiography of the 1930s. Aft er the Dutch armed forces had capitulated within a few days, the shocked Dutch population showed two patterns of reaction. On the one hand they clung stronger than ever to existing social structures that off ered a certainty amidst the prevailing confusion. Clerical leaders were sought out by members of their own social pillars for rest and comfort.21 On the other hand there appeared an anti-German and anti-national- socialist nationalism that contrasted with the thinking and reasoning along pre-war pillarized lines. Resistance groups fell back on the time of the Dutch Revolution against Spain, more than three centuries ago. Th e fi rst group honoured itself by taking their name from their illustrious predecessors, the Geuzen, who had fought the Spanish troops in the 16th

19 J. Brouwer, Geestelijke verwarring (Den Haag: Leopold, 1940), 13. 20 Huizinga, Geestesmerk, 40. 21 A.A. Klumper, Sociale verdediging en Nederlands verzet ’40–’45–ideëel concept getoetst aan historische werkelijkheid (Tilburg: Gianotten, 1983), 109–115, 168–169. 200 bob de graaff century. Th ough not without strong reservations,22 resistance fi ghters made common cause across the boundaries of the social pillars. Aft er the liberation of the Netherlands in 1945, the remaining diff erences from the occupation time and the distinctions as to the diff ering degrees with which several social groupings had participated in the resistance were washed away.23 Commemorations of the war and the liberation were set on a national footing. Aft er the Second World War it was hard to escape from the notion that the resistance had been on a nationwide basis. It was considered almost indecent to pose questions about social, political and religious diff erences in resistance activities. Understandable though this may be, there is no justifi cation for this undue emphasis on the national and (by implication) western elements of the years 1933–1945 and its consequent structural neglect of the border areas in the historiography about Dutch-German relations at the time. In many respects the Dutch border areas experienced the realities of the Th ird Reich earlier than or diff erently from the rest of the Netherlands, as I will try to show by presenting some examples. First of all, it should be noted that by the 1930s the exact frontier between the Netherlands and Germany had not yet been established. In 19th century treaties the frontier had been drawn only by approxi- mation.24 In following years, countless numbers of small changes and agreements had led to some thirty additional treaties or proclamations, which, however were oft en not offi cially published, so that even the authorities had lost sight of their consequences on the ground.25 From 1931 on, German and Dutch delegations negotiated about the boundary in the Eems-Dollard, the frontier near Schoonebeekerdiep in Drenthe, the Wurm near Aachen, the border near Kaldenkirchen, Rammelbach near Osnabrück, the Old IJssel and Glanerbach.26 Finally, agreement was reached on a partial revision on March 6, 1939, aft er which this treaty took eff ect on May 6, 1940, four days before the German invasion.

22 B. de Graaff and L. Marcus, Kinderwagens en Korsetten. Een onderzoek naar de sociale achtergrond en de rol van vrouwen in het verzet 1940–1945 (Amsterdam: Bert Bakker, 1980); B. de Graaff , ‘Collaboratie en verzet: een vergelijkend perspectief,’ J.P.B. Jonker e.a. (red.), Vijft ig jaar na de inval. Geschiedschrijving en Tweede Wereldoorlog (’s-Gravenhage: SDU, 1990), 100–101. 23 De Graaff and Marcus, Kinderwagens, 15–17, 30. 24 E.g. paragraph 41 of the Meppens treaty of 1824, Staatsblad 1846, no. 54. 25 E.g. National Archive, Th e Hague,Ministry of Foreign Aff airs, fi le A-125 (grensre- geling Nederland-Duitsland), memo Helb, November 19, 1936. 26 E.g. National Archive, Th e Hague,Ministry of Foreign Aff airs, fi le A-122, Verbeter- ing en grenswijziging Schoonebeker Diep. the dutch border areas 1933–1945 201

Th at there would be little hope for the border areas in case of war was established during the 1930s. Th e government no longer placed orders with arms factories as Nedinsco in Venlo or Hazemeyer Signals Apparatuses in Hengelo from the mid-1930s on. Firms of military importance had to be within the Fortress Holland. In the course of preparation for war so-called surveillance areas were established along the borders, where entrance was forbidden for suspicious persons. In March 1938, aft er the Anschluss of Austria, the billeting of Dutch soldiers along the eastern boundaries began. Dutch custom offi cers were instructed how to communicate cases of border-crossings by German troops.27 Before the general mobilization of August 28, 1939, a strate- gically precautionary measure had been taken in April of that year to prevent a surprise attack. At 19 places along the frontier, trains coming from abroad had to be stopped before the railway station in order to be searched by Dutch military police. Little is known about the way the population in the border areas reacted to plans to give up their region once German troops attacked. Th ere are, although still rather weak, indications that because of this knowledge public opinion in the southern part of the Netherlands was ahead of the rest of the country in favouring a stronger military defence.28 Aft er the outbreak of the Second World War in September 1939, which initially still had the character of a ‘phoney war’ on the western front, the air above Dutch territory was frequently violated by British and especially German military planes.29 A few times planes were brought down in the border regions.30 At this stage of the war British planes dropped pamphlets like Fliegende Blätter and Wölkiger

27 H. Brand, Die lange morgen in mei. 10 mei 1940 (Meppel: Boom, 1980), 27–28. 28 P.H. Kamphuis, ‘Eenzijdige ontwapening is redeloos, maakt reddeloos!,’ Med- edelingen Sectie Militaire Geschiedenis Landmachtstaf, 7 (1984), p. 84; B. de Graaff , Reconstructie van de rapportage van de Centrale Inlichtingendienst (C.I.), 1919–1940 (Den Haag 2002) (http://www.inghist.nl/Onderzoek/Projecten/RapportenCentraleIn- lichtingendienst1919–1940), C.I. no. 11652, ‘Verslag van een op 2 juli 1934 te Breda gehouden vergadering betreff ende de noodzakelijkheid van een brede militaire verdediging van de blootgestelde zuidelijke provincieën’ and no. 16331, ‘Kort verslag van de huishoudelijke vergadering van Zwart Front, gehouden op woensdag 19 december 1934 te ’s-Gravenhage’. 29 E.g. the lists in Ministry of Foreign Aff airs, Berlin, Büro des Staatssekretärs, Akten betreff end Niederlande, Aufzeichnung Von Rinteln, February 14, 1940; Aufzeichnung, February 24, 1940; Aufzeichnung Welck, May 7, 1940. 30 E.g. J. van Lieshout, De aal van Oranje. Een biografi e van pater Bleijs (Venlo: Van Spijk, 1988), 112–114. 202 bob de graaff

Beobachter, which meant to reach the German population, but sometimes landed on Dutch territory.31 Th e border regions also had the fi rst experience with refugees who had decided to fl ee the Th ird Reich. Aft er the First World War the Dutch authorities had feared the development of bolshevist nuclei east of the German-Dutch border.32 Initially they even assessed the coming to power of the Nazis along these lines, as this could have led to communist activity in the Ruhr area. In its turn this could have brought about either a communist government across the Dutch border or civil war, possibly resulting in waves of communists fl eeing into the Netherlands. Th erefore, from the end of the First World War the Dutch authorities had taken measures against left ist activities by foreigners in the Dutch border areas, such as Agitprop-groups in the northern provinces,33 where communists acted according to their conviction that although there were borders, ‘they are not meant for us.’34 Aft er Hitler took power in January 1933, it was no longer possible for political and social activists from Germany to operate openly in the Netherlands. German representatives no longer made their appearance at the well-known yearly social study-weeks of the Catholic Labour Movement in Rolduc, Limburg.35 If political activists from Germany came to the Netherlands aft er January 1933, they did so as political refugees who crossed the German-Dutch border along several organized

31 National Archives, Washington D.C., RG 59, 740.0011EW, 1939/686; Federal Archive, Potsdam, RSHA, 151/1; Public Record Offi ce, Kew, FO371, vol. 23101, C13260/, C13318/, C14967/, C15737/, C16456/, C17448/, C18066/, C18666, C19920/ en C21016/13260/18. 32 J. Houwink ten Cate, ‘De mannen van de daad’ en Duitsland, 1919–1939. Het Hol- landse zakenleven en de vooroorlogse buitenlandse politiek (Den Haag: Sdu Uitgevers, 1995), 58, 64, 65, 69, 72, 102–103; J.C. van der Does, Als ‘t moet. November 1918 en de Bijzondere Vrijwillige Landstorm (’s-Gravenhage: Nijgh & Van Ditmar, 1959), 159; ‘Niet indommelen,’ Limburger Koerier, January 16, 1919; ‘Nieuws uit de Mijnstreek,’ Limburger Koerier, January 16, 1919; Luitenant Graafl and, ‘Onze Daad en ons Teeken,’Limburger Koerier, January 18, 1919; H.G.M. Hermans, ‘Burgerwachten,’ Limburger Koerier, Janu- ary 21, 1919; ‘Het dreigend revolutiegevaar,’ Limburger Koerier, January 22 and 24, 1919; ‘Meeting tegen de revolutie,’ Limburger Koerier, January 23, 1919; M. Ubachs, Een eeuw modern kapitalisme. De Regouts. Leed en strijd van Maastrichts proletariaat, edited by J. Perry, (Nijmegen: LINK, 1976) 187. 33 E.g. National Archive, Th e Hague, Rijksvreemdelingendienst, 46, Donner aan Van der Minne, January 15, 1932; Van der Minne to attorneys-general Arnhem, Leeuwarden en ‘s-Hertogenbosch, February 3, 1932, report of Centrale Inlichtingendienst no. 32440, August 10, 1932; Donner to attorney-general ‘s-Hertogenbosch, August 8, 1932. 34 R. Weijdeveld (ed.), Rode Hulp. De opvang van Duitse vluchtelingen in Groningerland (1933–1940) (Groningen: Wolters Noordhoff , 1986), 23. 35 Jacobs, Boek, 185. the dutch border areas 1933–1945 203 escape lines.36 Also shortly aft er Hitler’s assumption of power, concentration camps were established just east of Groningen and Drenthe in Emsland, where left ist opponents of Hitler’s regime in particular were confi ned.37 Oft en they were forced to dig at a distance of only a couple of hundred yards from the border, while being observed by Dutch- men on the other side. Th e nearness of the border provoked several inmates into trying to escape to Dutch territory, but many of them were shot on the run.38 If political refugees did reach the Netherlands, it was oft en Dutch communists with ties to the International Red Aid that helped them to go into hiding in the Netherlands.39 However, the Dutch authorities oft en took countermeasures against such ‘gaps’ in the border and so-called ‘weak border posts.’40 Not only did the Dutch police and military extradite refugees to Germany, German guards and policemen frequently violated the international border while chasing refugees. Especially in 1933 and 1937 there were many such incidents, when members of the German SA and SS kidnapped German opponents of the Hitler regime on Dutch soil and agents of the Gestapo conducted investigations in the Netherlands without informing the local authorities.41

36 B. Moore, Refugees from Nazi Germany in the Netherlands 1933–1940 (Dordrecht etc.: M. Nijhoff , 1986), 129; J. Hoogeveen, ‘Eveneens voor de goede orde’. Heerlen in oorlogstijd 1940–1944 (Heerlen: Winants, 1984), 80–81; Weijdeveld, Rode Hulp, 77 ff .; Bodewes, Buigen, 10–12. 37 E.g. Bodewes, Buigen, 8–10; Ph. Metcalfe, 1933 (Amsterdam 1989), 355–361. 38 J. Valtin, Out of the night (New York: Alliance Book Corp., 1941), 587. 39 E.g. H. van der Veen, ‘Over de grens. Oostfriese joden na de machtsovername, 1933–1940,’ D. Mulder/B. Prinsen (ed.), Uitgeweken. De voorgeschiedenis van kamp Westerbork (Hooghalen: Herinneringscentrum Kamp Westerbork, s.a.), 14; F. Hulst, ‘Onverschilligheid en emotie. Nederlandse meningen over het Duitse vluchtelingenprob- leem, 1933–1940,’ ibidem, 73. 40 C.K. Berghuis (ed.), Joodse vluchtelingen in Nederland 1938–1940. Documenten betreff ende toelating, uitleiding en kampopname, (Kampen: Kok, [1990]), 46; B.G.J. de Graaff , ‘ “Strijdig met de tradities van ons volk”. Het Nederlandse beleid ten aanzien van de vluchtelingen in de jaren dertig,’ Jaarboek van het ministerie van Buitenlandse Zaken 1987–1988 (‘s-Gravenhage: Staatsdrukkerij, 1988), 178; Weijdeveld, Rode Hulp, 54. 41 Ministry of Foreign Affars, Berlin, Pol. Arch., Büro des Staatssekretärs, AD, Aufzeichnungen von Bülow über Diplomaten besuche, Bd. 7, Aufzeichnung January 15, 1934; Pol. Arch., Pol. Abt. II, Niederlande, Politik 52 no. 1, Bd 1, Verbalnoten Nederlands gezantschap Berlijn aan AA, July 17, 1937 and September 30, 1939; National Archives, Washington D.C., RG 84, Th e Hague Embassy, 1937, vol. 7, box 9, Gordon to State Department, December 23, 1937, no. 111. It should be noted that there had been Dutch complaints about such German police behaviour before 1933: W.J.M. Klaassen/J. Woltring (ed.), Documenten betreff ende de Buitenlandse Politiek van Nederland, 1919–1945. Periode B. 1931–1940. Deel II, 1 april 1932–30 mei 1933 (‘s-Gravenhage: Nijhoff , 1987), 461–462; Ministry of Foreign Aff airs, Berlin, Politisches Archiv, Pol. Abt. Niederlande, Rechtswesen 204 bob de graaff

In addition to a relatively small number of political refugees, around 40,000 Jewish refugees crossed the Dutch-German border between 1933 and 1940, oft en aided by guides who acted either on humanitarian grounds or for profi t.42 Th e Dutch press paid little attention to the fate of these German refugees, except for the period in November 1938 immediately following the Reichskristallnacht. Th en Limburgers could read in the Limburgs Dagblad (Limburg Daily): Th e few North-Limburgers who still travel to Germany on a regular basis for business returned with descriptions of such gruesome scenes taking place on the squares and streets of German places, where before Lim- burgers met with so much cordiality . . . From Dutch territory one could see fi res fl aring up in the nightly darkness and aft erwards one learned that these had been Jewish synagogues or the houses of Jews, who had a good reputation here.43 In general still little is known about the reaction of the border authorities and population on the arrival of the refugees. Two examples demonstrate the extreme poles of the reaction patterns. Th e police commissioner of Heerlen showed that energetic action against German Nazis, for which he was well-known, was no guarantee for an understanding attitude towards Jewish refugees. In a letter to the attorney-general in Den Bosch he wrote at the end of 1934 that he did everything in his power to encourage the Jews, who according to him mainly originated from Poland, to: leave the Netherlands as soon as possible, although these eff orts were strongly frustrated by interventions of Dutch Jews, which were condoned by the Dutch government and which was rather unfortunate, as these Dutch Jews took a greater interest in people of their own race and religion than in Dutch national interest; further by Polish representatives in the Netherlands who did everything they could to prevent the return of these Jews, who earned their living through haggling and not through decent jobs; and fi nally by compassionate non-Jewish Dutchmen who in reality were short-sighted and narrow-minded.44

5, Bd. 3, Verbalnote Dutch legation Berlin to German Ministry of Foreign Aff airs, May 24, 1932; Bd. 4, Verbalnoten German Ministry of Foreign Aff airs to Dutch legation Berlin, October 31, 1932, November 30, 1932 and February 27, 1933. 42 Kuieren, 36–38, 169. 43 Quoted in Cammaert, Front, 377ff . 44 National Archive, Th e Hague,2.09.22, Ministry of Justice, chronologisch archief, box 10456, V21–3–1935–802A, police commissioner Heerlen to attorney-general ’s-Her- togenbosch, December 28, 1934. Cf. Ministry of Justice, depot 188, box 11, fi le 37, police commissioner Heerlen to Inspeceur of Koninklijke Marechaussee, September 25, 1934. the dutch border areas 1933–1945 205

We encounter a diff erent attitude when we turn to Mayor Verbeek of Dinxperlo, near the border, who was brought to ‘justice’ because of his ‘unlawful distribution of residence permits and identity papers, . . . [and] the deliverance of declarations to the German authorities to further the dismissal of German Jews from concentration camps.’45 Facing such pressure, the mayor of Dinxperlo, which earned itself the name of ‘Jeruzalem of the Achterhoek’ in NSB-publications because of the mayor’s behaviour,46 saw himself forced to ask for his own dishonourable discharge. In two court cases he was found to be not guilty. Nevertheless, it took until 1990 before Verbeek’s discharge was changed into honourable.47 In spite of this individual mayor, the Dutch border posts apparently were hardly Checkpoints Charlie avant la lettre. Once on Dutch territory the refugees were still not safe. Th eir forced return also took place in the border areas.48 Th e regions along the Dutch eastern border also experienced propaganda activities, both from Nazis and their opponents. Just as in Ger- many itself, the Nazis tried to usurp power among expatriate German groups. Th ey exerted pressure by reminding their countrymen abroad of their relatives in Germany or of possible consequences upon their return to their fatherland.49 Within the Netherlands these processes occurred especially in Southern Limburg, where several thousand Ger- man mineworkers worked in the 1930s.50

45 Berghuis, Vluchtelingen, 196. 46 W.A. Brug, Hun naam leeft voort . . .! Oorlogsslachtoff ers verleenden hun naam aan straten en gebouwen (Alphen aan den Rijn: Repro Holland, 1989), 217. 47 F. Bolder, ‘Verbeek slachtoff er van NSB-hetze,’ De Gelderlander, December 9, 1989; ‘Eerherstel voor Verbeek’De Gelderlander, July 21, 1990. 48 E.g. Berghuis, Vluchtelingen, 58; Cammaert, Front, 381; B.G.J. de Graaff (ed.), Documenten betreff ende de Buitenlandse politiek van Nederland, 1919–1945. Periode B, 1931–1940. Deel IV, 27 juni 1934–31 juli 1935 (’s-Gravenhage: Instituut voor Ned- erlandse Geschiedenis, 1996), no. 197. 49 E.g. Ministry of Foreign Aff airs, Berlin, ol.P Arch., Gesandtschaft Haag, Pers G3, A-Berichte, Bd. 3, Zech to German Ministry of Foreign Aff airs, November 18, 1935; National Archive, Th e Hague, Ministry of Foreign Aff airs, A-185Queast, no. 15 (Jodentoes- troming, verlening visa en reispapier aan joodse vluchtelingen), De Graeff to Van Schaik, September 9, 1935. 50 Th e exact numbers were: in 1930: 7563, in 1931: 7359, in 1932: 6031, in 1933: 4867; in 1934: 3391; on July 1, 1935: 2799, Ministry of Foreign Aff airs, Berlin, Pol. Arch., Recht- sabteilung, V, Arbeitsrecht Nr. 9, Niederlande, Bd. 4, Kreutzwald to German Ministry of Foreign Aff airs, August 19, 1935. See also B. Moore, ‘Nazism and German Nationals in the Netherlands, 1933–40,’ Journal of Contemporary History, vol. 22 (1987), 49. 206 bob de graaff

Fearing German party strife on Dutch soil, the Dutch authorities initially acted energetically against activities of Nazi-organizations within the Netherlands. Th e Dutch government took the stand that foreigners in the Netherlands ‘were not allowed to participate in the politics of their own country whether for or against the prevailing political direction.’51 During 1933 a whole series of expulsions of politically active German National-Socialists took place. As the highest police authorities, the Dutch attorneys-general were charged with the task to forbid every gathering of local groupings of German Nazis. In some places such groupings were forcefully disbanded and on November 15, 1933 the Dutch foreign minister informed the German government that from then on all German political organizations including the national- socialist ones would have to be dissolved. Th e German government reacted by stating that the German Nazi organizations had always refrained from any activities against the Dutch government and had never meddled in the internal aff airs of the Netherlands.52 Th ereupon the Dutch government abandoned its position, because meanwhile state and party in Germany had been fused to such an extent that measures against the party nature of Nazi groupings in the Netherlands no longer appeared possible to it. In fact leading fi gures of the Nazi communities had diplomatic or consular status. In early 1934 the Dutch and German governments reached an agreement on the conditions under which the German national-socialist organizations in the Netherlands were allowed to operate.53 Th ey were not to be dissolved, but should operate as local associations of German nationals without a political or party appearance. Public political activities, med- dling in Dutch internal aff airs or pressure on other German nationals on Dutch soil would lead to expulsions. Th e names of such groupings should not have any political connotation. Aft er an extensive exchange

51 Ministry of Foreign Aff airs, Berlin, Pol.Arch., Gesandtschaft Haag, Po. 4, Fach 109, Bd 1, NSB in den Niederlanden, Zech to German Ministry of Foreign Aff airs, September 25, 1933. 52 E.g. Ministry of Foreign Aff airs, Pol. Arch., Pol. Abt. II, Niederlande, Po 29, Bd. 1, Zech to De Graeff , December 1, 1933. 53 W.J.M. Klaassen and J. Woltring (eds.), Documenten betreff ende de Buitenlandse Politiek van Nederland. Periode B. 1931–1940. Deel III (’s-Gravenhage: Instituut voor Nederlandse Geschiedenis, 1990), 285, 306, 313, 344–345, 380–381, 404–405, 409–410; Ministry of Foreign Aff airs, Po. Arch., Berlin, Pol. Abt. II, Niederlande, Po 29, Bd 1, Aufzeichnung von Köpke, January 5, 1934; Aufzeichnung Von Neurath, Febraury 7, 1934. the dutch border areas 1933–1945 207 of diplomatic notes the two governments fi nally agreed on the name Reichsdeutsche Gemeinschaft (Reich German Community).54 However, this agreement had little practical consequence for the Nazi activities in the Netherlands.55 New expulsions followed, until the Ger- man government reciprocated the expulsion of four Germans in 1936. Th en the Dutch government suspended its measures. Both the Dutch and the German governments complained about propaganda activities originating from the other country. For instance, the Dutch government complained about German Dutch-language propaganda pamphlets entering the Netherlands that were off ensive to Jews.56 Th e small swastika fl ags oft en mounted on German cars entering into the Netherlands were also considered off ensive. On instructions of the Netherlands minister for justice they were removed at the border in order not to disrupt public order. Th is procedure led to frequent pro- tests from German diplomats in Th e Hague, maintaining that this was the offi cial German fl ag. Upon pressure from the Netherlands Foreign Ministry, which demonstrated an understanding for the offi cial Ger- man reactions, the Justice Department showed more restraint in this respect from the summer of 1934.57 From then on measures against the swastika fl ag could only be taken when the fl ags appeared to be an actual threat to public order. In turn German authorities complained about the distribution of anti- regime pamphlets from the Netherlands, such as the social-democratic Freie Presse and the Catholic magazine Der Deutsche Weg.58 Recurrent offi cial German objections against the distribution of communist propaganda directed against the Th ird Reich in the Dutch border towns

54 On the Reichsdeutsche Gemeischaft see e.g. B. Moore, Refugees from Nazi Germany in the Netherlands, 1933–1940 (Dordrecht etc. 1986), 167–175. 55 National Archive, Th e Hague, Ministery of Waterworks, Cabinet, box 59, file 85, Van Schaik to De Graeff , November 7, 1935; records Council of Ministers, note De Graeff about organizations of Germans in the Netherlands, January [16] 1936; Ministry of Foreign Aff airs, Pol. Arch., Berlin, Pol. Abt. II, Niederlande, Po 29, Bd 3, Aufzeich- nung, December 3, 1934; Zech to German Ministry of Foreign Aff airs, December 5, 1934; Zech to German Ministry of Foreign Aff airs, December 7, 1934. 56 E.g. National Archive, Th e Hague, Ministry of Foreign Aff airs, A-198bis JZ, pak 3 (Verspreiding in Nederland van Duitsche propaganda-lectuur), Patijn to Van Rappard, November 27, 1937. 57 E.g. Ministry of Foreign Aff airs, Pol. Arch., Berlin, Pol. Abt. II, Rechtswesen 4, Bd. 1, Zech to German Ministry of Foreign Aff airs, June 15, 1934. 58 Klaassen and Woltring (eds.), Documenten III, 208. 208 bob de graaff

Vaals and Kerkrade led in late 1936 to a Dutch government ban on the distribution of any printed material in these two communities.59 Dutch soil along the border was fertile ground for espionage activities against Germany. Th is was not so much carried out by the Dutch intelligence organization GS III, which had to take the offi cial policy of neutrality into account, as by British and French secret services, which oft en ran Dutch agents.60 In the aft ermath of the Venlo incident a whole range of such activities came to light, among them even the beginnings of a stay-behind network.61 Th e Th ird Reich also made itself felt in labour and commercial activities in the Dutch border regions. On October 7, 1930, the Dutch and German governments had reached an agreement on the entry of their nationals into each other’s labour markets. Persons living in the Dutch border areas were allowed to accept jobs in the German border region. However, aft er Hitler’s assumption of power, Dutch Jews especially were hindered from working in Germany, e.g. through boycotts or damage done to their belongings.62 Non-Jewish Dutchmen also experienced diffi culties, since aft er Hitler’s seizure of power a climate of intolerance against foreign labourers reigned63 and Dutchmen with left ist leanings or those who refused to join Nazi institutions such as the Kulturkammer

59 E.g. De Graaff , Documenten IV, no. 44; National Archive, Ministry of Foreign Aff airs, Th e Hague, A-198bis JZ, pak 3 (Verspreiding in Nederland van Duitsche propaganda-lectuur), Patijn to Van Rappard, November 27, 1937; Ministry of Foreign Aff airs, Pol. Arch., Berlin, Pol. Abt. II, Niederlande Pollitik 52 No. 1, Bd. 1, Zechto German Ministry of Foreign Aff airs, December 14, 1936. 60 J. van Lieshout, ‘Rotterdammer screent in Limburg “waterdragers van gezags- dragers”,’ Limburgs Dagblad, July 13, 1993; C. Cillekens, ‘Padvinder voor het vaderland. Verarmde Maastrichtse jonkheer leidde spionagenetwerk in nazi-Duitsland,’ De Limburger, November 13, 1993; J. van Lieshout, ‘Spionage voor Fransen kostte schoenmaker in Venlo het hoofd,’ De Limburger, December 18, 1993; ‘In het huis van een ter dood veroordeelde,’ Het Volk, March 5, 1938 (morning edition); Ministry of Foreign Aff airs, Pol. Arch., Berlin, Gesandtschaft Haag, D Pol 3, Bd. 2, Politische Betätigung von Holländern in Deutschland—Zwichenfälle, Notiz Zech, April 27, 1938; Büro des Staatssekretärs, Aufzeichnung über Diplomatenbesuche, Bd. 3, Aufzeichnung Weizsäcker, April 27, 1938. 61 B.G.J. de Graaff , ‘Trefpunt Venlo. Amerikaans-Belgisch-Brits-Frans-Nederlandse spionagesamenwerking ten aanzien van nazi-Duitsland in 1939,’ Mededelingen van de Sectie Militaire Geschiedenis van de Landmachtstaf, 15 (1993), 105–142. 62 E.G. Klaassen and Woltring (eds), Documenten III, 456–458. 63 E.g. Ministry of Foreign Aff airs, Pol. Arch., Berlin, Rechtabt. V, Arbeitsrecht Nr. 10, Niederlande, Fremdenpolizei, Nr. 1, Bd. 1, Aufzeichnung Weber, October 29, 1933; Abt. Inland IIA/B, 84–43, Niederlande, Bd 2, Aufzeichnung Von Neurath, October 28, 1933. the dutch border areas 1933–1945 209 were fi red.64 Furthermore, new German regulations on foreign exchange forbade Dutch employees to take anything but small amounts of money with them across the border so that they were no longer able to maintain their families. Th is situation forced the Dutch government to cancel the 1930 agreement in early 1935.65 In the following years new agreements were concluded. Th is time they had only short-term validity and they did little to solve the problems the Nazis had created for Dutch nationals on the German labour market.66 Were the commercial diffi culties between Germany and the Neth- erlands felt more severely in the border regions than elsewhere in the Netherlands? While shopkeepers in the mining area in Southern Limburg do seem to have suff ered from the German foreign exchange restrictions, in general Dutch customers in Germany could profi t from the relative decline of the German mark against the Dutch guilder.67 Let us have a short look at the time of the occupation, since even aft er the German invasion in May 1940 the boundary remained a reality. Quantitative studies into the degree of participation in the organized resistance indicate that the eastern provinces Groningen, Drenthe and Overijssel were represented at above average rates, whereas Limburg was below average.68 Too little is known to ascertain whether pre-war experience with the Th ird Reich had anything to do with this. Th e same goes for the fact that Jewish communities in the eastern and southern provinces in the Netherlands counted fewer victims than elsewhere in the Netherlands.69 In accordance with their frontier nature, the eastern provinces favored any form of resistance that consisted of aiding prisoners of war who had escaped from Germany. Th ese escapees

64 Ministry of Foreign Aff airs, Pol. Arch., Berlin, Abt. Inland IIA/B, 84–43, Nie- derlande, Bd 2, Aufzeichnung Von Neurath, October 28, 1933; Rechtsabteilung V, Arbeitsrecht, Nr. 9, Niederlande, Bd. 2, Zech to German Ministry of Foreign Aff airs, January 4, 1935. 65 German Ministry of Foreign Aff airs, Pol. Arch., Berlin, Rechtabteilung V, Arbeits- recht, Nr. 9, Niederlande, Bd. 2, Zech to German Ministry of Foreign Aff airs, January 4, 1935. 66 Klaassen and Woltring (eds.), Documenten III, 305–306, 541–542; Ministry of Foreign Aff airs, Pol. Arch. Berlin, Rechtabt. V, Arbeitsrecht Nr. 9, Niederlande, Bd 5, Van Limburg Stirum to Von Bülow, August 30, 1935; Abt. Inlnd II A/B 84–43, Niederlande, Bd. 4, Aufzeichnung Von Bülow, August 27, 1935. 67 Vellenga, Zuid-Limburg, 99, 123, 125. 68 De Graaff and Marcus, Kinderwagens, 120. 69 H. Flap, K. Geurts and W. Ultee, ‘De jodenvervolging in lokaal perspectief,’ H. Flap and W. Arts (eds.), De organisatie van de bezetting (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 1997), 38. Cf. W. Nijenhuis, ‘Kerkelijke aspecten,’ Boiten a.o., Groningen, 104. 210 bob de graaff were mainly Frenchmen who tried to reach their homeland. Later on during the occupation period, allied airmen whose planes had crashed on their bombing fl ights to and from Germany and who had survived were frequently helped in the eastern provinces where many of these aircraft went down.70 Another part of the air battles that was especially felt in the border regions were the accidental bombings of Dutch towns that were mistaken for German ones, oft en resulting in large numbers of civilian casualties. Dutchmen who escaped from labour camps in Germany oft en also found refuge in the border areas.71 It was from Overijssel that the Landelijke Organisatie voor Hulp aan Onderduikers (National Organi- zation for Aiding People in Hiding), the largest resistance organization in the Netherlands, sprang in the fall of 1942. When the tables began to turn, many Dutch Nazis, especially from the western part of the country, fl ed to Germany in September 1944, as they expected that the Allies would soon liberate the Netherlands completely. When this did not immediately materialize, they were sent back to the provinces in the northeastern part of the Netherlands, where some of the most extreme of these Nazis were responsible for many a slaughter.72 At the end of the war the eastern part of the Netherlands was also more severely hit by combat operations, which were oft en sideshows to the conquest of Germany, compared to the west, which thanks to the German capitulation in May 1945 for the main part was spared from military actions, albeit at the cost of a dreadful Hunger Winter. Especially the northern part of Limburg was severely struck by battles around the turn of the year 1944–1945. Evacuees from this area joined the displaced persons who had been evacuated for strategic reasons from the North Sea coast and the people who had fl ed from the hunger in the west, all of them being housed somehow in the eastern provinces.73 By way of conclusion one could say that the borderline experience in the seven years preceding the German occupation had been a combination of fearful negligence of this national backyard by those

70 De Graaff and Marcus,Kinderwagens , 74–75, 128; De Graaff , Schakels, 1995, 48–49, 91–102, 111–116, 125. 71 E.g. W. Winands, ‘Megchelen één met ontvluchte dwangarbeiders,’ De Gelder- lander, March 13, 1995. 72 E.g. J.J. Leeninga and E.J. Westra, En tóch staat de Martini. Groningen onder Duitsch schrikbewind, Groningen 1945, 49; Boekholt, ‘Tijd,’ 675. 73 E.g. Leeninga and Westra, Martini, 111–113. the dutch border areas 1933–1945 211 living in the Dutch metropolitan areas and of a breeding ground and stage area for quarrels across the neighbour hedge: espionage, eff orts at regime-change, kidnappings and hi-jackings, overfl ight zones for warplanes, propaganda campaigns and the like; these areas were the fi rst to be given up; employment went down partially because of the strategic retreat of the arms industry, partly because of German boycotts and bullying; and these were the areas where mainly for geographical reasons refugees and escapees tried to reach safety, both before and aft er May 1940. Whereas in May 1940 these areas saw rather little combat activity, they did experience relatively heavy fi ghting at the end of the war. Consequently, I would like to underline the value of research into the circumstances that conditioned the experiences of the Dutch border areas with the Th ird Reich, which in many respects were so diff erent from the ones of the west, which are oft en seen as the national experience. It is to be hoped that the remaining sources still contain not only the objective facts but also the more subjective elements, promising answers to questions such as: How did people at the time itself perceive the border? Was it to them, like Huizinga wrote, an invisible wall between Western and Central Europe? Or was it, as communists remarked, a border that did not count for them? And how diff erently did the German refugees view the frontier: was it a milestone to them behind which freedom was waiting or did they see it as only a vague borderline behind which they still had to fear for their safety? One wishes that the sources for answering these questions have not been lost due to the predominance, no matter how understandable, of a nationally oriented historiography and the simultaneous structural neglect of a regional perspective. Because if so, this would mean that a liberation from this fate would be too late for the Dutch border areas.

‘OUR NATIONAL COMMUNITY’ THE DOMINANCE OF ORGANIC THINKING IN THE POST-WAR NETHERLANDS

Martin Bossenbroek

Th e capitulation of Germany and Japan in May and August 1945 brought the Second World War to an offi cial close. However, the confl ict left a legacy with a deep and long-lasting eff ect on many nations—including the Netherlands and the Dutch East-Indies/Indonesia. In the Nether- lands, emotions about this post-war legacy fl ared up as recently as the late 1990s. Th e Dutch were caught up in an intense public debate on how Jews and other war victims had been treated in their country aft er the war. Many people sharply criticized the way in which these war- victims had been received when they returned from the death camps, prisons, forced labor and other terrors of war, as well as the meager support off ered to them—both immediately aft er the war and in the decades that followed. Th eir treatment was described as totally insuffi cient or, at best, cold and indiff erent.1 No fewer than six diff erent commissions were installed to investigate the fi nancial aspects of this treatment. To put the results of these investigations in a broader perspective, including the mental consequences for the returnees, the Dutch government furthermore requested an overall and in-depth study of the return and reception in the Nether- lands of all World War Two victims. July 1998 saw the formation of the independent Stichting Onderzoek Terugkeer en Opvang or SOTO (Foundation Research Return and Relief). Th e following groups of war victims were defi ned in this project: Jews, Sinti and Roma, Jehovah’s Witnesses, political prisoners, prisoners of war and those put to work by the Germans outside and within the Netherlands, resistance fi ghters and military personnel who actively fought the Germans or the Japanese, and the prisoners of war and civilians imprisoned by the Japanese. Starting in November 2001, SOTO presented four volumes of historical accounts, interpretations and analyses, most of which are

1 See for instance: Michal Citroen, U wordt door niemand verwacht. Nederlandse joden na kampen en onderdak (Utrecht: Het Spectrum, 1999). 214 martin bossenbroek concentrated in the key study De Meelstreep. Terugkeer en opvang na de Tweede Wereldoorlog (Amsterdam, 2001). It is from this study that I have picked my main theme: the dominance of organic thinking in the post-war Netherlands.2

One of the most important conclusions can be summarized as follows: the study refutes the (common) assumption that people had no eye for the psychological needs of the repatriates and other victims of war. Indeed, it shows that psychological and emotional problems, especially of those who had spent the war years far away from home in degrading circumstances, were widely acknowledged. However, and this is the big diff erence with modern relief practice, those psychological and emotional needs were oft en not defi ned as individual suff ering, but as a social problem. If the fellow countrymen who had returned from abroad were at odds with themselves and the world, and as a result, had diffi culties fi nding their role in an organized life, it was fi rst and foremost regarded as a loss for the national community, which had been heavily damaged by the war anyway. And that diagnosis determined the common treatment: no personal therapies tailored to the needs of an individual, but collective resocialization for the repair of the community’s values. Th is treatment, by the way, was not just recommended for repatriates and other victims of war. According to many prominent commentators it was the recipe for the salvation of the whole Dutch community, which, in their opinion, had degraded not only materially but also morally. In his fi rst speech on Radio Herrijzend Nederland (Radio Netherlands Rising Again) on June 27, 1945, the new Prime Minister W. Schermer- horn expressed it as follows: ‘We all committed sabotage, malingered, and discipline has seriously deteriorated. Unfortunately, it must be said openly and honestly that distress has taken the edge off many an honest citizen.’ In other words, under the German occupation the

2 Th is essay focuses on the dominant line of organic thinking. To illustrate all its practical consequences would be the topic for another article. Both lines of argument, the theory and the practice, are to be found in the four publications of SOTO: Martin Bossenbroek, De Meelstreep. Terugkeer en opvang na de Tweede Wereldoorlog (Amster- dam: Bert Bakker, 2001); Hinke Piersma ed., Mensenheugenis. Terugkeer en opvang na de Tweede Wereldoorlog. Getuigenissen (Amsterdam: Bert Bakker, 2001); Conny Kristel ed., Binnenskamers. Terugkeer en opvang na de Tweede Wereldoorlog. Besluitvorming (Amsterdam: Bert Bakker, 2002); Conny Kristel ed., Polderschouw. Terugkeer en opvang na de Tweede Wereldoorlog. Regionale verschillen (Amsterdam: Bert Bakker, 2002). ‘our national community’ 215

Dutch people had become used to lying and deceiving, to wangling and messing about, albeit out of protest, or perhaps to save their life, but these ingrained habits should now be eradicated as soon as possible by practicing the good old Dutch uprightness. Selfi shness was in the way of ‘the resurrection of the national existence of the Dutch people’, and it should have to yield to self-sacrifi ce.3 Or, as queen Wilhelmina said to the radio listeners in her introduction of the new Prime Minister: ‘One of our fi rst duties to God, to our national community and to ourselves is to further develop the existing urge for solidarity and to place the highest and best that lives in us in the service of our national community.’4 Our national community. Th at was the central theme in the radio speeches of Wilhelmina and Schermerhorn. Th eir words conveyed the message that the whole was more than the sum of its parts, that the national community was more than the individual citizens put together. Th e community was even regarded as an independent organism, with its own heartbeat, its own soul, and above all, its own glory that exceeded everything. As a consequence, the community had its own physical, material and spiritual war damage, which surpassed the individual ordeals. Th e queen and the Prime Minister left no doubt as to the national community being the most heavily struck war victim. Two weeks later, on July 11, 1945, it was government spokesman H. Brugmans who explicitly declared this conviction once again in front of the same microphone, when he compared the Netherlands as a whole to a heavily wounded human body: ‘It gasps for breath, we see scratches and lumps everywhere, and everywhere it hurts, but there are a few deep, bleeding wounds that are in need of our attention at once. I name three of them: the mouth of the Scheldt, the north of Limburg and the Betuwe together with Arnhem and Nijmegen.’5 Th e national relief measures that Brugmans subsequently recommended to stop the bleeding followed naturally from this organic view of society. Th e common adoption plan ‘North helps South’ of the aid organizations Nederlands Volksherstel (‘Netherlands National Recovery’) and the

3 Woordelijke tekst van de rede van H.M. Koningin Wilhelmina en van die van Z. Exc. Prof. Ir. W. Schermerhorn voorzitter van den ministerraad uitgesproken op woensdag 27 juni 1945 voor de microfoon van den zender ‘Herrijzend Nederland’ (Assen: 1945) 23–34. 4 Woordelijke tekst, 3. 5 H. Brugmans, Speech on Radio Herrijzend Nederland, July 11, 1945; Nederlands Audiovisueel Archief (NAA), Hilversum, HA 671. 216 martin bossenbroek

Red Cross was inspired by a national solidarity therapy, or ‘healthy helps wounded’. This is but one of the many examples of the dominant organic thinking in the fi rst post-war years. An important conclusion from De Meelstreep is that for most leading fi gures of Dutch society at the time, the individual (post-)war suff ering had a cumulative meaning: yet more ‘diseased spots’, yet more wounds, yet more scars on the already mutilated body of ‘our national community’ (‘onze volksgemeenschap’). Note though, that most attention was paid to the whole, not to the parts that constituted the whole.6 Th is strong emphasis on the collective nature of suff ering and recovery did not imply that there was consensus about the delineation of the collective. On the contrary, there were major diff erences of opinion about the defi nition of the post-war national community in the Netherlands. Th e reason for this was that in practice, three diff erent standards were applied. Th e fi rst standard was “good patriotism”. Th is criterion was strongly recommended especially by the organizations of the former resistance.7 Anyone who had resisted the German occupying forces either in uni- form or as a civilian was a good patriot beyond all doubt. Th ose who had collaborated with the Nazis were clearly not. But between these extremes on the moral scale there were, as far as the former resistance was concerned, several doubtful categories. Obviously, those who took in the Deutschtum with their mother’s milk, that is those who were German by birth, were suspect. Dutchmen who had settled in nazi- Germany before the war were also unreliable, by the same reasoning. But also Jewish and non-Jewish Germans who had fl ed their country before the war had to prove that they had been ‘good’ during the war. Furthermore, there was doubt about the attitude of the prisoners of war, in particular with respect to the ‘group-1943’. Had they not answered the call of the Germans to report themselves a bit too eagerly?8

6 See for instance: De toekomst der Nederlandse beschaving. Verslag van het Congres van 28–30 Augustus 1946 te Nijmegen gehouden door het Nationaal Instituut (s.l. s.a.) 56–57, 134. 7 Organizations like ‘Gemeenschap Oud-Illegale Werkers Nederland’ (GOIWN), ‘Landelijk Herstel’ (LH), ‘Landelijke Organisatie voor hulp aan onderduikers’ (LO) and ‘Stichting 1940–1945’. 8 Th e ‘group-43’ refers to those conscripts of the Dutch army who at fi rst were free to go, but later on, in 1943, were called by the Germans to report themselves—and answered this call. ‘our national community’ 217

A related question concerned the hundreds of thousands of Dutch- men that had been forced laborers in the German Reich.9 Had many of them not been a bit too prepared to be forced? It was a question that was even more strongly emphasized by former resistance members when it appeared that a rather large number of forced laborers had been married in Germany, or in areas occupied by the Germans. Th ey were eager to return, with their German (or Polish or Russian) wives and children. In line with the directions of the Allied supreme command, nothing was put in their way at fi rst, but when their numbers rose to several thousands in the course of May 1945, it became too much for some, especially former resistance members. Th e Community of For- mer Illegal Workers in the Netherlands10 wrote a letter of protest to the council of ministers and was served hand and foot. On the basis of a law issued in London which nullifi ed any judicial matters between Dutchmen and Germans during the war, ‘German’ marriages of repatriates were not recognized from May 1945 onwards. Th eir wives were no longer allowed to enter the Netherlands. It was a rather smart exegesis of a law meant to counter economical collaboration. A few months later, at the beginning of September 1945, new directions followed, according to which the marriages were recognized aft er all. Th e foreign spouses, however, did not automatically receive the Dutch nationality. Requests for that could be made to a special ‘Commit- tee for marriages with women of enemy or other foreign nationalities’ of the Ministry of Justice. Only aft er a positive decision of this committee the applicant was allowed to come to the Netherlands. In practice, most Dutch husbands chose to wait for the outcome of their application abroad, together with their wives. Th is in turn created new problems, because the families were oft en in poor circumstances. At the Allied forces’ insistence, they were collected in separate camps, and ultimately transported to one camp in Bocholt, just across the border from Winterswijk. At the beginning of 1946, some two thousand men, women and children were still waiting there for permission to enter the Netherlands. One year later, most of them were still waiting. Th en, in 1947, the decision was made to admit the remaining families.11

9 See for this phenomenon: Ben Sijes, De arbeidsinzet. De gedwongen arbeid van Nederlanders in Duitsland 1940–1945 (Den Haag: Martinus Nijhoff , 1966). 10 Th is is the translation of GOIWN, see note 7. 11 Several reports and (concept)regulations of the ‘Committee for marriages with women of enemy or other foreign nationalities’; National Archives of the Netherlands (NA), 2.13.25 Military Authority, nrs. 1393 and 4222. 218 martin bossenbroek

Th e second criterion for persons not born in the Netherlands was the so-called “degree of social-cultural assimilation”. Th is criterion was applied especially to the pre-war (Jewish) refugees from Germany and the colonial Dutchmen. Particularly the authorities who were directly involved applied this argument, and mostly in a negative way. Colonel B.I.A.A. ter Veer for instance, the head of the legal department of the Military Authority, was of the opinion, in June 1945, that pre-war German refugees had been given a residence permit because they had been in mortal danger. Now that the war was over, there was no longer such danger, said Ter Veer. On top of that, it appeared to him ‘undesirable, and not in the general interest of the Netherlands, to open our country to all those people who, because of their descent and background, could not just like that be numbered among the Dutch national community’. Th e consequence of this reasoning was, among other things, that for months aft er the liberation of the infamous transit camp Westerbork (April 12, 1945), a few hundred non-Dutch Jews were kept in detention. It was not until the camp began to be used for the detention of NSB-members and other collaborators as well, that it got through to the authorities that the situation was intolerable. General H.J. Kruls, head of the Military Authority, declared that he found it ‘highly undesirable’ that ‘NSB-members and former political prisoners of the Germans are kept together in one camp’. At the beginning of July 1945, all Jews who were still in Westerbork were released, regardless of their nationality, although a duty to report themselves was imposed on the non-Dutch among them.12 For most of them it would take years before they received a decisive answer as to whether they were allowed to settle in the Netherlands or not. In 1948, the large-scale migration of colonial Dutchmen from the Dutch East Indies to their native country caused the Minister of the Interior, P.J. Witteman, to raise objections against a specifi c section of the population, namely those who were so-called ‘rooted in the Dutch East Indies’ (most of them of mixed origin). According to Witteman, experience had shown ‘that there are many among them, who do not appear to be able to adapt to a behavior that is social according to Dutch

12 Lieutenant-colonel A.H. Stok, military commissioner in the province of Drenthe, to general Kruls, June 9, 1945; Kruls to Stok, June 23, 1945; Ter Veer to Kruls, July 29, 1945; NA, 1393. ‘our national community’ 219 standards, so that cohabitation with third parties will oft en lead to very serious complaints, and accommodating them in houses of their own will have ruinous consequences for the quarters that they have moved into’. Witteman clearly referred to socially maladjusted behavior, and the best solution, as far as he was concerned, was to send the problematical cases back to the East Indies.13 Th at it would never come to that had less to do with the authorities in the mother country than with those in the colony, who eff ectively blocked the remigration of this group to the archipelago with an appeal to their own limited means. Conversely, the criterion of social-cultural assimilation could also work in a positive way, for instance for those German refugees who had gained a solid place within the local communities before the war, and who because of that encountered no opposition whatsoever aft er the war. Except, that is, for the offi cial proof of their Dutch nationality. Because they had to wait a very long time for the arrival of their passports—documents that the colonial Dutchmen already had in advance. But once admitted, the colonial Dutchmen experienced as well how seriously the criterion of social-cultural assimilation was applied. Unlike the Moluccans, who for the time being were left to fend for themselves, they were subjected to a nationalization program unparalleled in Dutch history, with all its advantages and disadvantages.14

Th irdly, the fi xed criterion of the Ministry of Social Services was “social- economical usefulness”, when it came to determining the nature of the relationship with the Netherlands. Th ough many obstacles had been created for Dutchmen with valid passports and—in the case of the pre-war refugees—foreigners with offi cial residence permits, even less magnanimity was to be expected towards random foreigners. Th e enormous war damage, the high population density, and the infl ux of tens of thousands of evacuees, repatriates and newcomers from the East Indies were all arguments for the Dutch government to adopt a reserved policy towards foreigners and refugees. Th e Netherlands did

13 Witteman to Prime Minister L.J. Beel, May 10, 1948; National Archives of the Netherlands (NA), 2.04.52 Ministry of Interior Aff airs, nr. 135. 14 J.H. Kraak, P. Ploeger, F.O.J. Kho, De repatriëring uit Indonesië. Een onderzoek naar de integratie van de gerepatrieerden uit Indonesië in de Nederlandse samenleving (Th e Hague: Staatsuitgeverij, 1957); Hans Meijer, Den Haag-Djakarta. De Nederlands- Indonesische betrekkingen 1950–1962 (Utrecht: Het Spectrum, 1994); G.I.J. Steijlen, RMS: van ideaal tot symbool. Moluks nationalisme in Nederland, 1951–1994 (Amsterdam: Het Spinhuis, 1996). 220 martin bossenbroek not care a straw for the lingering problem of the hundreds of thousands of displaced persons in Central Europe who could not be accommodated. International refugees organizations, the United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration (UNRRA), and, from 1947 onwards, the International Refugee Organization (IRO) could not count on much response. Also, individual advocates of a more lenient admission policy, such as Hilda Verwey-Jonker, who, to no avail, made a case for the admission of fi ve thousand Jewish displaced persons in one go, were met time and again with the same incantation: we are poor, we are full, we do not have the space, and we have to move over a lot because of our fellow countrymen from overseas. When the Dutch government did comply with international pressure, it was usually because it saw possibilities to turn the humanitarian needs into social-economical opportunities. In other words, the deciding factor here was not so much the priority lists of the relief organizations, but the personnel demands of the mines in Limburg, the textile industry in Twenthe, or other fi elds of business. And so the Netherlands admitted not more than ca. 10,000 foreign homeless people during the period 1945–1951. Th e bulk of this group fi tted the demands of the labor market wonderfully well. Th is was the case, for instance, with several thousands of Polish soldiers, who had fought for the liberation of the Netherlands, and as a reward got a job as a miner. It also applied to tens of Baltic girls, whose contribution was required to solve the shortage of maid servants. It could certainly be said of thousands of displaced persons who, when eligible—that is to say: when unmarried, between 20 and 30 years of age, healthy, and without a political or criminal past—were recruited in the camps in Germany.15 Refugees who could not be employed were admitted only scantily, but only if they would not be a burden to the Dutch community, for instance if private institutions guaranteed to provide for them. In the fi rst post-war years there were more humane moments, but there was always a story connected to them. Th e most remarkable of these is the

15 Corrie K. Berghuis, Geheel ontdaan van onbaatzuchtigheid. Het Nederlandse toelatingsbeleid voor vluchtelingen en displaced persons van 1945 tot 1956 (Amster- dam: Th ela Th esis, 1999); M.J. Proudfoot, European Refugees 1939–1952: A Study in Forced Population Movement (London: Faber and Faber, 1957); H. Verwey-Jonker, P.O.M. Brackel, Th e Assimilation and Integration of Pre- and Postwar Refugees in the Netherlands (Th e Hague: Martinus Nijhoff , 1957); W. Wyman, DPs: Europe’s Displaced Persons, 1945–1951 (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1998). ‘our national community’ 221 decision made by the second Drees-administration in September 1951 to admit one hundred to two hundred ‘refugees who can no longer be employed’. It was remarkable because a yearly government grant was reserved for their relief, but even more so because the measure had been enforced by personal intervention of the head of state. Queen Juliana had told Prime Minister W. Drees that she was plan- ning to write a letter to the American president Harry Truman. Th e refugee problem was very dear to her, and she was especially concerned about the fate of the ‘diffi cult cases’ such as old age pensioners, invalids, and children. She wanted to share her thoughts with Truman publicly, so it was to be an open letter, in order to bring about his taking a humanitarian initiative. Th e members of the cabinet appreciated that someone who made an appeal like that could not lag behind, hence the fi tting gesture. Once sent, Juliana’s personal appeal attracted worldwide attention. Th ere came no concrete promise from Truman, but her letter had a considerable warning function. Th e Dutch queen was the fi rst head of state who brought up the refugee question in the international public opinion. She did so, moreover, in a way that appealed to the head and the heart. Not only did she call upon ‘a Christian spirit of mutual relationship and love’, but she also warned that ‘very embittered people are inclined to support totalitarian ideologies’. So it was both reason and feeling that brought Juliana to her urgent call to ‘cut away this diseased spot from the body of mankind’.16

Th e body of mankind. Th e imagery, used by queen Juliana, was yet another remarkable aspect of this personal intervention. Not because it was new, but because she applied a metaphor that was fi rst used by queen Wilhelmina and Prime Minister Schermerhorn six years earlier, in 1945. Th en it had been the Dutch national community that was presented as an autonomous organism. Now it was humanity as a whole that was described as a patient. Th e scale had become global, but the comparison was exactly the same. It is hard to fi nd a more fi tting illustration of the undiminished attraction of organic thinking. Individual civilians had suff ered in the war, and individual refugees had become embittered in the camps, but

16 Queen Juliana to president Truman, September 11, 1951; quoted in: Berghuis, Geheel ontdaan, 117–120. 222 martin bossenbroek the most heavily affl icted victim, in this view, was the community: the national community, the international community, the Dutch people, and eventually, mankind. On the other hand, when it came to delineating the (national) community in more detail, the individual was used as an administrative unit, in order to decide quickly which box should be ticked: resistance fi ghter, convict, German Jew, colonial Dutchman. Put diff erently, who did and did not belong to the national community, who did and did not count as a war victim, was not so much determined by one’s personal identity, but rather by the category to which one had been assigned. Nevertheless, the dividing lines that were drawn around and within the post-war Dutch national community did not exactly show a consistent pattern. Th is can be explained by a lack of consensus about the criteria that should be applied. In practice, three standards were applied: patriotism, social-cultural assimilation, and social-economic usefulness. Th e result was a fanciful pattern, which in retrospect paradoxically contributes to a better understanding of the rearrangement of Dutch society in the fi rst post-war years. DWINEGERI—MULTICULTURALISM AND THE COLONIAL PAST (OR: THE CULTURAL BORDERS OF BEING DUTCH)

Susan Legêne

Introduction

Th is chapter questions mechanisms of inclusion and exclusion regarding national identity, norms and values of Dutch pillarized-cum-colonial society of the fi rst half of the twentieth century. Th e ‘boundaries of the Netherlands,’ discussed in this volume in so many diff erent ways, will be approached here as cultural borders in defi nitions of citizenship. My argument will intersect with a second storyline, on the history of the Tropenmuseum in Amsterdam. Th is museum, founded in 1864 as a Colonial Museum, is one of the largest ethnographic museums in the Netherlands. It opened its doors in 1871 in Haarlem as a museum of ‘tropical products,’ and a center of expertise for the exploitation of Indo- nesian craft s, export crops and other natural resources. Th e museum changed profoundly when, in the 1920s, it moved to Amsterdam in order to become part of the Colonial Institute (founded in 1910), and its collection of tropical products were enlarged with the ethnographic collection of Artis, the Amsterdam Zoo. Aft er Indonesian independence the museum in 1950 was renamed as the Tropenmuseum, a name it has retained. Th is change of ‘world scope,’ from the colonial to the tropical, was refl ected in its second major change in display policies. In the 1970s, the ‘Indonesian collections’ (both the ‘tropical products’ and the ethnographical objects) were stored. Instead, the museum in its new permanent exhibitions visualized daily life in the then Th ird World as a backdrop for the new policies on Dutch development cooperation.1 In 2003, the museum changed again. In the new semi-permanent exhibition Eastward Bound! Art, culture and colonialism, the Tropenmuseum

1 D.v. Duuren, 125 jaar verzamelen. (Amsterdam: Tropenmuseum, 1990); S. Legêne, ‘Past and future behind a colonial facade: the Tropenmuseum in Amsterdam,’ Archiv für Völkerkunde 50 (1999): 265–274; S. Legêne and E. Postel-Coster, ‘Isn’t it all Culture? Culture and Dutch development policy in the post-colonial period,’ in Fift y years of Dutch development cooperation 1949–1999, ed. J.A. Nekkers & P.A.M. Malcontent (Th e Hague: SDU Publishers, 2000), 271–288. 224 susan legêne returned to its core collections, while also addressing the topic of the (Dutch) overseas colonial past. By implication the museum put its own history on display, which is a history of colonialism as it took place ‘at home,’ in the Netherlands. It is this notion of ‘home-colonialism’ that is relevant for our discussion here of the cultural borders of being Dutch. We approach ‘the cultural borders of the Netherlands’ with reference to the current context of Dutch multicultural society and current debates on national identity and Europe. In We, the people of Europe? Etienne Balibar repeatedly points out the workings of colonial hierarchies from the past in today’s discussions about transnational citizenship. But where do we see these workings, how can we recognize them? Balibar defi nes nationalism as ‘the organic ideology that corresponds with the national institution.’ And he continues that this national institution ‘rests upon the formulation of a rule of exclusion, of visible or invisible “borders,” materialized in laws and practices.’2 So, in order to understand whether and how colonial hierarchies from the past might work today, we fi rst should fi nd out which mechanisms of exclusion in colonial contexts worked in Dutch society of the time. Both the legal and the cultural distinctions between overseas colonial subjects and Dutch citizens helped defi ne the Dutch nation. But how did that work? In the first part of this chapter I will indicate that in the history of the Colonial Museum we may fi nd some keys to investigate this process. For those who were at home in the Netherlands, that museum was one of the main institutions that really visualized ‘others’ and thus also defi ned ‘self.’ As such, the museum contributed to drawing the cultural borders of being Dutch. In the second part I will argue that the dominant historical discourse on Dutch colonialism has been an important aspect of the above- mentioned ‘organic ideology’ of nationalism which rests upon the formulation of a rule of exclusion. Dutch discussions on the nation until recently were dominated by the historical pillarization discourse with its focus on the struggle for autonomy within individual (religious) pillars and on middle class civility as the national common bond. In

2 E. Balibar, We, the People of Europe? Refl ections on Transnational Citizenship (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press 2004), 23. Italics in original. See also 57, and 121: ‘In each and every of the European nation-states, there exist structures of discrimination that command uneven access to citizenship or nationality, particularly those inherited from the colonial past.’ dwinegeri—multiculturalism and the colonial past 225 this discourse, in which the Netherlands are staged as a consociational society, the impact of colonialism on the confi guration of national identity was largely ignored. Dutch nation building in Europe was put center stage, while implicitly excluding colonial subjects. Dutch society was explicitly confronted with this mechanism aft er the Second World War and the unilateral declaration of Indonesian independence. In those years hundreds of thousands of people travelled to and from the East Indies, as also discussed in this volume by Martin Bossenbroek. Th e last months of 1945 have been characterized as the start of a period of the largest exchange ever, both of people and of experiences, between the Netherlands and the Netherlands East Indies.3 Between 1946 and 1949, 107,000 people arrived in the Netherlands who had lived in the now lost colony; in these same years 120,000 soldiers were sent to Indonesia to fi ght the colonial wars. Aft er the Dutch acceptance of Indonesian independence in 1949, these soldiers returned home as well. In these years also many mainly Moluccan soldiers of the Royal Dutch Indies Army KNIL and their families were left with no other choice than to come to the Netherlands. Many Indo-Dutch families left Indonesia as well and migrated to the Netherlands.4 Th is so-called ‘repatriation’ from the Netherlands East Indies aft er 1945 at the time did not appear to challenge Dutch national identity as a European based identity. A sense of insecurity about national identity arose only later in the same century, with the arrival of new immigrant groups from Mediterranean countries, from Suriname, the Caribbean and Africa. Th e ethnic and cultural background of these new immigrants diff ered from the Netherlands East Indies experiences which Dutch and Dutch-Indies people seemed to have shared. Besides, many new immigrants adhered to Islam and, following the legal possibilities off ered by Dutch consociational legislation, started their own state-supported religious schools, religious institutions, broadcasting companies and housing companies in what at that time was already regarded as a depillarizing or even a depillarized society.5 However, I will argue here

3 J.A.A. van Doorn, quoted in S. Scagliola, Last van de oorlog. De Nederlandse oorlogsmisdaden in Indonesië en hun verwerking (Amsterdam: Uitgeverij Balans, 2002), 358. 4 Scagliola, Last van de oorlog; E. Captain, Achter het kawat was Nederland. Indische oorlogservaringen en -herinneringen 1942–1995 (Kampen: Uitgeverij Kok, 2002). 5 R. Lavrijsen, (ed.), Islam in een ontzuilde samenleving. Discussies over vrouwenemancipatie, kunst en onderwijs (Amsterdam: KIT Uitgeverij: 1996). Also P. Scheff er, Het land van aankomst. (Amsterdam: De Bezige Bij, 2007) chapter 4. 226 susan legêne that this crisis in national identity did not start with this second infl ux of immigrants. It goes back to the end of colonialism in the Netherlands East Indies and the following denial of colonial transnationality as a constituent part of Dutch citizenship. To quote Balibar once more: ‘it is always the political confrontation with the diff erent modalities of exclusion (. . .) that constitutes the founding moment of citizenship, and thus of its periodic test of truth.’6 With hindsight we might interpret the years between 1945 and 1950 as such a test of truth. Th e fact that today many fi rst- and second-generation immigrants succeed in keeping vital linguistic, religious and cultural bonds with their country of origin is regarded as an ambiguity in the Dutch nation. Multiculturalism, it is said, like pillarization should be lived on a Dutch stage, as part of a national identity within national borders. Hence the emphasis, in contemporary political debate, on ‘integration policies’ (even while the Dutch at the same time are supposed to prepare themselves more and more to become European citizens). In the third part of this chapter I will argue that this focus on the ‘Low Countries’ as the nation is a recent phenomenon. In fact during the fi rst half of the twentieth century, many Dutch men and women had defi ned their own national identity within a transnational cultural setting of colonialism, bridging the so divergent worlds of the Netherlands and the Nether- lands East Indies7 During the heydays of colonialism, transnationality was inherent in the home-colonialist culture, something to be proud of. Motivated by the Ethical Policy, it was fi rmly rooted in the colonial dimensions of being Dutch. Only aft er colonialism, aft er Indonesian independence, did this become problematic. Th e fi rst immigrants after the Second World War, arriving from Indonesia, challenged the until that moment one-sided cultural appropriation of colonial culture by the Dutch elite. Home-colonialism had to give up its self-confi dent sense of transnational belonging rooted in overseas colonial control. Th eir transnational identity was challenged by the experiences and perspectives of the new immigrants who became fellow citizens. Earlier, while living in the Netherlands East Indies and not sharing the same civil rights, they only had mirrored their transnational identity in a metaphorical

6 Balibar, We, the People of Europe? 76. Italics in original. 7 Also called at the time ‘Th e Tropical Netherlands.’ See H. Schulte Nordholt (ed.), Outward Appearances. Dressing State and Society in Indonesia. (Leiden: Koninklijk Instituut voor Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde, 1997) p. 16. dwinegeri—multiculturalism and the colonial past 227 sense. In those post-war/post-independence years, however, colonial hierarchies came ‘home.’ Th e title of this chapter refers to this very problem of contested transnationality related to the colonial past, to which I will return in the last part of it. Dwinegeri is a quote from a poem by Madeleine Gabeler, called Dwinegeri / Dubbelland (or, in my translation: Dual Country). Gabeler is a poet of mixed Indonesian and Dutch descent. Her parents came to the Netherlands aft er Indonesian independence. In her poem she refers to a Dwinegeri or Dual Country, which exists in images, emotions, and dreams, that form a strong contrast with the reality of her daily life. She uses the words ‘here . . . and there . . .’ both in the Dutch and in the Indonesian language Bahasa Indonesia: hier . . . daar . . . di sini . . . di sana . . .; and she ends her verse, (again in my translation): the past . . . the future . . . / masa lampau . . . masa depan . . . / in this dwinegeri, this dual country / in which I live.8 It is this current Dual Country that challenges us to ask questions about Dutch conceptions of the nation and citizenship in the early twentieth century.

Colonial Museum and home-colonial culture

It is not exceptional that the Tropenmuseum which will serve here as an example to look at sources for colonial transnationality and processes of inclusion and exclusion in early twentieth century Dutch society, recently has fi nished a full refurbishment of its semi-permanent gal- leries. In the Netherlands, like everywhere, the established museums are facing the challenge of formulating new vital relationships between what today happens within the enclosed space of a museum and developments in fast-changing multicultural society outside its walls.9 Most established museums are rooted in the nineteenth century process

8 Madeleine Gabeler, “Dwinegeri/Dubbelland,” from Liefdesplekken en Oorlogsres- tanten, poems from 2001 (still to be published). Quoted with the kind permission of the author. For a full text of the poem, see appendix 1. 9 I. Karp and S. Levine (eds.), Exhibiting Cultures. Th e poetics and politics of museum display (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1991); I. Karp et al., (eds), Museum frictions. Public cultures/global transformations. (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2006). 228 susan legêne of nation building, and at the turn of the twenty-fi rst century many fi nd themselves in the process of renovation and reconfi guration. Th e Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam, closed since 2003 is a case in point. Dur- ing the decade of renovation Rembrandt’s famous Nachtwacht with all its references to the Dutch Golden Age, will continue to be on show. Behind the scenes, however, the museum will see a complete reconfi guration. In order to be able to play a national role which both appeals to contemporary notions of inclusive citizenship and belonging and can compete to attracts tourists from all over the globe, the museum has to reconsider its nineteenth-century origins and question the established exhibition practice.10 Th is is not an academic exercise, but politically charged, witness the fact that Dutch Parliament in June 2006 decided to establish a new Dutch National History Museum, to be inaugurated within a few years. No single political party voted against this national history museum, which will be another platform to discuss the cultural borders of being Dutch.11 When we want to answer the question of how colonial culture entered the Netherlands, Th e Tropenmuseum’s institutional museum history, collection policies and public programmes, provide a valuable point of departure. Th e Tropenmuseum embodies this Dutch history. Rooted in the nineteenth century, its origins are deeply aff ected by the Dutch industrialization of the second half of that century, in which the economic development of the Netherlands East Indies played a vital role. Equally important for the museum as a nineteenth century institution are the institutional links with the cultural relationships which existed at that time between the two societies. For instance, the Dutch arts and craft s movement and the ‘Nieuwe Kunst,’ which looked for artistic inspiration to the ‘East’ was connected to the Colonial Museum. Th e programmatic building of the Tropenmuseum in Amsterdam as well, designed during the heyday of the so-called Ethical Policy of the beginning of the twentieth century, in itself is testimony to a ‘home-colonial’ culture; whereas the subsequent names of the museum—from Colonial Museum to Indies Museum (1945) to Tropenmuseum (1950)—also

10 E. Bergvelt, D.J. Meijers and M. Rijnders, Verzamelen. Van rariteitenkabinet tot kunstmuseum (Heerlen: Open Universiteit/Gaade Uitgevers, 1993). 11 In the remarkable parliamentary debate about the new national history museum, many references were made to processes of inclusion and exclusion in the concept of national history, and to the signifi cance of historical knowledge for active citizenship. See: Handelingen Tweede Kamer 27–6–2006 TK95. dwinegeri—multiculturalism and the colonial past 229 remind us of the political history of colonialism, decolonisation and all that.12 In conjunction with the institutional histories, colonial culture entered the Netherlands through museum collections as well. Ethno- graphic collections in museums over more than a century have been subject to a thorough process of classifi cation and taxonomy, in which ‘people,’ those involved in their making and in the colonial encounter, have become invisible.13 If one wants to trace past colonial relationships between the Netherlands and the society from which objects originate, it is crucial to historicize these objects, and to surpass well- established art-historical and ethnographic academic disciplines. Take, for instance, batik, the well-known cloth from Indonesia, decorated in a resist-dye technique. Batik is a beloved Indonesian artifact, which can be found in many families in the Netherlands and which turned into a highly appreciated ‘collectable’ in the Tropenmuseum as well. Both as a technique, a commodity and a taste, batik intersects with Dutch history. Its economic development is interconnected with the history of Dutch industrialization. In its art-history we can trace a cultural history of Indonesian-Dutch relationships and the formation of cultural space in between. Not only the commodity, the material cloths as such, informed that space; also, in a literal sense, collecting batik became one of the ways for people of mixed Indonesian Dutch descent to provide themselves with a visual appearance in Dutch society.14 Images like paintings, drawings, historical photographs or fi lm, are the third important source to trace colonial culture at home. Looking

12 Legêne, “Past and future behind a colonial façade”; S. Legêne, ‘Photographic Play- ing Cards. Teaching the Dutch Colonialism,’ in Photographs Objects Histories. On the Materiality of Images, ed. E. Edward and J. Hart (London and New York: Routledge, 2004), 96–112; B. Waaldijk and S. Legêne, ‘Oktober 1901. Gerrit Rouff aer constateert een artistieke ereschuld. Vernieuwing van de beeldende kunsten in een koloniale context,’ in Kunsten in beweging 1900–1980. Cultuur en migratie in Nederland, ed. R. Buikema and M. Meijer (’s-Gravenhage: SDU Uitgevers, 2004). 13 J. Cliff ord, Th e predicament of culture. Twentieth-century ethnography, literature and art (Cambridge, Massachusetts and London: Harvard University Press, 1988); A. Appadurai, (ed.), Th e social life of things. Commodities in cultural perspective (Cam- bridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988); S. Vogel, ‘Always True to the Object, in Our Fashion’ in Exhibiting Cultures. Th e poetics and politics of museum display, ed. I. Karp and S. Levine (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1991), 191–204. 14 I. van Hout, (ed.), Drawn in wax. 200 Years of batik art from Indonesia in the Tropenmuseum collection. (Amsterdam: KIT Publishers, 2001); D. van Dartel, Collec- tors Collected. Exploring Dutch colonial culture through the study of batik (Amsterdam: KIT Publishers, 2005). 230 susan legêne beyond existing images in our colonial archives enables us to discover what worlds lie behind the immediate visual.15 Th at is not only the case with visual sources from the Netherlands East Indies, like family albums, ethnographic photographs, documentation of expeditions, paintings etcetera. Th e same is true for photographs that document the representation of the colony in the Netherlands. Crucial, for instance, to the Tropenmuseum’s process of rethinking the colonial past at home, have been photographs which archive the museum’s own exhibition history. Such photographs reveal clear indications of the construction of visual borders between national and colonial subjects, of mechanisms of inclusion and exclusion. Th ey depict, for instance, how the ‘people’ who had been excluded from the object-oriented ethnographic canon, re-entered the stage as stereotyped wax models that essential- ized diff erence while representing colonial hierarchies. Leading for the Tropenmuseum, for instance, was the photograph, which documents an exhibition in the colonial museum in 1938, celebrating the 40–year reign of Queen Wilhelmina. An empty throne symbolized the Queen, and in fact she never went to the Netherlands East Indies. In the 1938 museum display she was surrounded by her colonial subjects represented as wax fi gures. Th e image was a telling mix of presence and absence, a mirror dance of meaning making about here and there, di sini . . . di sana. It illustrated how the Colonial Museum created visible and invisible borders related to Dutch citizenship.16 Th e fourth and last ‘source’ on past colonial culture in present day Dutch society, is to be found among the museum’s public today. Th e colonial past is omnipresent, not only in institutions, in material culture, and in images. It also exists in the memories and experiences, in the poems and stories, the works of art and literature of people who once lived in colonial relationships. Th e title of the Tropenmuseum semi-permanent exhibition Eastward Bound, is an acknowledgment of this source, referring to the last book by the famous Dutch author of Indies descent, Louis Couperus.17 Th is concerns both the memories and experiences of descendants of home-colonialists who may or may not

15 E. Edwards, Raw histories. Photographs, Anthropology and Museums (Oxford/New York: Berg, 2001). 16 For a better description of the photograph and its interpretation in the Tropen- museum, see: S. Legêne, ‘Enlightenment, Empathy, Retreat. Th e cultural heritage of the Ethische Politiek.’ In: P. ter Keurs (ed.), Colonial Collections Revisited. (Leiden: CNWS Publications, 2007) pp. 220–245. 17 L. Couperus, Oostwaarts (’s-Gravenhage: H.P. Leopold, 1924). dwinegeri—multiculturalism and the colonial past 231 personally have lived in the Netherlands East Indies, and descendants of those born and raised in the colonies who voluntarily or forcibly migrated to the Netherlands. Both groups crossed many borders. Th is happened, as mentioned before, in a literal sense, traveling to and/or leaving the Netherlands East Indies or Indonesia aft er 1945. It also was the case in a metaphorical sense of moving into and out of various cultural and political spheres, all belonging to a Dutch history not exclusively located in the Netherlands. Questioning the historical background of cultural institutions, opening up the art-historical canon, and deconstructing images and representational practices as possible ways of exploring the cultural borders of being Dutch needs to be embedded in public articulations of colonial memories as one of the historical dimensions of contemporary mechanisms of inclusion and exclusion at stake in the formation of Dutch postcolonial multicultural society. As has also repeatedly been stated by Hans Blom in the case of discussions on the Netherlands in the Second World War, such discussions on colonialism should not be limited to simple political ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ schemes. More important today is to try and understand the ambiguity of colonialism’s culture and its meaning in Dutch society at large.

On home colonialism, national identity and reluctant empire

Let me return to my statement made in the introduction, that until recently the historical discourse on the character of Dutch colonialism has played an excluding role in defi ning the Dutch nation and nationalism. In this historical discourse, the Dutch ‘in the beginning’ did not intend to be imperialists, but time and again were dragged into ‘pre-emptive’ wars in order to defend their colonial possessions and to establish or maintain peace. Great Britain or France had early in the nineteenth century or even earlier, embarked upon formal and informal ‘imperialist’ policies to establish an overseas empire. Dutch confl icts of the time in the Indonesian archipelago, like the armed confl icts in the Moluccas, the expulsion of the Sultan of Palembang or the Java War, were however not imperialist in character. Th ey should be regarded as necessary confrontations to serve consolidation or protection of pre- existing Dutch possessions that for self-evident reasons could not be given up. Only aft er 1870, aft er the opening of the Suez Canal, and the 232 susan legêne start of the war to conquer Aceh, (or, as Wesseling calls it, ‘to realize the territorial rounding off of the Netherlands East Indies’) should the Netherlands’ colonial policies be labeled as a ‘modern imperialism.’18 Such interpretation of Dutch colonialism in the nineteenth century fails to connect nineteenth century overseas expansion with the formation of the Kingdom of the Netherlands in Europe aft er 1815. As such, this discourse is embedded in a divide between historical disciplines. Colonial history is a sub-discipline in Dutch history writing and, as a rule, was separated from it. In the great narratives on the development of Dutch society, from Rembrandt’s Golden Age to the Second World War, colonialism held a ‘Status Aparte,’ despite the fact that it has been an ever-changing but full part of the formation of the modern Dutch nation state. Th is has been one critique of Simon Schama’s Embar- rassment of Riches (1987) on the Dutch Republic in the seventeenth century, which pays no explicit attention to the establishment of the colonial trade monopolies or slave trading. It is the case in the recent volume Land van kleine gebaren (1999, many reprints), a political history of the Netherlands between 1780 and 1990, in which Dutch colonial relations and colonialism plays a minor role, discussed in only four pages. And many more examples could be given here. Th is dominant disciplinary distinction between a European-based Dutch history and an overseas colonial history tends to reduce colonialism to a merely political and economic history that took place before 1949 and outside the Low Countries; something for specialists and for those who feel themselves personally connected to this colonial past. It fails to acknowledge colonialism both as an aspect of Dutch European history and as an infl uence in Dutch society.19 It also ignores the fact that the relations which existed between Dutch colonialists and colonized

18 H.L. Wesseling, Europa’s koloniale eeuw. De koloniale rijken in de negentiende eeuw, 1815–1919 (Amsterdam: Uitgeverij Bert Bakker, 2003), 321, 141, 197–199; M. Kuitenbrouwer, Nederland en de opkomst van het moderne imperialisme. Koloniën en buitenlandse politiek 1870–1901 (Amsterdam/Dieren: De Bataafsche Leeuw, 1985), 18–19; M. Bossenbroek, Holland op zijn breedst. Indië en Zuid-Afrika in de Nederlandse cultuur omstreeks 1900 (Amsterdam: Bert Bakker, 1996), 16; and N.C.F. van Sas, (ed.), De kracht van Nederland. Internationale positie en buitenlands beleid in historisch perspectief (Haarlem: H.J.W. Becht, 1991). 19 Recent studies like Bossenbroek, Holland op zijn breedst; M. Grever and B. Waal- dijk, Feministische openbaarheid. De Nationale Tentoonstelling van Vrouwenarbeid in 1898 (Amsterdam: Stichting beheer IISG/IIAV, 1998); and A. Blakely, Blacks in the Dutch world. Th e evolution of racial imagery in a modern society (Bloomington/Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1993) do make this connection. dwinegeri—multiculturalism and the colonial past 233 people were not what the home-colonialists in the Netherlands, from a distance, imagined them to be.20 Understanding the meaning of these kinds of connections and relations for the cultural borders of being Dutch needs the acknowledgement that the formation of the Kingdom of the Netherlands in the beginning of the nineteenth century cannot be understood without incorporation of its colonial ambitions and without a critical investigation of who were the colonialists.21 It does not take modern imperialism aft er 1870 as a starting point, but starts in 1815, when Dutch colonialism entered into a new phase, from the trade colonialism of the 17–18th century to state colonialism. From 1815 onwards a small, though gradually, growing elite within Dutch society embraced the power based process of empire building and played an active role. Th ey occupied positions in both government and economic spheres and their views on and interventions in the development of colonial society correlated with their ideas about the development of Dutch society. Members of this inner circle of ‘empire builders’ met each other in networking societies like the Maatschappij van Nijverheid, which founded the Colonial Museum. And they played a role in the development of the Dutch multi-party system.22 Around 1900, the number of members of these families from the economic and political elite who went to live and work in the Netherlands East Indies grew. During the nineteenth century it had been mostly men who, for a short or longer time, had migrated to the colony, or who had settled there. Aft er 1901 and the implementation of the Ethical Policy, both the colonial administration and Netherlands East Indies enterprises (tobacco, tea, coff ee, rubber, petrol, as well as the transport sector, etcetera) needed more staff , both men and women. Women

20 J. Breman, ‘Het Neerlandse cultuurpatroon door vreemde ogen,’ in De onmacht van het grote: cultuur in Europa, ed. J.C.H. Blom, J.Th . Leerssen and P. de Rooy, (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 1993), 98. 21 S. Legêne, De bagage van Blomhoff en Van Breugel. Japan, Java, Tripoli en Suriname in de negentiende-eeuwse Nederlandse cultuur van het imperialisme (Amsterdam: KIT Uitgeverij, 1998); Bossenbroek, Holland op zijn breedst. 22 N.C.F. van Sas, Onze natuurlijkste bondgenoot. Nederland, Engeland en Europa, 1813–1831 (Groningen: Wolters Noordhof, 1985); G.K. grave van Hogendorp, Bijdragen tot de huishouding van staat in het Koningrijk der Nederlanden, verzameld ten dienste der Staten-Generaal, vol. VII (’s-Gravenhage, 1823); Kuitenbrouwer, Nederland en de opkomst van het moderne imperialisme; S. Legêne, De bagage van Blomhoff en Van Breugel. Japan, Java, Tripoli en Suriname in de negentiende-eeuwse Nederlandse cultuur van het imperialisme (Amsterdam: KIT Uitgeverij, 1998). 234 susan legêne from now on not only followed their husbands, they also went alone, to work in education, colonial civil service, or healthcare. For these Dutch colonialists, men and women from all levels and political denominations in Dutch society, the East Indies meant a career. Th ey lived there as members of the armed services, as missionaries, as teachers, nurses, and housewives in colonial homes, as plantation and company owners, civil servants and so on. But they also kept their family ties as members of the Dutch political and economic elite that had helped shape the Dutch nation in the 19th century process of developing parliamentary democracy and economic development.23 Th ey were represented in infl uential circles of the emerging political parties. And they got support from the various religious communities in the Netherlands who presented the issue of Dutch colonialism in churches and confessional schools, in order to win support for missionary activities. Colonialism thus became an issue within the various pillars of Dutch society. At the same time, it was an issue intersecting the various religious and political organisations, a factor of understanding, based on identifi cation with the colonialists overseas. In the Netherlands East Indies, the religious and political divisions of pillarized Dutch society were not relevant. Th e colonialists all were members of a white elite, a minority in the colony. Regardless of political and religious denominations at home, they belonged together in a colonial society organized along lines of a ‘legal apartheid’ based on ethnicity and race. Th e population in the Netherlands East Indies was hierarchically classifi ed in racial categories. On top was a small elite of ‘Europeans and those regarded equal to Europeans’ (referring to people of mixed European and Indonesian descent). A second category was formed by the ‘Vreemde oosterlingen,’ Oriental Foreigners (who were Chinese, Arabs and others). And the great majority of the people in the Neth- erlands East Indies were ‘Natives’ or ‘Inlanders.’ Colonial administration and education policies were strictly organized along these racial categories. Colonial hierarchies as expressed in this classifi cation of the people24 made a common development, a shared commitment to

23 H. te Velde, Gemeenschapszinen plichtsbesef. Liberalisme en nationalisme in Ned- erland, 1870–1918 (’s-Gravenhage: SDU, 1992); A. Taselaar, De Nederlandse Koloniale Lobby. Ondernemers en de Indische Politiek, 1914–1940 (Leiden: Research school CNWS, 1998); Grever and Waaldijk, Feministische openbaarheid. 24 E. Locher-Scholten, Essays on Gender and Modernity in the Netherlands Indies 1900–1942 (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2000), 18. dwinegeri—multiculturalism and the colonial past 235

Indonesian society, hard to imagine and pursue. During the fi rst half of the twentieth century, most Dutch colonialists in the Netherlands East Indies, although dedicated to society and oft en full of praise for the great potential of the region, stood in fact more distantly from the Indonesian populace than had their forebears in the preceding century.25 Th e nationalist leader Sutan Shahrir, who had studied in the Neth- erlands and who, aft er returning to the Netherlands East Indies, was arrested in 1934 and subsequently exiled to Upper Digul for ‘haatzaaien’ (spreading hatred), addressed this problem in a letter to his fi ancee in the Netherlands. In fact he sketched a Dual Country, stating that the colony in which the Europeans lived, for non-European people like him was ‘about as far away as Europe itself, yes, even further, because one can reach Europe by ship and plane, but the social barrier, the race division in the colonial society is much more diffi cult to bridge . . .’26 Shahrir warned that such situations led to a heightening of ethnic diff erences as a consequence of deliberately created social barriers. In hindsight we can trace this divide on photographs of the time. Family pictures from the colonial families under discussion here show European women, for instance, who no longer wear ‘batik belanda’ but who have changed to European dresses, in colonial households organized aft er the European model.27 Th is white elite developed an Indies discourse on Dutch bourgeois virtues, which, in Ann Stoler’s words, ‘infused the vocabulary of social reform and nationalist priorities with racial meaning.’28 Her research, as well as that of Gouda, Locher-Scholten and others, on white ethnicity and the position of the European elite and of people of mixed European and Indonesian descent in colonial society, gives some suggestions for investigating how colonial hierarchies played a role in the formation of the Dutch nation ‘at home’ before and aft er Indonesian independence. But like Balibar cited earlier, they do not apply this

25 Locher-Scholten, Essays on Gender and Modernity, 146; Schulte Northolt 1997: 16. 26 Sjahrazad, Indonesische overpeinzingen (s.l., 1945), 22. My translation- sl. 27 D. Bronkhorst and E. Wils, Tropenecht. Indische en Europese kleding in Nederlands Indië (’s-Gravenhage: Stichting Tong Tong, 1996); M. Bossenbroek, et al. (eds.), Weerzien met Indië, 53 vols. (Zwolle: Waanders in collaboration with Tropenmuseum Amsterdam, 1994–1996); Locher-Scholten, Essays on Gender and Modernity, 121–145. 28 A.L. Stoler, Race and the education of desire. Foucault’s History of sexuality and the colonial order of things. (Durham/London: Duke University Press, 1995), 118. 236 susan legêne for Dutch society.29 Over there in the mother country, ‘colonial white ethnicity’ or the common whiteness of the ‘Europeans and those equal to Europeans,’ was not experienced as something special, other than a cultural concern; it was no (legal) factor in mechanisms of inclusion and exclusion concerning the nation.30 However, the colonial segrega- tion on which it was based was anchored in the Netherlands through the political elite of empire builders that could be found in all consociational parties at home. Th ese politicians echoed the common sense of whiteness through a basic agreement on colonial issues among the dominant political parties represented in the pillarized parliament.31 Fundamental colonial opposition only came from that other ‘outsiders’, the Dutch communist party, who made Indonesian nationalists cadidates for election on their lists. Edward Said has pointed out that in the nineteenth century almost nobody, not even Multatuli, who in his famous Max Havelaar in 1860 was already very critical about the modalities of Dutch colonialism, was able to think outside an imperialist frame of reference and could in principal reject colonialism.32 However, some 75 years later, when in England for instance discussions about Indian independence already no longer were theoretical debates, the majority of the Dutch, politicians and journalists included, still could not think outside the Euro-centered colonial frame of reference of an enlightened mother country trying to do as much good as possible overseas.33 We see that the political parties

29 A.L Stoler, Carnal knowledge and imperial power. Race and the intimate in colonial rule. (Berkeley, Los Angeles and London: University of California Press, 2002); Stoler, Race and the education of desire; F. Cooper and A.L. Stoler, Tensions of Empire. Colonial cultures in a bourgeois world (Berkeley, Los Angeles and London: University of California Press, 1997). See also F. Gouda, Dutch culture overseas. Colonial practice in the Netherland-Indies, 1900–1942. (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 1995) and J. Clancy-Smith and F. Gouda, Domesticating the empire. Race, gender, and family life in French and Dutch colonialism (Charlottesville and London: University Press of Virginia, 1999). 30 M. Eickhoff , B. Henkes, and F. van Vree,Volkseigen. Ras, cultuur en wetenschap in Nederland 1900–1950, Elfde Jaarboek van het Nederlands Instituut voor Oorlogs- documentatie (Zutphen: Walburg Pers, 2000); Locher-Scholten Essays on Gender and Modernity, 31, quoting Frankenberg on white as ‘an essential colour to be unconscious of’ (my emphasis). 31 H. Langeveld, Dit leven van krachtig handelen. Hendrikus Colijn 1869–1944. Deel I 1869–1933. (Amsterdam: Uitgeverij Balans, 1998); Taselaar, De Nederlandse Koloniale Lobby. 32 E.W. Said, Culture and imperialism. (New York: A. Knopf, 1993), 240–241. 33 H.W. van den Doel, Afscheid van Indië. De val van het Nederlands imperium in Azië (Amsterdam: Prometheus, 2000), 45–57. dwinegeri—multiculturalism and the colonial past 237 in the Dutch parliament, representing the various pillars, developed diff erent profi les on the major political issues of the time. On colonial policies, however, no major disagreement arose. In lines that did cut straight through all parties in the then-highly compartmentalized Netherlands, the politicians, entrepreneurs and religious leaders with colonial connections shared a common recognition of their elite role in the process of nation building which had started in the nineteenth century. Th ey had invested colonial capital in Dutch society, and they knew their mutual transnational bonds with family members overseas, who belonged together as white colonialists there. However, the elite at home seemed to have had absolutely no idea of how deep the division was between colonial and Indonesian society, and how widely the Indonesian independence movement was supported by the Indonesian population. It is this lack of critical colonial political thinking in the Netherlands, resulting from a self-confi dent transnational elite identity rooted in a common white-ness overseas, which found its continuation aft er World War II and Indonesian independence, in the myth of the reluctant empire. It was an attitude which denied the many shades of white-ness, and turned colonial experiences into a private aff air.34

National identity and the idea of self

When, aft er 1945, the ex-colonial migrants arrived in the Netherlands, they encountered a society in which essential images of the various people in the society they had left were fi rmly rooted in public culture, whereas to them existing social distinctions between people in Dutch society were diffi cult to grasp. Th e ‘common whiteness’ of colonialists in the Netherlands East Indies had been paralleled by a deep-rooted sense of ethnic homogeneity within Dutch society35 developed in distinction to the strict ethnic ordering of former colonial society. What had seemed to be common, however, did not easily mix. Th at diff erences existed between ‘white’ and ‘colonial white’ was articulated by one of

34 B. Waaldijk and S. Legêne, ‘Mission interrupted. Gender, history and the colonial canon.’ In: M. Grever and S. Stuurman (eds), Beyond the Canon. History for the 21th Century. (Hamshire: Palgrave MacMillan, 2007) pp. 188–204. 35 A. de Jong, De dirigenten van de herinnering. Musealisering en nationalisering van de volkscultuur in Nederland 1815–1940 (Nijmegen: SUN/Nederlands Openlucht- museum, 2001). 238 susan legêne the Dutch militia men who had fought in the colonial war. Discussing one of his colleagues who had been an intelligence-offi cer of the KNIL, he remarked that this guy at fi rst sight just looked like ‘one of us: a Dutchmen with blond hair and very light blue eyes.’ However, in facial expression, in his posture and language, this intelligence offi cer, born and raised in the Netherlands East Indies, in fact behaved more like an Indonesian, according to the Dutch soldiers: ‘To us he undoubtedly was a foreigner.’36 Once arrived in the Netherlands, the white ethnicity among the colonial elite in the Netherlands East Indies appeared to be a marker of distinction between colonial whites and their Dutch fellow citizens. Before 1945 in the Netherlands, the urgency of the Indonesian nationalists’ desire for self-rule or independence was generally ignored, in a political echo of the hierarchy established in the Netherlands East Indies. Th e visual expression of this hierarchy was to be found in the Colonial Museum. Th e image presented there of Indonesian society had been a mirror image. It had shown the ‘visual borders’ of Dutch nationalism of the time by focusing on the presentation of those who did not belong to the nation. To many newcomers who arrived from the Netherlands East Indies, from a country which de facto no longer existed, coming to the Netherlands was also discovering that until their arrival, they had not belonged to the nation of which they thought they were part. In the Colonial Museum, the art and culture of those who were ‘other’ had been on display, disconnected from ‘real’ people and attributed to imagined ethnic types. It celebrated colonial enterprise as well, but ignored the existence of a Dutch Indies population, rooted overseas, and linked to Dutch society in genealogical, ethnic and cultural respect. Its main function had been to confi rm the Dutch elite’s family tradition of living in two worlds, a tradition that in its Euro-centered- ness as such did not allow for many shades of ‘white.’37 It was not easy, for all those who had been involved in the colonial process, to fi nd common ground in the Netherlands aft er 1945. erAft arrival, most immigrants did not seek common ground with the former home-colonialists, nor did they seek a confrontation. Th ey did not claim their inclusion in the national institution, nor did they challenge the visible or invisible borders of exclusion. Th ey had gone through war,

36 Scagliola, Last van de oorlog, 42. 37 Legêne, “Photographic Playing Cards.” dwinegeri—multiculturalism and the colonial past 239 forced Japanese internment, and a violent decolonization struggle. Th ey wondered what background they had in common with the Dutch, and many felt disappointed by the way Dutch society received them.38 Th e former home-colonialists retired from the transnational stage as well. Th e transnational dimension of being Dutch during the fi rst half of the twentieth century as expressed in, for instance the Colonial Museum, was not only literally stored away in museum depots aft er 1949; it also disappeared from public discourse, as being something of the past. Both Esther Captain and Stef Scagliola have given us many examples of how this resulted in a ‘public silence.’39 Th is silence in fact should be interpreted as a deeply felt crisis in thinking about the Dutch nation. A crisis which was the more sharp and deep because of the post-war confrontation in the Netherlands with the deportation and murder of the majority of the Dutch Jews during the Second World War. In those years, as during the bersiap-time in Indonesia, basic rights that were supposed to be ‘natural’ or ‘universally human’ had been threatened and destroyed. Such processes impose upon democracy ‘the immediate task of a renewed foundation.’40 Equating the cultural borders of being Dutch with the physical borders of the Dutch nation in Europe and promoting welfare policies for all who belonged to that European nation, was one of the pillars of that new foundation.41

Conclusion: Representing colonialism in a multicultural society

Th ose who ask will discover that for many people in the Netherlands, and from very diverse perspectives and experiences, the Netherlands East Indies has a place in the history of their families. Th e Tropenmu- seum is the most important Dutch public institution where that history has been preserved in a tangible form, one based upon the actual experience of having lived in the Netherlands East Indies. When the museum

38 W. Willems, De uittocht uit Indië 1945–1995 (Amsterdam: Uitgeverij Bert Bakker, 2001), 330 and passim; Captain, Achter het kawat was Nederland. 39 Captain, Achter het kawat was Nederland; Scagliola, Last van de oorlog; S. Legêne, ‘Metamorfose. Toorops inburgeringstraject.’ (De Gids 170:5 mei 2008) 393–407. 40 Balibar, We, the People of Europe? 119, referring to Hanna Arendt. 41 On the restriction of nation states to single territories in the wake of processes like decolonisation, see also F. Cooper, Colonialism in question. Th eory, knowledge, history. (Berkeley/Los Angeles/London: University of California Press, 2005) ch. 6, ‘States, empires, and political imagination’. 240 susan legêne decided to put this history on display, in order to address the question of what this colonial past means in today’s society, it therefore chose to mirror the image of the 1938 photograph of Queen Wilhelmina’s throne surrounded by colonial subjects with their essential attributes. Th e original wax puppets were restaged, but no longer as ethnic or racial stereotypes; they had been transformed into historical archetypes of Indonesian people who played a role in colonial society: a teacher in a ‘wild school’ (taman siswo), a clerk on a Deli tobacco plantation, a seamstress in a colonial household. Th ey surround a display of seven other moulded or life-casted puppets. Five are historical archetypes of colonialists who in the Colonial Museum had been invisible, although they had been at the core of the exhibitions. Th ey represent a Governor General, a tobacco planter who also became one of the founders of the Colonial Institute, a nurse working for the mission in an outer province, a Dutch wife of an offi cer in the colonial army, and a Dutch Indies visual artist who not only painted in Java and Bali, but also collected ethnographic objects. Two others are an Indonesian and a Dutch Indies character based on famous Dutch novels (and thus now put on display as ‘Dutch’ creations). Visitors can see and hear what each person did overseas, how he or she was simultaneously part of both colonial and Dutch societies, and thus recognize that colonialism is much more than a political and economic history belonging to the past. Th e Tropenmuseum gallery on Dutch colonialism thus exhibits how the Colonial Museum exhibited Indonesian art and culture, how it classifi ed its population and by doing so, also exhibited a colonial essence of the Netherlands. By staging white colonialists as historical archetypes in that display, along with colonial subjects in various relationships to these colonialists, it intends to at the same time display colonialism as a culture that is still present in all levels of Dutch society. Adding these relationships and memories to contemporary public visual culture off ers some insights into the milieu of the collectors, their mutual relationships, their diff erent motives for being engaged in the creation of a colonial state, their specifi c relationships with the Indonesian people, their art and culture, and their transnational identity at the time. It is not meant to evoke nostalgia, but on the contrary, to make visitors aware of how this colonial identity, with all its implicit and explicit mechanisms of inclusion and exclusion, resonates in current debates on Dutch transnational identity. Let me end with this notion of citizenship and transnationality. According to his Dutch biographer Lambert Giebels, Soekarno used dwinegeri—multiculturalism and the colonial past 241 the same words of sini and sana which the poet Madeleine Gabeler choose in her verse about Dwinegeri, quoted in the introduction of this chapter.42 In the context of his nationalist speeches Soekarno meant ‘us’ Indonesians for sini and ‘them’ Dutch colonials for sana. And that also had a strong geographical connotation: separating between the ‘here’ Indonesia, and ‘over there,’ the Netherlands. Madeleine Gabeler, more than half a century later in the Netherlands, has reversed that perspective. It is the Netherlands that is the ‘here’ and she gives this an explicit geographical notion with ‘di sini’ which is here, and ‘di sana’ which is over there. Th e ‘over there’ in her phrase, however, is a country which both is geographically located on the map, existing in the now and there; and that expresses a past and present relationship, existing not only in her dreams, at night, but also in the reality of daily life, ‘knowing there is more than here, more than now’. Th e museum intends to provide a platform for discussion on the historical dimension of these current emotions and feelings, in support of those who identify themselves with a Dual Country. Today in Dutch multicultural society, people may focus their transnational orientation in many directions. I hope that this chapter also may serve as an invitation to the readers to visit the museum in order to participate in the discussion on cultural citizenship and the question of how colonialism aff ects Dutch discourse on transnational citizenship in the early 21st century.

42 L. Giebels, Soekarno. Nederlands onderdaan. Biografi e 1901–1950 (Amsterdam: Uitgeverij Bert Bakker, 1999), 92. 242 susan legêne

Appendix 1

Dwinegeri/Dubbelland—Madeleine Gabeler

In dit dwinegeri, dit dubbelland waar beelden in mij warmte brengen soms met pijnscheuten of zacht verdriet en tegelijk ook vreugde om wat is geweest wetend dat die liefde weer zal opduiken hier . . . daar . . . di sini . . . di sana . . . waar ik ’s nachts in dromen naar je reis vaak na oponthoud uiteindelijk arriveer —een verkeerde route, een ontoegankelijk adres— en ik je niet herken maar weet ik ben er hier . . . daar . . . di sini . . . di sana . . . waar ik in dromen twee huizen heb en ik in kamers van allebei de weg weet waar ik met onbekende vrienden ben en ik de huizen bij daglicht niet herken hier . . . daar . . . di sini . . . di sana . . . waar op werkdagen mijn wereld verbleekt en ik onberoerd de uren met handelingen vul en ik onverbloemd zaken bestempel als fl auwekul wetend er is meer dan hier, meer dan nu hier . . . daar . . . di sini . . . di sana . . . het verleden . . . de toekomst . . . masa lampau . . . masa depan . . . in dit dwinegeri, dit dubbelland waarin ik leef.

(Uit: Liefdesplekken & Oorlogsrestanten, 2001.) BIBLIOGRAPHY

Abbenhuis, Maartje. Th e Art of Staying Neutral: Th e First World War in the Netherlands, 1914–1918. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2006. ——. “Rustig te midden van woedende golven: De moeilijke verdediging van de Nederlandse neutraliteit.” in De Grote Oorlog. Kroniek 1914–1918. Deel 1 ed. Hans Andriessen, Martin Ros, Perry Pierik, 303–25. Soesterberg: Aspekt, 2002. Annard, W.J. “‘Het manieeren, besolliciteren en bevorderen van alle voorvallende zaeken’. Professioneel lobbyen aan het Binnenhof in de zeventiende en achttiende eeuw.” in Lobbyen in Nederland: professie en profi jt ed. M.P.C.M. van Schendelen and B.M.J. Pauw, 93–109. Den Haag: SdU, 1998. Asma, H.J., H.A. Benneker and H. Boink. Kuieren langs de grens. Grens-Episoden uit Denekamp en omgeving. Denekamp: Stichting Heemkunde Denekamp, 1992. Asseldonk, Mathias M.P. van. De Meierij van ’s-Hertogenbosch. De evolutie van plaatselijk bestuur, bestuurlijke indeling en dorpsgrenzen, circa 1200–1832. Tilburg: Stichting Zuidelijk Historisch Contact, 2003. Balibar, E. We, the People of Europe? Refl ections on Transnational Citizenship.Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2004. Bauwens, A.R. et al. In Staat van Beleg. West Zeeuws-Vlaanderen en de Eerste Werel- doorlog. Aardenburg: Gemeentelijk Archeologisch Museum, 1993. Berghuis, C.K. Geheel ontdaan van onbaatzuchtigheid. Het Nederlandse toelatingsbeleid voor vluchtelingen en displaced persons van 1945 tot 1956. Amsterdam: Th ela esis,Th 1999. ——. ed. Joodse vluchtelingen in Nederland 1938–1940. Documenten betreff ende toelating, uitleiding en kampopname. Kampen: Kok, 1990. Bergvelt, E., D.J. Meijers and M. Rijnders. Verzamelen. Van rariteitenkabinet tot kunstmuseum. Heerlen: Open Universiteit/Gaade Uitgevers, 1993. Bichelaer, Alphons van den. Het notariaat in Stad en Meierij van ’s-Hertogenbosch tijdens de Late Middeleeuwen (1306–1531). Amsterdam: Th ela Th esis, 1998. Blakely, A. Blacks in the Dutch world. Th e evolution of racial imagery in a modern society. Bloomington/Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1993. Blockmans, Wim. Emperor Charles V, 1500–1558 trans. Isola van den Hoven-Vardon. London: Arnold Publishing, 2002. Blussé, Leonard, Willem Remmelink, Ivo Smits, ed. Bridging the Divide. 400 Years Th e Netherlands—Japan. Hilversum: Stichting Educatieve Omroep Teleac/NOT, 2000. Boileau, David A. Cardinal Mercier: A Memoir. Herent, BEL: Peeters, 1996. Bornebroek, A.H. De illegaliteit in Twente. Een onderzoek naar het ondergronds georganiseerd verzet in ’40–’45. Hengelo: Twents-Gelderse Uitgeverij Witkam, 1985. Bossenbroek, M. Holland op zijn breedst. Indië en Zuid-Afrika in de Nederlandse cultuur omstreeks 1900. Amsterdam: Bert Bakker, 1996. ——. De Meelstreep. Terugkeer en opvang na de Tweede Wereldoorlog. Amsterdam: Bert Bakker, 2001. —— and J.B.C. Kruishoop, ed. Vluchten voor de Groote Oorlog. Belgen in Nederland 1914–1918. Amsterdam: De Bataafsche Leeuw, 1988. Brandão, José António. “Competing Ambitions: Native-Native and Native-Dutch Rela- tions in the Era of Beverwijck.” De Halve Maen 76 (2003), no. 3: 52–56. ——. “Your Fire Shall Burn No More”: Iroquois Policy toward New France and Its Native Allies to 1701. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1997. Bronkhorst, D. and E. Wils, Tropenecht. Indische en Europese kleding in Nederlands Indië. ’s-Gravenhage: Stichting Tong Tong, 1996. 244 bibliography

Brug, W.A. Hun naam leeft voort . . .! Oorlogsslachtoff ers verleenden hun naam aan straten en gebouwen. Alphen aan den Rijn: Repro Holland, 1989. Buisseret, David ed.Th e Mapmakers’ Quest: Depicting New Worlds in Renaissance Europe. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003. ——. Monarchs, Ministers, and Maps: Th e Emergence of Cartography as a Tool of Gov- ernment in Early Modern Europe. Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1992. Burke, Th omas E. Jr.Mohawk Frontier: Th e Dutch Community of Schenectady, New York, 1661–1710. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1991. Cammaert, A.P.M. Het verborgen front. Een geschiedenis van de georganiseerde illegaliteit in de provincie Limburg tijdens de Tweede Wereldoorlog. Leeuwarden/Mechelen: Eisma, 1994. Cate, J. Houwink ten. ‘De mannen van de daad’ en Duitsland, 1919–1939. Het Hollandse zakenleven en de vooroorlogse buitenlandse politiek. Den Haag: Sdu Uitgevers, 1995. Cauwenberghe, Eddy Van. Het vorstelijk domein en de overheidsfi nanciën in de Ned- erlanden (15de en 16de eeuw). Een kwantitatieve analyse van Vlaamse en Brabantse domeinrekeningen. Brussel: Gemeentekrediet van België, 1982. Chaiklin, Martha. Cultural Commerce and Dutch Commercial Culture. Th e Infl uence of European Material Culture on Japan, 1700–1850, Studies in Overseas History vol. 5. Leiden: Research School CNWS/Ridderprint, 2003. Citroen, Michal. U wordt door niemand verwacht. Nederlandse joden na kampen en onderdak. Utrecht: Het Spectrum, 1999. Clancy-Smith, J. and F. Gouda. Domesticating the empire. Race, gender, and family life in French and Dutch colonialism. Charlottesville and London: University Press of Virginia, 1999. Cruz, Laura. Th e Paradox of Prosperity: Th e Leiden Booksellers’ Guild and the Distribu- tion of Books in Early Modern Europe. New Castle, DE: Oak Knoll Books, 2008. Davids, Karel, Marjolein ’t Hart, Henk Kleijer & Jan Lucassen, ed. De Republiek tussen zee en vasteland. Buitenlandse invloeden op cultuur, economie en politiek in Nederland 1580–1800. Leuven/Apeldoorn: Garant, 1995. —— and Jan Lucassen, ed. A Miracle Mirrored: Th e Dutch Republic in a European Perspective. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995. Decavele, Johan. De eerste protestanten in de Lage Landen: geloof en heldenmoed. Leuven: Davidsfonds, 2004. Demoor, Marysa. Th e Fields of Flanders. Rouselare: Globe, 2002. Dewald, Jonathan. European Nobility, 1400–1800. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996. Dithuyzen, R.E. van, A.E. Kersten, A.L.M. van Zeeland, and A.C. van der Zwaan, ed. Tweehonderd jaar Ministerie van Buitenlandse Zaken. Den Haag: SdU Uitgevers, 1998. Doel, W. van den Afscheid van Indië. De val van het Nederlands imperium in Azië. Amsterdam: Prometheus, 2000. Egmond, Florike. “ ‘Recht en krom. Corruptie, ongelijkheid en rechtsbescherming in de vroegmoderne Nederlanden.” Bijdragen en Mededelingne betreff ende de Geschiedenis der Nederlanden 116 (2001): 1–33. Eickhoff , M., B. Henkes, and F. van Vree. Volkseigen. Ras, cultuur en wetenschap in Nederland 1900–1950, Elfde Jaarboek van het Nederlands Instituut voor Oorlogs- documentatie. Zutphen: Walburg Pers, 2000. Elff erich, L. Rotterdam werd verraden. Rotterdam: Uniepers, 1990. Elison, George. Deus Destroyed. Th e Image of Christianity in Early Modern Japan. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1973. Emmer, Pieter. Th e Dutch in the Atlantic Economy: Trade, Slavery and Emancipation. Aldershot: Ashgate, 1998. —— and Wim Klooster. “Th e Dutch Atlantic, 1600–1800: Expansion Without Empire.” Itinerario 23, no. 2 (1999): 48–69. bibliography 245

Feister, Lois M. “Linguistic Communication between the Dutch and Indians in New Netherland, 1609–1664.” Ethnohistory 20 (1973): 25–38. Flap, H. and W. Arts ed. De organisatie van de bezetting. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 1997. Freedberg, Davis. “Science, Commerce, and Art: Neglected Topics at the Junction of History and Art History.” in Art in History/History in Art: Studies in Seventeenth- Century Dutch Culture, ed. David Freedberg and Jan de Vries, 276–428. Santa Monica, CA: Getty Publications, 1991. Gehring, Charles T. and William A. Starna, ed. A Journey into Mohawk and Oneida Country, 1634–1635: Th e Journal of Harmen Meyndertsz van den Bogart( wordlist and linguistic notes by Gunther Michelson). Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1987. Goddard, Ives. “Th e Use of Pidgins and Jargons on the East Coast of North America.” in Th e Language Encounter in the Americas, 1492–1800: A Collection of Essays ed. Edward G. Gray and Norman Fiering, 61–78. New York: Berghahn Books, 2000. Goodman, Grant K. Japan and the Dutch 1600–1853. Richmond: Curzon Press, 2000. Gouda, F. Dutch culture overseas. Colonial practice in the Netherland-Indies, 1900–1942. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 1995. Graaff , B. de and L. Marcus. Kinderwagens en Korsetten. Een onderzoek naar de sociale achtergrond en de rol van vrouwen in het verzet 1940–1945. Amsterdam: Bert Bakker, 1980. ——. Schakels naar de vrijheid. Pilotenhulp in Nederland tijdens de Tweede Wereldoorlog. ’s-Gravenhage: Sdu Uitgeverij Koninginnegracht, 1995. ——. ‘Th e Venlo Incident.” World War Investigator, nr. 13 (1990): 2–13. Graaf, Ronald D. Och arme schapen. Een andere kijk op de Tachtigjarige Oorlog 1565–1648. Franeker: Van Wijnen, 2004. Groenveld, S. “Een notabele frontiere. Breda en zijn regenten in het spanningsveld tussen noord en zuid, 1576–1610.” Jaarboek van de Geschied- en Oudheidkundige Kring van Stad en Land van Breda “De Oranjeboom” (JOB) XLIII (Breda, 1990): 16–39. Gulik, Willem van. A Distant Court Journey. Dutch Traders Visit the Shogun of Japan. Amsterdam: Stichting Koninklijk Paleis Amsterdam, 2000. ——. Nederlanders in Nagasaki. Japanse prenten uit de 19de eeuw. Amsterdam: Sticht- ing Terra Incognita, 1998. Gutmann, Myron P. War and Rural Life in the Early Modern Low Countries. Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1980. Hagedorn, Nancy L. “Brokers of Understanding: Interpreters as Agents of Cultural Exchange in Colonial New York.” New York History 76 (1995): 379–408. ——. “ ‘A Friend to Go Between Th em’: Th e Interpreter as Cultural Broker During Anglo-Iroquois Councils, 1740–1770.” Ethnohistory 35 (1988): 60–80. Ham, W. van. Macht en Gezag in het Markiezaat. Een politiek-institutionele studie over stad en land van Bergen op Zoom (1477–1583). Hilversum: Verloren, 2000. Harley, J.B. and David Woodward. Cartography in Prehistoric, Ancient, and Medieval Europe and the Mediterranean. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987. Higashibaba, Ikuo. Christianity in Early Modern Japan. Kirishitan Belief and Practice. Leiden: Brill, 2001. Hilbrink, C. De illegalen. Illegaliteit in Twente & het aangrenzende Salland 1940–1945. ’s-Gravenhage: SDU, 1989. Hout, I. van, ed. Drawn in wax. 200 Years of batik art from Indonesia in the Tropen- museum collection. Amsterdam: KIT Publishers, 2001. Israel, Jonathan. Th e Dutch Republic. Its Rise, Greatness and Fall 1477–1806. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995. Jacobs, Jaap. Een Zegenrijk Gewest: Nieuw-Nederland in de Zeventiende Eeuw. Amster- dam: Prometheus-Bert Bakker, 1999. 246 bibliography

Kappelhof, Ton. “Van kasseien en kanalen. Pogingen om Breda voor het personen- en goederenverkeer beter bereikbaar te maken in de periode 1500–1800.” ’ Jaarboek de Oranjeboom LVI (2003): 1–40. Kessler, L. Betrayal at Venlo. Th e Secret Story of Appeasement and Treachery, 1939–1945. London: Leo Cooper, 1991. Klumper, A.A. Sociale verdediging en Nederlands verzet ’40–’45-ideëel concept getoetst aan historische werkelijkheid. Tilburg: Gianotten, 1983. Kooijmans, Luuc. “Risk and Reputation: On the Mentality of Merchants in the Early Modern Period.” in Entrepeneurs and Entrepeneurship in Early Modern Times: Mer- chants and Industrialists within the Orbit of the Dutch Staple Market ed. C. Lesger and L. Noordegraaf, 25–34.Th e Hague: Stichting Hollandse Historische Reeks, 1995. Kossmann, Ernst H. Een tuchteloos probleem. De natie in de Nederlanden. Leuven: Davidsfonds, 1994. Kristel, Conny ed. Binnenskamers. Terugkeer en opvang na de Tweede Wereldoorlog. Besluitvorming. Amsterdam: Bert Bakker, 2002. ——. Polderschouw. Terugkeer en opvang na de Tweede Wereldoorlog. Regionale verschillen. Amsterdam: Bert Bakker, 2002. Krogt, P.C.J. van der. Globi Neerlandici: Th e Production of Globes in the Low Countries. Utrecht: Hes Publishers, 1993. Kuijer, P.Th .J. ’s-Hertogenbosch stad in het hertogdom Brabant ca. 1185–1629. Zwolle/ ’s-Hertogenbosch: Waanders, 2000. Lammers, C.J. Nederland als bezettende mogendheid 1648–2001. Amsterdam: Konin- klijke Nederlandse Akademie van Wetenschappen, 2003. Lavrijsen, R. ed.Islam in een ontzuilde samenleving. Discussies over vrouwenemancipatie, kunst en onderwijs. Amsterdam: KIT Uitgeverij: 1996. Legêne, Susan. De bagage van Blomhoff en Van Bruegel. Japan, Java, Tripoli en Suriname in de negentiende-eeuwse Nederlandse cultuur van het imperialisme. Amsterdam: Koninklijke Instituut voor de Tropen, 1998. —— and E. Postel-Coster. “Isn’t it all Culture? Culture and Dutch development policy in the post-colonial period.” in Fift y years of Dutch development cooperation 1949–1999, ed. J.A. Nekkers & P.A.M. Malcontent. 271–288. Th e Hague: SDU Publishers, 2000. ——. “Past and future behind a colonial facade: the Tropenmuseum in Amsterdam.” Archiv für Völkerkunde 50 (1999): 265–274. ——. “Photographic Playing Cards. Teaching the Dutch Colonialism.”’ in Photographs Objects Histories. On the Materiality of Images, ed. E. Edward and J. Hart, 96–112. London and New York: Routledge, 2004. Locher-Scholten, E. Essays on Gender and Modernity in the Netherlands Indies 1900– 1942. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2000. Marnef, Guido. Antwerp in the age of Reformation: underground Protestantism in a commercial metropolis, 1550–1577. Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press, 1996. ——. Het calvinistische bewind te Mechelen 1580–1585. Kortrijk-Heule: UGA, 1987. Marshall, Sherrin. Th e Dutch Gentry, 1500–1650: Family, Faith and Fortune. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1987. Meijer, Hans. Den Haag-Djakarta. De Nederlands-Indonesische betrekkingen 1950–1962. Utrecht: Het Spectrum, 1994. Merrell, James H. Into the American Woods: Negotiators on the Pennsylvania Frontier/ New York: Norton, 1999. Meuwese, Mark. “ ‘For the Peace and Well-Being of the Country’: Intercultural Media- tors and Dutch-Indian Relations in New Netherland and Dutch Brazil, 1600–1664.” Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Notre Dame, 2003. Miedema, H. “Th e City Harpsichord of Amsterdam.” in Sweelinck Studies. Proceedings of the International Sweelinck Symposium, Utrecht 1999 ed. Pieter Dirksen, 225–47. Utrecht: STIMU Foundation for Historical Performance Practice, 2002. bibliography 247

Mochizuki, M.M. “Supplanting the Sacred Image aft er Netherlandish Iconoclasm.” in Negating the Image: Case Studies of Past Iconoclasms, ed. Anne McClanan and Jeff rey Johnson, 141–164. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2004. Moeyes, Paul. Buiten Schot. Nederland tijdens de Eerste Wereldoorlog 1914–1918. Amsterdam: De Arbeiderspers, 2001. Mooij, Charles de. Geloof kan Bergen verzetten. Reformatie en katholieke herleving te Bergen op Zoom (1577–1795). Hilversum: Verloren, 1998. Moore, B. Refugees from Nazi Germany in the Netherlands 1933–1940. Dordrecht: M. Nijhoff , 1986. Nierop, Henk van. “A Beggars’ Banquet: Th e Compromise of the Nobility and the Politics of Inversion.” European History Quarterly 21 (1991) 419–443. ——. Th e Nobility of Holland: From Knights to Regents, 1500–1650 trans. Maarten Ultee. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993. Parker, Geoff rey. Th e Military Revolution: Military Innovation and the Rise of the West, 1500–1800. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988. Peuter, Roger De. Brussel in de achttiende eeuw. Sociaal-economische structuren en ontwikkelingen in een regionale hoofdstad. Brussel: VUB Press, 1999. Piersma, Hinke, ed. Mensenheugenis. Terugkeer en opvang na de Tweede Wereldoorlog. Getuigenissen. Amsterdam: Bert Bakker, 2001. Polišenský, Josef. Tragic Triangle: Th e Netherlands, Spain, and Bohemia 1617–1621. Prague: Charles University, 1991. Postma, Johannes Menna . Th e Dutch in the Atlantic Slave Trade, 1600–1815. Cam- bridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990. Raymond, Gregory A. “Neutrality Norms and the Balance of Power.” Cooperation and Confl ict. Nordic Journal of International Studies XXXII, no. 2 (June 1997): 123–146. Richter, Daniel K. “Cultural Brokers and Intercultural Politics: New York-Iroquois Relations, 1664–1701.” Journal of American History 75 (1988–1989): 40–67. ——. Facing East from Indian Country: A Native History of Early America. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2001. ——. Ordeal of the Longhouse: Th e Peoples of the Iroquois League in the Era of European Colonization. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1992. Roodt, Evelyn de. Oorlogsgasten. Vluchtelingen en krijgsgevangenen in Nederland tijdens de Eerste Wereldoorlog. Zaltbommel: Europese Bibliotheek, 2000. Rothschild, Nan A. “Social Distance between Dutch Settlers and Native Americans.” in Another Man’s Trash is Another Man’s Treasure: Th e Metamorphosis of the European Utensil in the New World ed. Alexandra van Dongen, 189–201. Rotterdam: Museum Boymans-van Beuningen, 1996. Rousseau, G.S. and Roy Porter, ed. Exoticism in the Enlightenment. Manchester: Man- chester University Press, 1990. Sanders, J.G.M. ed. Noord-Brabant tijdens de Republiek der Verenigde Nederlanden, 1572–1795. ’s-Hertogenbosch/Hilversum: Waanders, 1996. Sas, N.C.F. van. Onze natuurlijkste bondgenoot. Nederland, Engeland en Europa, 1813–1831. Groningen: Wolters Noordhof, 1985. ——, ed. Vaderland. Een geschiedenis vanaf de vijft iende eeuw tot 1940. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 1999. Scagliola, S. Last van de oorlog. De Nederlandse oorlogsmisdaden in Indonesië en hun verwerking. Amsterdam: Uitgeverij Balans, 2002. Schaepdrijver, Sophie de. De Groote Oorlog. Het koninkrijk België tijdens de Eerste Wereldoorlog. Amsterdam: Olympus, 1997. Schama, Simon. Th e Embarrassment of Riches: An Interpretation of Dutch Culture in the Golden Age. New York: Knopf, 1987. Schmidt, Benjamin. Innocence Abroad: Th e Dutch Imagination and the New World, 1570–1670. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001. 248 bibliography

——. “Mapping an Exotic World: Th e Global Project of Dutch Geography, circa 1700.” in Th e Global Eighteenth Century, ed. Felicity Nussbaum, 19–37. Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2003. ——. “Th e Purpose of Pirates, or Assimilating New Worlds in the Renaissance.” inTh e Atlantic World: Essays on Slavery, Migration, and Imagination, ed. Willem Klooster and Alfred L. Padula, 160–77. Upper Saddle River, NJ: Prentice Hall, 2004. Scholten, Frits, ed. Goudleer in Kinkarakawa. De Geschiedenis van het Nederlands goudleer en zijn invloed in Japan. Zwolle: Waanders, 1989. Scott, H.M, ed. Th e European Nobilities in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries. London: Longman, 1995. Screech, Timon. Th e Lens within the Heart. Th e Western Scientifi c Gaze and Popular Imagery in Later Edo Japan. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2002. Smidt, H.A.R. “De bestrijding van de smokkelhandel door het leger tijdens de Eerste Wereldoorlog.” Mededelingen van de Sectie Militaire Geschiedenis. 15 (1993): 43–72. Soergel, Philip. Wondrous in his Saints: Counter-Reformation Propaganda in Bavaria. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1993. Steijlen, G.I.J. RMS: van ideaal tot symbool. Moluks nationalisme in Nederland, 1951– 1994. Amsterdam: Het Spinhuis, 1996. Stoler, A.L. Carnal knowledge and imperial power. Race and the intimate in colonial rule. Berkeley, Los Angeles and London: University of California Press, 2002. ——. Tensions of Empire. Colonial cultures in a bourgeois world. Berkeley, Los Angeles and London: University of California Press, 1997. Szasz, Margaret Connell, ed. Between Indian and White Worlds: Th e Cultural Broker. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1994. Taselaar, A., De Nederlandse Koloniale Lobby. Ondernemers en de Indische Politiek, 1914–1940. Leiden: Research school CNWS, 1998. Temminck Groll, C.L. and W. van Alphen, et al. ed. Th e Dutch Overseas. Architectural Survey. Mutual Heritage of Four Centuries in Th ree Continents. Zwolle: Waanders Publishers, 2002. Th eibault, John. German Villages in Crisis: Rural Life and the Th irty Years War in Hesse-Kassel, 1580–1720. Atlantic Highlands, NJ: Humanities Press, 1995. Tracy, James D. Emperor Charles V, Impresario of War: Campaign Strategy, International Finance, and Domestic Politics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002. Trelease, Allen W. Indian Aff airs in Colonial New York: Th e Seventeenth Century (orig. published in 1960). Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1997. Trienekens, G. Tussen ons volk en de honger. De voedselvoorziening, 1940–1945. Utrecht: Stichting Matrijs, 1985. Tuyll, Hubert van. ‘Th e Dutch Mobilization of 1914: Reading the ‘Enemy’s Intentions” Th e Journal of Military History 64 (July 2000): 711–738. ——. Th e Netherlands and World War I. Espionage, Diplomacy and Survival. Leiden: Brill, 2001. Usner, Jr., Daniel H. Indians, Settlers, and Slaves in a Frontier Exchange Economy: Th e Lower Mississippi Valley before 1783. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1992. Vanneste, Alex. Kroniek van een Dorp in Oorlog. Neerpelt 1914–1918. Het dagelijks leven, de spionage en de elektrische draadversperring aan de Belgisch-Nederlandse grens tijdens de Eerste Wereldoorlog, vol. 1. Deurne: Uitgeverij Universitas, 1998. Velde, H. te. Gemeenschapszinen plichtsbesef. Liberalisme en nationalisme in Nederland, 1870–1918. ’s-Gravenhage: SDU, 1992. Venema, Janny. Beverwijck: A Dutch Village on the American Frontier, 1652–1664. Hilversum and Albany: Verloren and State of New York University Press, 2003. ——. “Th e Court Case of Brant Aertsz van Slichtenhorst against Jan van Rensselaer,” De Halve Maen 75 (2001), no. 1: 3–8. bibliography 249

Verschure, Han. Overleven buiten de Hollandse Tuin. Raamsdonk, Waspik, ’s Graven- moer, Capelle, Sprang en Besoijen tijdens de Tachtigjarige Oorlog. Tilburg: Drukkerij Gianotten, 2004. Vree, F. van. De Nederlandse pers en Duitsland, 1930–1940. Groningen: Historische Uitgeverij Groningen, 1989. Vries, Jan de and Ad van der Woude.Th e First Modern Economy: Success, Failure and Perseverance of the Dutch Economy, 1500–1815. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997. Weijdeveld, R. ed. Rode Hulp. De opvang van Duitse vluchtelingen in Groningerland (1933–1940). Groningen: Wolters Noordhoff , 1986. Wesseling, H.L. Europa’s koloniale eeuw. De koloniale rijken in de negentiende eeuw, 1815–1919. Amsterdam: Uitgeverij Bert Bakker, 2003. Whitehead, P.J.P. and M. Boeseman. A Portrait of Dutch Seventeenth-Century Brazil: Animals, Plants and People by the Artists of John Maurits of Nassau, Royal Dutch Academy of Sciences, Natural History Monograghs, 2nd ser., vol. 87. Amsterdam: North Holland Publishing, 1989. Willems, W. De uittocht uit Indië 1945–1995. Amsterdam: Uitgeverij Bert Bakker, 2001. Wyman, W. DPs: Europe’s Displaced Persons, 1945–1951. Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1998. Zandvliet, Kees. Mapping for Money: Maps, Plans and Topographic Paintings and their Role in Dutch Overseas Expansion During the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries. Amsterdam: Batavian Lion International, 1998. ——, ed. De Nederlandse ontmoeting met Azië 1600–1950. Zwolle: Waanders, 2002.

BRIEF BIOGRAPHIES OF THE CONTRIBUTORS

Dr. Abbenhuis is Senior Lecturer in Modern European History at the University of Auckland. Her research interests are in the history of European neutrality from the Napoleonic era to the Second World War as well as historical investigations of borderland theory.

Martin Bossenbroek (Ph.D. Leiden University) is Director of Collections & Services of the Koninklijke Bibliotheek, the National Library of the Netherlands, since 2004. He has written several books and many articles on 19th and 20th century Dutch history.

Marybeth Carlson is Associate Professor of History at the University of Dayton in Dayton, Ohio, where she specializes in European Social History. She is currently at work on a comparative study of eighteenth century revolutions.

Laura Cruz is an Associate Professor of History at Western Carolina University. She is the author of Th e Paradox of Prosperity (Oak Knoll, 2008) and several articles about economic culture in the seventeenth century Netherlands.

Bob de Graaff is currently the professor for terrorism and counterterrorism at the Campus Th e Hague of Leiden University, as well as Socrates professor for political and cultural reconstruction at the University of Utrecht.

Benjamin J. Kaplan (B.A. Yale University 1981, Ph.D. Harvard University 1989) is Professor of Dutch History at University College London and has a joint appointment at the University of Amsterdam. His most recent book is Divided by Faith (Cambridge, Mass., 2007).

Susan Legêne is professor of political history at VU University in Amsterdam. Earlier she was Head Curatorial Department of the Tropenmuseum (Royal Tropical Institute Amsterdam). Historicizing ethnographic collections, colonial history and nation building is one of her research interests.

Mark Meuwese is assistant professor in the history department at the University of Winnipeg in Canada. He is currently working on a study of Dutch-Native relations in the seventeenth-century Atlantic, to be published by Brill.

Mia M. Mochizuki holds the Bertelsen Chair of Art History and Religion at the Jesuit School of Th eology and Graduate Th eological Union, Berkeley, and is Affiliated Faculty in the Department of the History of Art at the University of California, Berkeley. She is the author of the prize-winning book, Th e Netherlandish Image aft er Iconoclasm, 1566–1672 (2008), and co-editor of In His Milieu. Essays on Netherlandish Art in Honor of John Michael Montias (2006).

Benjamin Schmidt (PhD Harvard University) is Associate Professor of History at the University of Washington. His books include the prize-winning Innocence Abroad: Th e Dutch Imagination and the New World (2001), Making Knowledge in Early Modern Europe: Practices, Objects, and Texts (2008; with P. Smith), and Going Dutch: Th e Dutch Presence in America, 1609–2009 (2008; with A. Stott and J. Goodfriend). 252 brief biographies of the contributors

John Theibault has a Ph.D. in history from the Johns Hopkins University. He is the author of two books, including German Villages in Crisis: Rural Life in Hesse-Kassel and the Th irty Years War, 1580–1680 (1995).

Hubert van Tuyll a native of the Netherlands, was educated at Montevallo, Duke, and Texas A&M, and is currently professor and department chair at Augusta State University (Georgia USA). Publications include Th e Netherlands and World War I (2001) and Castles, Battles, and Bombs (2008: with Jurgen Brauer). INDEX

Aa, Pieter van der 44, 59 n. 22, 128 Bruyn, Cornelis de 44 Alsace-Lorraine 179 Buhlman, G.A. 159 America 7, 40–42, 44–45, 47, 52, Burgundy, (Burgundian) 18 55–61, 139 Busbecq, Ogier 44 Dutch in 40 Mesoamerica 54 Calvinism 125 Native Americans 41, 139, Campen, Jacob van 49−50 140 nn. 2–3, 143, 145–146 Captain, Esther 171 n. 66, 239 North 7, 139, 141, 145 Caron, Francios 80, 89 n. 5 South 49 n. 13 Catholic 19, 23–24, 29–31, 33, Amsterdam 11, 42, 47, 51−52, 56−57, 34 n. 50, 70–71, 73, 76, 78, 80, 82, 84, 63, 66−67, 73, 74 n. 26, 79 n. 38, 82, 95, 98, 105, 107, 109, 115, 121, 125, 84, 119−123, 125−126, 128, 136−137, 189, 197, 207 181, 195−196, 198−199, 223, 228 Church 30, 80, 125, 127 Amsterdam Zoo 223 Christianity 67, 70–71, 74, 77 n. 34, Anti-Revolutionary Party 198 78–79, 89 n. 54, 94, 149, 151 ARP, see Anti-Revolutionary Party Dutch 76 Austria 114, 132, 201 Japanese converts 76–77 Catholic League 95, 114–115 Baie, Eugéne 186 Roman 76, 80 n. 40, 86 n. 52, Balibar, Etienne 224, 226, 235, 197–198 239 n. 40 Charles V, Emperor 103 Basson, Th omas 132 Christian of Anhalt 95 Beeckman, Andries 49 Churchill, Winston 194 Belgium 3–4, 15, 17, 159–162, Cold War 178 n. 3 164–165, 168–174, 178, 180–191 Colijn, Hendrik 198 Beyens, Eugéne 179, 185 Colonial Museum, see Tropenmuseum Blaeu, Joan 47 Commission of Belgian Aff airs 177, 187 Blom, Huns 231 Council of Brabant 20, 26 Blomhoff , Jan Cook 72 Council of Namur 106 Bossenbroek, Martin 164 n. 37, Council of State 22–23, 29, 32 214 n. 2, 225, 232 n. 19 Counter-Reformation 29, 34, 76 n. 30 Brabant 3–4, 7–8, 15–20, 25–26, Court, Pieter de la 129, 133, 136 31–34, 39, 98, 104, 107–108, 110, Cramoisy, Sebastien 121 114–115, 160 Curler, Arent van 144, 146, 148, Brabantine 28 n. 37, 102, 106, 110, 149 n. 17, 150–151, 153–154 112, 114, 116 Curzon of Kedleston, Lord 158 Duchy of 4, 15, 17–20, 32–33 Dukes of 18, 25 Dapper, Olfert 44 Medieval 4 David, Jan 145 North Brabant 15 Davies, David, W. 119–120, Phillip, Duke of 18, 25 132 nn. 34–35, 134 n. 40 States Brabant 15–17, 19–28, 30–34 Den Bosch 17, 19–20, 22–23, 31–34, 204 Breiteneck 115–116 Dou, Gerrit 136 Broqueville, Charles de 179, 185–186 Drees, W. 221 Brouwer, Johan 198, 199 n. 19 DuPlessis, Robert 130–131, 135 Brussels 34, 98–99, 101, 103, 107–109, Dutch 4–10, 15–17, 22, 27–28, 32–33, 111, 115, 179–180, 184 n. 28 36–44, 47, 49, 51–52, 54–57, 55 n. 16, 254 index

57 n. 20, 59–61, 63, 66–67, 70–73, 74 Industries 172 n. 25, 77–80, 84, 86, 94, 97, 119–121, invasion of Belgium 165, 171 124, 126–130, 134, 136, 140–154, Peasants war 117 159–168, 170–178, 180–182, 185, political organizations 206 187–189, 193–211, 213–241 POW camps 165 armed forces 159, 175, 195, 199 refugees 204, 211, 218–219 Colonies 16 siege of Antwerp 108 East India Company 10, 40, 78–79, George, Lloyd 188, 190 86 Gerritsz, Joost 82 geography 35–62 Gestapo 203 indian relations 148 n. 16 Geuzen 199 Indies 225, 238, 240 Great Council of Mechelen 17–18 Jews 204, 208, 239 Gregory XIII, Pope 77 Juliana, Queen 221 Groenvelt, Simon 120 neutrality 159, 165, 171–173, 175–176 Habsburg 7, 18, 39, 41, 43, 55, 67, nobility 124 73–74, 94–95, 97–98, 105, 107–108, Dutch Republic 15–16, 20–21, 26, 111, 116 28–29, 32, 35 n. *, 37–39, 41, 47, Albert, Archduke 109, 117 52, 56, 148, 153 n. 25, 232 Austria 114, 132, 201 Dutch Revolt 7, 18, 33, 39, 41, 95, Ferdinand II, Emperor 95 98, 105 Isabella 111, 112 n. 25, 114 slave trade 40 Netherlands, see Netherlands West India Company 56, 140 Philip II 40–41, 73, 77, 104–105, Wilhelmina, Queen 215, 221, 230, 110 240 Spain 39, 41 William I, King 182 Hague 23–25, 33–34, 82, 122, 124, 173, Dwinegeri 227, 241–242 194–195, 198, 207 Hanson, Victor, Davis 178 Eckhout, Albert 49 n. 13, 55 Harley, Brian 37–38 Edema, Gerard van 49 Hartger, Joost 44 Eeghen, I.H. van 119, 122 n. 7, Hastings, Donna 162 129 n. 24 Headlam-Morley, James 187 Eighty Year’s War 3, 41 Heuvel, Julius van den 186 Emmanuel of Savoy, Duke 95 Hitler, Adolph 193–194, 202–203, 208 Enlightenment 35 n. * Holland 20–22, 31, 33, 39, 42, 44, Erasmus, Desiderus 80, 132 51–52, 61, 119, 121–122, 124, 126, Ernst, Count of Mansfeld 95 135, 175, 180–182, 185, 188–189 Ethical Policy 226, 228, 233 Howell, Margaret 130–131, 135 Hunger Winter 196, 210 First World War, see World War I Hymans, Paul 178–180, 182–190 Fisscher, J.F. van Overmeer 67 Fortuyn, Pim 72 Indies Museum, see Tropenmuseum Frederick of the Palatinate 95 International Red Aid 203 International Refugee Organization 220 Gabeler, Madeleine 227, 241–242 IRO, see International Refugee Gaesbeek, Daniel von 134 Organization Germany 8, 97, 104, 119, 132, Isaacsz, Pieter 63 159–161, 164–166, 168, 170–177, 180, Italy 77 n. 33, 119 183, 189, 193–198, 200, 202–210, 213, post-tridentine 108 216–218, 220 armed forces 193 Jansz, Broer 128 border with Belgium 180 Java War 231 Dutch-German border 199, 204 Jesuits 74, 76–77, 78, 116, 149 index 255

Kaempfer, Englebert 44, 60 n. 24, 77 Habsburg 18, 39, 41, 43, 55, 67 n. 6, n. 24 73–74, 94–98, 101, 105, 107–108, Kempen 21 111, 116 Kessel, Jan van 52–55 Kingdom of 232–233 Kleerkooper, M.M. 119 National archives 217 n. 11, Kooijmans, Luuc 143, 144 n. 10 219 n. 13 Kruls, H.J. 218 National Recovery 215 Kulturkammer 208 New Netherland 40, 140–141, 144–147, 153 Latour, Bruno 38, 41, 61 Northern 39, 124, 182 Leiden 6, 42, 119, 122–137 Southern 4, 132 London 39, 52, 128, 185, 217 Nicholas II 185 Loockermans, Jacob 145 Nicolls, Richard 144 Louis XIV 49, 52 Nieuhof, Johan 44, 56 Low Countries 2–3, 17, 19 n. 12, 41, Nieuwe Kunst 228 95–96, 105 n. 15, 118, 130, 186, 191, Nijverheid, Maatschappij van 233 226, 232 NSB, see National Socialist Movement Ludendorff , Erich 175–176 Nooms, Reinier 49 Luxembourg 95, 178, 181–183, 185, 190 Nothomb, Pierre 179, 185–186

Maas River 160 Ogilby, John 44, 52 Matthijs, Filip 177 Omikami, Amaterasu 82 Mander, Karel van 63 Orange Manneke, Jacob 134 House of 21–22, 124 Marchal 184, 189–190 princes of 21, 23, 25, 110 Martensen, Hendrick 145 William of Orange 25, 97 Meersche, Pieter, van der 134 Ortelius, Abraham 43, 92 Mercier, Cardinal Désirée 181 Merrel, James H. 140 Peace of Westphalia 29 Meyndertsz, Harmen 142 Peter the Great 52, 57 n. 20 Michael of Warisoul 103 Pierre Ernst of Mansfeld 95 Ministry of Social Services 219 Pirenne, Henri 178, 184 Minorities Policy 234 Piso, Willem 51, 56 Moltke, Helmuth von 171 Post, Frans 47, 49, 52, 60 Moluccans 219 Prussia 181–182 Montanus, Arnoldus 44–45, 70–71 Putte 160–161

National Organization for Aiding People Radio Netherlands Rising Again 214 in Hiding 210 Redlich, Fritz 96 National Socialist Movement 196 Red Cross 166, 216 Netherlands 1, 3–4, 7–11, 15–17, Reformation 18, 80 19–20, 22, 30, 36–39, 41–43, 49, 60, Political Reformation 21, 28–31 66 n. 5, 66, n. 6, 70, 72, 73 n. 23, Rembrandt 127, 228, 232 78–79, 82, 84 n. 49, 97–98, 104–105, Rensselaer, Kiliaen van 144, 148 n. 16 108, 119, 124–128, 129 n. 23, 132, 157 Rijksmuseum 63 n. 1, 72 n. 19, 74, n. 1, 159–178, 181–183, 189, 193–207, 82 n. 46, 228 209–210, 213–220, 223–241 Rooijakkers, Gerard 24 army 108, 159, 171 n. 66, 195, Rotterdam 73 n. 23, 79–80, 123, 126, 216 n. 8, 225, 240 171, 195, 198 Austrian 20, 30 Rudolf II 109 Belgium-Netherlands talks 179 Russia 171, 181 boundaries of 3, 8–9, 36, 104, 108, 223 Golden Age of 15–16, 39, 49, 63, 66, Scagliola, Stef 239 73, 126 Scaliger, Josephus J. 133 256 index

Schaepdrijver, Sophie de 173, 184, 190 Martin Tserclaes of 103–104, 108, Schermerhorn, Prime Minister 111, 118 214–215, 221 Tilmans, Karin 7 n. 15 Scheurleer, Lunsingh 82 Tokyo National Museum 67, 80 n. 40 Schmalkaldic War 103 Treaties of Westphalia 29 Scholte, Rob 72 Treaty of Münster 181 Second Hague Peace Treaty 158 Tropenmuseum 223, 227–230, Second World War, see World War II 239–240 Selm, Bert van 119, 133 n. 37 Truman, Harry S. 221 Shahrir, Sutan 235 Shimabara Rebellion 78 United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Slichtenhorst, Brant Aertsz van 147, Administration 220 148 n. 16 United Provinces 120 Slijck, Cornelis Anthonisz van UNRRA, see United Nation Relief and 142–143, 146, 151, 154 Rehabilitation Administration Smith, Samuel 128 Snijders, G.J. 159, 166 Vaals Incident 165 n. 41, 166, 171 Spain 2–3, 16, 39–42, 59, 74 n. 29, 77 Valkenburg, Dirk 49, 51 n. 13 n. 33, 97, 119, 199 Veer, B.I.A.A. ter 218 Albert and Isabella, see Habsburg Versailles Peace Conference 4, 177 Habsburg 39, 41 Verwey-Jonker, Hilda 220 St. Jacob’s Church 82 Visscher, Charles de 183 Stockum, W.P. Van 119 Voltaire 72 Stuurman, S. 237 n. 34 Vos, Jan 84 Stuyvesant, Petrus 148 Vulcanius, Bonaventura 133 Suez Canal 231 Sultan of Palembung 231 Westerbork 218 Sumitada, Omura 74 Western Front 172, 175, 201 Swift , Jonathan 71 Wilhem, Kaiser 173 Szasz, Margaret C. 139 Wilson, Th omas 162 Witsen, Nicholas 44 Tardieu, André 177–178, 183, 187, Witteman, P.J. 218–219 189 World War I 5–6, 182 Ten Days Campaign 182 blockades 167–168, 171, 175 Th e Great War, see World War I First World War 202 Th ird Reich 194, 196, 198, 200, 202, smuggling 161, 163, 167–170, 207–209, 211 172–173 Tilly 3, 95, 98–99, 101–104, 107–118 Th e Great War 159, 167, 174, 176 Count of 115, 118 World War II 8, 10, 237 Jacob Tserclaes of 109 Second World War 193, 199–201, John Tserclaes of 3, 95, 98, 101, 104, 213, 225–226, 231–232, 239 111, 112, 117–118 John-Werner 115 Xavier, Father, Francis 74 T’Serclaes of 99 n. 10, 102–104, 108, 111, 117–118 Studies in Central European Histories

Edited by Thomas A. Brady, Jr. and Roger Chickering

1. Blickle, P. Communal Reformation. The People’s Quest for Salvation in the Sixteenth Century. ISBN 0 391 03730 7 2. Roper, K. German Encounters with Modernity. Novels of Imperial Berlin. ISBN 0 391 03695 5 3. Chickering, R. Karl Lamprecht. A German Academic Life (1856-1915). ISBN 0 391 03766 8 4. Brady, Jr., T.A. Protestant Politics. Jacob Sturm (1489-1553) and the German Refor- mation. ISBN 0 391 03823 0 5. Theibault, J.C. German Villages in Crisis. Rural Life in Hesse-Kassel and the Thirty Years War, 1580-1720. ISBN 0 391 03839 7 6. Wallace, P.G. Communities and Conflict in Early Modern Colmar 1571-1730. ISBN 0 391 03822 2 7. Usher Chrisman, M. Conflicting Visions of Reform. German Lay Propaganda Pamphlets, 1519-1530. ISBN 0 391 03944 x 8. Safley, T.M. Charity and Economy in the Orphanages of Early Modern Augsburg. ISBN 0 391 03983 0 9. Jackson, Jr., J.H. Migration and Urbanization in the Ruhr Valley, 1821-1914. ISBN 0 391 04033 2 10. Lapp, B. Revolution from the Right. Politics, Class and the Rise of Nazism in Saxony, 1919-1933. ISBN 0 391 04027 8 11. Scheck, R. Alfred von Tirpitz and German Right-Wing Politics, 1914-1930. ISBN 0 391 04043 x 12. Lovell Evans, E. Cross and the Ballot. Catholic Political Parties in Germany, Switzer- land, Austria, Belgium and the Netherlands, 1785-1985. ISBN 0 391 04095 2 13. Anderson, A.D. On the Verge of War. International Relations and the Jülich-Kleve Succession Crises (1609-1614). ISBN 0 391 04092 8 14. Benz, E. Fertility, Wealth, and Politics in Three Southwest German Villages, 1650-1900. ISBN 0 391 04093 6 15. Bowman, W.D. Priest and Parish in Vienna, 1780-1880. ISBN 0 391 04094 4 16. Sun, R.C. Before the Enemy is Within Our Walls. Catholic Workers in Cologne, 1885- 1912: A Social, Cultural and Political History. ISBN 0 391 04096 0 17. Büsch, O. Military System and Social Life in Old Regime Prussia, 1713-1807. The Beginnings of the Social Militarization of Prusso-German Society. Transl. by J.G. Gagliardo. ISBN 0 391 03984 9 18. Sondhaus, L. Franz Conrad von Hötzendorf. Architect of the Apocalypse. ISBN 0 391 04097 9 19. Patrouch, J.F. Negotiated Settlement. The Counter-Reformation in Upper Austria under the Habsburgs. ISBN 0 391 04099 5 20. Haude, S. In the Shadow of “Savage Wolves”. Anabaptist Münster and the German Reformation during the 1530s. ISBN 0 391 04100 2 21. Caldwell, P.C. & Scheuerman, W.E. From Liberal Democracy to Fascism. Legal and Political Thought in the Weimar Republic. ISBN 0 391 04098 7 22. Brenner, A.D. Emil J. Gumbel. Weimar German Pacifist and Professor. ISBN 0 391 04101 0 23. Bell, D.P. Sacred Communities. Jewish and Christian Identities in Fifteenth-Century Germany. ISBN 0 391 04102 9 24. Myers Feinstein, M. State Symbols. The Quest for Legitimacy in the Federal Republic of Germany and the German Democratic Republic, 1949-1959. ISBN 0 391 04103 7 25. Hobson, R. Imperialism at Sea. Naval Strategic Thought, the Ideology of Sea Power, and the Tirpitz Plan, 1875-1914. ISBN 0 391 04105 3 26. Edwards, K.A. Families and Frontiers. Re-creating Communities and Boundaries in the Early Modern Burgundies. ISBN 0 391 04106 1 27. Lavery, J. Germany’s Northern Challenge. The Holy Roman Empire and the Scandinavian Struggle for the Baltic 1563-1576. ISBN 0 391 04156 8 28. Healy, R. Jesuit Specter in Imperial Germany. ISBN 0 391 04194 0 29. Geehr, R.S. Aesthetics of Horror. The Life and Thought of Richard von Kralik. ISBN 0 391 04201 7 30. Safley, T.M. (ed.). Reformation of Charity. The Secular and the Religious in Early Modern Poor Relief. ISBN 0 391 04211 4 31. Lindemann, M. (ed.). Ways of Knowing. Ten Interdisciplinary Essays. ISBN 0 391 04184 3 32. Ulbrich, C. Shulamit and Margarete. Power, Gender, and Religion in a Rural Society in Eighteenth-Century Europe. Transl. by T. Dunlap. ISBN 0 391 04145 2 33. Funck, M. & Chickering, R. (eds.). Endangered Cities. Military Power and Urban Societies in the Era of the World Wars. ISBN 0 391 04196 7 34. Beachy, R. The Soul of Commerce. Credit, Property, and Politics in Leipzig, 1750- 1840. ISBN 0 391 04142 8 35. Mayes, D. Communal Christianity. The Life and Loss of a Peasant Vision in Early Modern Germany. ISBN 0 391 04225 4 36. Aaslestad, K. Place and Politics. Local Identity, Civic Culture, and German Nationalism in North Germany during the Revolutionary Era. ISBN 0 391 04228 9 37. Burnett, S.G. & Bell, D.P. (eds.). Jews, Judaism, and the Reformation in Sixteenth- Century Germany. ISBN 90 04 14947 3 38. Safley, T.M. Children of the Laboring Poor. Expectation and Experience among the Orphans of Early Modern Augsburg. ISBN 0 391 04224 6 39. Hartston, B.P. Sensationalizing the Jewish Question. Anti-Semitic Trials and the Press in the Early German Empire. ISBN 90 04 14654 7 40. Janik, E. Recomposing German Music. Politics and Musical Tradition in Cold War Berlin. ISBN 90 04 14661 X 41. Canoy, J.R. The Discreet Charm of the Police State. The Landpolizei and the Transfor- mation of Bavaria, 1945-1965. ISBN 978 90 04 15708 8 42. Head, R.C. & Christensen, D. (eds.). Orthodoxies and Heterodoxies in Early Modern German Culture. Order and Creativity 1550-1750. ISBN 978 90 04 16276 1 43. Steinhoff, A.J. The Gods of the City. Protestantism and Religious Culture in Strasbourg, 1870-1914. ISBN 978 90 04 16405 5 44. Johnson, M.W. Training Socialist Citizens. Sports and the State in East Germany. ISBN 978 90 04 16957 9 45. Hanson, M.Z. Religious Identity in an Early Reformation Community. Augsburg, 1517 to 1555. ISBN 978 90 04 16673 8 46. Friedrich, K. & Pendzich, B.M. (eds.). Citizenship and Identity in a Multinational Commonwealth. Poland-Lithuania in Context, 1550-1772. ISBN 978 90 04 16983 8 47. Coy, J.P. Strangers and Misfits. Banishment, Social Control, and Authority in Early Modern Germany. ISBN 978 90 04 16174 0 48. Kaplan, B., Carlson, M. & Cruz, L. Boundaries and their meanings in the history of the Netherlands. ISBN 978 90 04 17637 9