Books: The Rise of the Dutch Republic, 1569 70
J >>
John Lothrop Motley >> The Rise of the Dutch Republic, 1569 70
The immediate execution of the sentence was, however, suspended, to allow
the estates opportunity to reply. An enormous mass of pleadings,
replies, replications, rejoinders, and apostilles was the result, which
few eyes were destined to read, and least of all those to whom they were
nominally addressed. They were of benefit to none save in the shape of
fees which they engendered to the gentlemen of the robe. It was six
months, however, before the case was closed. As there was no blood to
be shed, a summary process was not considered necessary. At last, on the
14th July, the voluminous pile of documents was placed before Vargas. It
was the first time he had laid eyes upon them, and they were, moreover,
written in a language of which he did not understand a word. Such,
however, was his capacity for affairs, that a glance only at the outside
of the case enabled him to form his decision. Within half an hour
afterwards, booted and spurred, he was saying mass in the church of Saint
Gudule, on his way to pronounce sentence at Antwerp. That judgment was
rendered the same day, and confirmed the preceding act of condemnation.
Vargas went to his task as cheerfully as if it had been murder. The act
of outlawry and beggary was fulminated against the city and province, and
a handsome amount of misery for others, and of plunder for himself, was
the result of his promptness. Many thousand citizens were ruined, many
millions of property confiscated.
Thus was Utrecht deprived of all its ancient liberties, as a punishment
for having dared to maintain them. The clergy, too, of the province,
having invoked the bull "in Coena Domini," by which clerical property was
declared exempt from taxation, had excited the wrath of the Duke. To
wield so slight a bulrush against the man who had just been girded with
the consecrated and jewelled sword of the Pope, was indeed but a feeble
attempt at defence. Alva treated the Coena Domini with contempt, but he
imprisoned the printer who had dared to-republish it at this juncture.
Finding, moreover, that it had been put in press by the orders of no less
a person than Secretary La Torre, he threw that officer also into prison,
besides suspending him from his functions for a year.
The estates of the province and the magistracy of the city appealed to
his Majesty from the decision of the Duke. The case did not directly
concern the interests of religion, for although the heretical troubles of
1566 furnished the nominal motives of the condemnation, the resistance to
the tenth and twentieth penny was the real crime for which they were
suffering. The King, therefore, although far from clement, was not
extremely rigorous. He refused the object of the appeal, but he did not
put the envoys to death by whom it was brought to Madrid. This would
have certainly been the case in matters strictly religious, or even had
the commissioners arrived two years before, but even Philip believed,
perhaps, that for the moment almost enough innocent blood had been shed.
At any rate he suffered the legates from Utrecht to return, not with
their petition, granted, but at least with their heads upon their
shoulders. Early in the following year, the provinces still remaining
under martial law, all the Utrecht charters were taken into the
possession of government, and deposited in the castle of Vredenberg.
It was not till after the departure of Alva, that they were restored;
according to royal command, by the new governor, Requesens.
By the middle of the year 1569, Alva wrote to the King, with great
cheerfulness of tone, announcing that the estates of the provinces had
all consented to the tax. He congratulated his Majesty upon the fact
that this income might thenceforth be enjoyed in perpetuity, and that it
would bring at least two millions yearly into his coffers, over and above
the expenses of government. The hundredth penny, as he calculated, would
amount to at least five millions.
He was, however, very premature in his triumph, for the estates were not
long in withdrawing a concession which had either been wrung from them by
violence or filched from them by misrepresentation. Taking the ground
that the assent of all had been stipulated before that of any one should
be esteemed valid, every province now refused to enforce or to permit the
collection of the tenth or the twentieth penny within their limits. Dire
were the threatenings and the wrath of the Viceroy, painfully protracted
the renewed negotiations with the estates. At last, a compromise was
effected, and the final struggle postponed. Late in the summer it was
agreed that the provinces should pay two millions yearly for the two
following years, the term to expire in the month of August, 1571. Till
that period, therefore, there was comparative repose upon the subject.
The question of a general pardon had been agitated for more than a year,
both in Brussels and Madrid. Viglius, who knew his countrymen better
than the Viceroy knew them, had written frequently to his friend Hopper,
on the propriety of at once proclaiming an amnesty. There had also been
many conferences between himself and the Duke of Alva, and he had
furnished more than one draught for the proposed measure. The President
knew full well that the point had been reached beyond which the force of
tyranny could go no further. All additional pressure, he felt sure,
could only produce reaction, the effect of which might be to drive the
Spaniards from the Netherlands. There might then be another game to
play. The heads of those who had so assiduously served the government
throughout its terrible career might, in their turn, be brought to the
block, and their estates be made to enrich the Treasury. Moreover, there
were symptoms that Alva's favor was on the wane. The King had not been
remarkably struck with the merits of the new financial measures, and had
expressed much, anxiety lest the trade of the country should suffer.
The Duke was known to be desirous of his recal. His health was broken,
he felt that he was bitterly detested throughout the country, and he was
certain that his enemies at Madrid were fast undermining his credit. He
seemed also to have a dim suspicion that his mission was accomplished in
the Netherlands; that as much blood had been shed at present as the land
could easily absorb. He wrote urgently and even piteously to Philip, on
the subject of his return. "Were your Majesty only pleased to take me
from this country," he said, "I should esteem it as great a favor as if
your Majesty had given me life." He swore "by the soul of the Duchess,"
that he "would rather be cut into little pieces" than retire from his
post were his presence necessary, but he expressed the opinion that
through his exertions affairs had been placed in such train that they
were sure to roll on smoothly to the end of time. "At present, and for
the future," he wrote, "your Majesty is and will be more strictly obeyed
than any of your predecessors;" adding, with insane self-complacency,
"and all this has been accomplished without violence." He also assured
his Majesty as to the prosperous condition of financial affairs. His tax
was to work wonders. He had conversed with capitalists who had offered
him four millions yearly for the tenth penny, but he had refused, because
he estimated the product at a much higher figure. The hundredth penny
could not be rated lower than five millions. It was obvious, therefore,
that instead of remitting funds to the provinces, his Majesty would,
for the future, derive from them a steady and enormous income. Moreover,
he assured the King that there was at present no one to inspire anxiety
from within or without. The only great noble of note in the country was
the Duke of Aerschot, who was devoted to his Majesty, and who, moreover,
"amounted to very little," as the King well knew. As for the Prince of
Orange, he would have business enough in keeping out of the clutches of
his creditors. They had nothing to fear from Germany. England would do
nothing as long as Germany was quiet; and France was sunk too low to be
feared at all.
Such being the sentiments of the Duke, the King was already considering
the propriety of appointing his successor. All this was known to the
President. He felt instinctively that more clemency was to be expected
from that successor, whoever he might be; and he was satisfied,
therefore, that he would at least not be injuring his own position by
inclining at this late hour to the side of mercy. His opposition to the
tenth and twentieth penny had already established a breach between
himself and the Viceroy, but he felt secretly comforted by the reflection
that the King was probably on the same side with himself. Alva still
spoke of him, to be sure, both in public and private, with approbation;
taking occasion to commend him frequently, in his private letters,
as a servant upright and zealous, as a living register, without whose
universal knowledge of things and persons he should hardly know which
way to turn. The President, however, was growing weary of his own
sycophancy. He begged his friend Joachim to take his part, if his
Excellency should write unfavorably about his conduct to the King. He
seemed to have changed his views of the man concerning whose "prudence
and gentleness" he could once turn so many fine periods. He even
expressed some anxiety lest doubts should begin to be entertained
as to the perfect clemency of the King's character. "Here is so much
confiscation and bloodshed going on," said he, "that some taint of
cruelty or avarice may chance to bespatter the robe of his Majesty."
He also confessed that he had occasionally read in history of greater
benignity than was now exercised against the poor Netherlanders. Had the
learned Frisian arrived at these humane conclusions at a somewhat earlier
day, it might perhaps have been better for himself and for his
fatherland. Had he served his country as faithfully as he had served
Time, and Philip, and Alva, his lands would not have been so broad, nor
his dignities so numerous, but he would not have been obliged, in his old
age; to exclaim, with whimsical petulance, that "the faithful servant is
always a perpetual ass."
It was now certain that an act of amnesty was in contemplation by the
King. Viglius had furnished several plans, which, however, had been
so much disfigured by the numerous exceptions suggested by Alva, that
the President could scarce recognize his work. Granvelle, too, had
frequently urged the pardon on the attention of Philip. The Cardinal
was too astute not to perceive that the time had arrived when a continued
severity could only defeat its own work. He felt that the country could
not be rendered more abject, the spirit of patriotism more apparently
extinct. A show of clemency, which would now cost nothing, and would
mean nothing, might be more effective than this profuse and wanton
bloodshed.
He saw plainly that the brutality of Alva had already overshot the mark.
Too politic, however, openly to reprove so powerful a functionary, he
continued to speak of him and of his administration to Philip in terms
of exalted eulogy. He was a "sage seignior," a prudent governor, one on
whom his Majesty could entirely repose. He was a man of long experience,
trained all his life to affairs, and perfectly capable of giving a good
account of everything to which he turned his hands. He admitted,
however, to other correspondents, that the administration of the sage
seignior, on whom his Majesty could so implicitly rely, had at last
"brought that provinces into a deplorable condition."
Four different forms of pardon had been sent from Madrid, toward the
close of 1569. From these four the Duke was to select one, and carefully
to destroy the other three. It was not, however, till July of the
following year that the choice was made, and the Viceroy in readiness to
announce the pardon. On the 14th of that month a great festival was held
at Antwerp, for the purpose of solemnly proclaiming the long expected
amnesty. In the morning, the Duke, accompanied by a brilliant staff, and
by a long procession of clergy in their gorgeous robes, paraded through
the streets of the commercial capital, to offer up prayers and hear mass
in the cathedral. The Bishop of Arras then began a sermon upon the
blessings of mercy, with a running commentary upon the royal clemency
about to be exhibited. In the very outset, however, of his discourse,
he was seized with convulsions, which required his removal from the
pulpit; an incident which was not considered of felicitous augury. In
the afternoon, the Duke with his suite appeared upon the square in front
of the Town House. Here a large scaffolding or theatre had been erected.
The platform and the steps which led to it were covered with scarlet
cloth. A throne, covered with cloth of gold, was arranged in the most
elevated position for the Duke. On the steps immediately below him were
placed two of the most beautiful women in Antwerp, clad in allegorical
garments to represent righteousness and peace. The staircase and
platform were lined with officers, the square was beset with troops, and
filled to its utmost verge with an expectant crowd of citizens. Toward
the close of a summer's afternoon, the Duke wearing the famous hat and
sword of the Pope, took his seat on the throne with all the airs of
royalty. After a few preliminary ceremonies, a civil functionary,
standing between two heralds; then recited the long-expected act of
grace. His reading, however, was so indistinct, that few save the
soldiers in the immediate vicinity of the platform could hear a word of
the document.
This effect was, perhaps, intentional. Certainly but little enthusiasm
could be expected from the crowd, had the text of the amnesty been heard.
It consisted of three parts--a recitation of the wrongs committed, a
statement of the terms of pardon, and a long list of exceptions. All the
sins of omission and commission, the heresy, the public preaching, the
image-breaking, the Compromise, the confederacy, the rebellion, were
painted in lively colors. Pardon, however, was offered to all those who
had not rendered themselves liable to positive impeachment, in case they
should make their peace with the Church before the expiration of two
months, and by confession and repentance obtain their absolution.
The exceptions, however, occupied the greater part of the document.
When the general act of condemnation had been fulminated by which all
Netherlanders were sentenced to death, the exceptions had been very few,
and all the individuals mentioned by name. In the act of pardon, the
exceptions comprehended so many classes of inhabitants, that it was
impossible for any individual to escape a place in, some one of the
categories, whenever it should please the government to take his life.
Expressly excluded from the benefit of the act were all ministers,
teachers, dogmatizers, and all who had favored and harbored such
dogmatizers and preachers; all those in the least degree implicated in
the image-breaking; all who had ever been individually suspected of
heresy or schism; all who had ever signed or favored the Compromise or
the Petition to the Regent; all those who had taken up arms, contributed
money, distributed tracts; all those in any manner chargeable with
misprision, or who had failed to denounce those guilty of heresy. All
persons, however, who were included in any of these classes of exceptions
might report themselves within six months, when, upon confession of their
crime, they might hope for a favorable consideration of their case.
Such, in brief, and stripped of its verbiage, was this amnesty for which
the Netherlands had so long been hoping. By its provisions, not a man or
woman was pardoned who had ever committed a fault. The innocent alone
were forgiven. Even they were not sure of mercy, unless they should
obtain full absolution from the Pope. More certainly than ever would the
accustomed rigor be dealt to all who had committed any of those positive
acts for which so many had already lost their heads. The clause by which
a possibility of pardon was hinted to such criminals, provided they would
confess and surrender, was justly regarded as a trap. No one was
deceived by it. No man, after the experience of the last three years;
would voluntarily thrust his head into the lion's mouth, in order to fix
it more firmly upon his shoulders. No man who had effected his escape
was likely to play informer against himself, in hope of obtaining a
pardon from which all but the most sincere and zealous Catholics were in
reality excepted.
The murmur and discontent were universal, therefore, as soon as the terms
of the act became known. Alva wrote to the King, to be sure, "that the
people were entirely satisfied, save only the demagogues, who could
tolerate no single exception from the amnesty; but he could neither
deceive his sovereign nor himself by such statements." Certainly, Philip
was totally disappointed in the effect which he had anticipated from the
measure. He had thought "it would stop the mouths of many people."
On the contrary, every mouth in the Netherlands became vociferous to
denounce the hypocrisy by which a new act of condemnation had been
promulgated under the name of a pardon. Viglius, who had drawn up an
instrument of much ampler clemency, was far from satisfied with the
measure which had been adopted. "Certainly," he wrote to his confidant,
"a more benignant measure was to be expected from so merciful a Prince.
After four years have past, to reserve for punishment and for execution
all those who during the tumult did not, through weakness of mind, render
as much service to government as brave men might have offered, is
altogether unexampled."
Alva could not long affect to believe in the people's satisfaction. He
soon wrote to the King, acknowledging that the impression produced by the
pardon was far from favorable. He attributed much evil effect to the
severe censure which was openly pronounced upon the act by members of the
government, both in Spain and the Netherlands. He complained that Hopper
had written to Viglius, that "the most severe of the four forms of pardon
transmitted had been selected;" the fact being, that the most lenient one
had been adopted. If this were so, whose imagination is powerful enough
to portray the three which had been burned, and which, although more
severe than the fierce document promulgated, were still entitled acts of
pardon? The Duke spoke bitterly of the manner in which influential
persons in Madrid had openly abominated the cruel form of amnesty which
had been decreed. His authority in the Netherlands was already
sufficiently weakened, he said, and such censure upon his actions from
head-quarters did not tend to improve it. "In truth," he added, almost
pathetically, "it is not wonderful that the whole nation should be ill-
disposed towards me, for I certainly have done nothing to make them love
me. At the same time, such language transmitted from Madrid does not
increase their tenderness."
In short, viewed as a measure by which government, without disarming
itself of its terrible powers, was to pacify the popular mind, the
amnesty was a failure. Viewed as a net, by which fresh victims should be
enticed to entangle themselves, who had already made their way into the
distant atmosphere of liberty, it was equally unsuccessful. A few very
obscure individuals made their appearance to claim the benefit of the
act, before the six months had expired. With these it was thought
expedient to deal gently; but no one was deceived by such clemency.
As the common people expressed themselves, the net was not spread on
that occasion for finches.
The wits of the Netherlands, seeking relief from their wretched condition
in a still more wretched quibble, transposed two letters of the word
Pardona, and re-baptized the new measure Pandora. The conceit was not
without meaning. The amnesty, descending from supernal regions, had been
ushered into the presence of mortals as a messenger laden with heavenly
gifts. The casket, when opened, had diffused curses instead of
blessings. There, however, the classical analogy ended, for it
would have puzzled all the pedants of Louvain to discover Hope
lurking, under any disguise, within the clauses of the pardon.
Very soon after the promulgation of this celebrated act, the new bride
of Philip, Anne of Austria, passed through the Netherlands, on her way
to Madrid. During her brief stay in Brussels, she granted an interview
to the Dowager Countess of Horn. That unhappy lady, having seen her
eldest son, the head of her illustrious house, so recently perish on the
scaffold, wished to make a last effort in behalf of the remaining one,
then closely confined in the prison of Segovia. The Archduchess solemnly
promised that his release should be the first boon which she would
request of her royal bridegroom, and the bereaved countess retired almost
with a hope.
A short digression must here be allowed, to narrate the remaining
fortunes of that son, the ill-starred Seigneur de Montigny. His mission
to Madrid in company of the Marquis Berghen has been related in a
previous volume. The last and most melancholy scene in the life of his
fellow envoy has been described in a recent chapter. After that ominous
event, Montigny became most anxious to effect his retreat from Spain.
He had been separated more than a year from his few months' bride.
He was not imprisoned, but he felt himself under the most rigid although
secret inspection. It was utterly impossible for him to obtain leave to
return, or to take his departure without permission. On one occasion,
having left the city accidentally for a ride on horseback to an adjoining
village, he found himself surrounded by an unexpected escort of forty
troopers. Still, however, the King retained a smiling mien. To
Montigny's repeated and urgent requests for dismissal, Philip graciously
urged his desire for a continuance of his visit. He was requested to
remain in order to accompany his sovereign upon that journey to the
Netherlands which would not be much longer delayed. In his impatience
anything seemed preferable to the state of suspense in which he was made
to linger. He eagerly offered, if he were accused or suspected of crime,
to surrender himself to imprisonment if he only could be brought to
trial. Soon after Alva's arrival in the Netherlands, the first part of
this offer was accepted. No sooner were the arrests of Egmont and Horn
known in Madrid, than Montigny was deprived of his liberty, and closely
confined in the alcazar of Segovia. Here he remained imprisoned for
eight or nine months in a high tower, with no attendant save a young
page, Arthur de Munter, who had accompanied him from the Netherlands.
Eight men-at-arms were expressly employed to watch over him and to
prevent his escape.
One day towards the middle of July, 1568, a band of pilgrims, some of
them in Flemish attire, went through the streets of Segovia. They were
chanting, as was customary on such occasions, a low, monotonous song,
in which Montigny, who happened to be listening, suddenly recognized the
language of his fatherland. His surprise was still greater when, upon
paying closer attention, he distinguished the terrible meaning of the
song. The pretended pilgrims, having no other means of communication
with the prisoner, were singing for his information the tragic fates of
his brother, Count Horn, and of his friend, Count Egmont. Mingled with
the strain were warnings of his own approaching doom; if he were not able
to effect his escape before it should be too late. Thus by this friendly
masquerade did Montigny learn the fate of his brother, which otherwise,
in that land of terrible secrecy, might have been concealed from him for
ever.
The hint as to his own preservation was not lost upon him; and he at
once set about a plan of escape. He succeeded in gaining over to his
interests one of the eight soldiers by whom he was guarded, and he was
thus enabled to communicate with many of his own adherents without the
prison walls. His major-domo had previously been permitted to furnish
his master's table with provisions dressed by his own cook. A
correspondence was now carried on by means of letters concealed within
the loaves of bread sent daily to the prisoner. In the same way files
were provided for sawing through his window-bars. A very delicate ladder
of ropes, by which he was to effect his escape into the court below, was
also transmitted. The plan had been completely arranged. A certain Pole
employed in the enterprise was to be at Hernani, with horses in readiness
to convey them to San Sebastian. There a sloop had been engaged, and was
waiting their arrival. Montigny, accordingly, in a letter enclosed
within a loaf of bread--the last, as he hoped, which he should break in
prison--was instructed, after cutting off his beard and otherwise
disguising his person, to execute his plan and join his confederates at
Hernani. Unfortunately, the major-domo of Montigny was in love. Upon
the eve of departure from Spain, his farewell interview with his mistress
was so much protracted that the care of sending the bread was left to
another. The substitute managed so unskilfully that the loaf was brought
to the commandant of the castle, and not to the prisoner. The commandant
broke the bread, discovered the letter, and became master of the whole
plot. All persons engaged in the enterprise were immediately condemned
to death, and the Spanish soldier executed without delay. The others
being considered, on account of their loyalty to their master as
deserving a commutation of punishment, were sent to the galleys. The
major-domo, whose ill-timed gallantry had thus cost Montigny his liberty,
received two hundred lashes in addition. All, however, were eventually
released from imprisonment.