by Pat Shipman
But prolonged treatment was seen as an essential prerequisite to such a happy marriage.
Another of the foremost medical texts on syphilis in the latter half of the nineteenth century was Paul Diday’s Treatise on Syphilis in New-Born Children and Infants at the Breast. Diday pronounced unflinchingly, “An individual actually affected with primary or constitutional syphilis, and who has not undergone any general treatment, ought to be declared unfit for marriage.”
He offered the following rules of thumb for advising patients who wished to marry. Those who had had only simple chancres and who had experienced no recurrence for eight months were marriageable. Those who had had indurated chancres and been treated with mercury for three or four months were also marriageable if there had been no recurrence of general symptoms and if he waited to marry until six to eight months after the induration. For those with “constitutional symptoms, however slight and however treated,” marriage was unsafe unless the patient underwent a new course of mercury treatment (if the first had been incomplete), unless at least two years passed without any new symptoms, or unless he modified his constitution, through various exertions and sanitary changes.
The all-important treatment that rendered a man fit for marriage involved compounds of mercury, which were not only ineffectual but poisonous if administered in too-large doses. Mercury compounds did not cure syphilis, though they were believed to do so because syphilis so often goes into long latent stages where there are no overt symptoms.
Was Rudolf such a cad that he would marry while he knew he was still infected with syphilis? It is most unlikely. But more than a year had elapsed since the beginning of his medical leave in January 1894 and the appearance of the matrimonial ad in March 1895. There was plenty of time for him to have been treated with mercury compounds for three or four months, as prescribed, and then passed more than the suggested eight months without symptoms. He would be entirely entitled to believe he was cured and “fit to marry”—if only the newspaper ad produced some pretty and willing young women.
Rudolf received fifteen or sixteen letters during the two weeks following the appearance of the matrimonial ad in The News of the Day. Most were forwarded from the newspaper office by de Balbian Verster, but the last two came directly to Rudolf, as his friend was out of town. One of these two was from a lovely young girl who had the wit to include a photograph of herself: Margaretha Zelle. Something about that particular letter struck Rudolf, perhaps the photograph and the elegant copperplate handwriting that bespoke the girl’s expensive education. He wrote back, saying he wanted to meet her. It is unclear whether he answered any of the other letters he received.
The correspondence with Margaretha continued, and his fascination with this young girl grew. He called her Griet or Greta, contractions of Margaretha, and she called him Johnie, a family nickname. He confided to de Balbian Verster at some point that “now he had an affair that was enormous,” indulging in hyperbole as was typical of him.
Rudolf’s poor health prevented his meeting with Griet on several occasions; he was still plagued with fevers and “rheumatism” and was under a doctor’s care for his ailments. After a few letters, Griet boldly offered to come to meet him, writing “I know well it is not ‘comme il faut’ [proper social behavior] but we find ourselves in a special case, no?” She boldly signed herself “your future little wife” in her letters. The two arranged to meet at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam on March 24, 1895.
Their attraction was sexual, mutual, and very strong. In his fine soldier’s uniform, with his erect posture, square shoulders, and splendid moustache, Rudolf was a handsome man. From the time of her childhood, Griet had always found strongly built men very attractive, and she favored officers. As she said much later in her life,
Those who are not officers…do not interest me. An officer is another being, a sort of artist, living outdoors with sparkles on his arms in a seductive uniform. Yes, I have had many lovers, but it is the beautiful soldiers, brave, always ready for battle and, while waiting, always sweet and gallant. For me, the officer forms a race apart. I have never loved any but officers.
Griet was striking rather than pretty, with flirtatious dark eyes, an exotic “dark” complexion (by Dutch standards), and luxuriant black or very dark brown hair. She was tall and elegant, with magnificently regal posture. She had an extraordinary personal charm.
After that first meeting, their future was sealed. She signed her next letter to Rudolf, “your future little wife who loves you already.” The cliché of a whirlwind romance is exemplified by the truth in this case: they became formally engaged a mere six days after first meeting. In the Netherlands in the nineteenth century, a formal engagement legally bound the affianced to each other. Had Rudolf backed out of the marriage thereafter, he would have been liable for a breach-of-promise suit.
There was no chance of such a suit. Rudolf was thoroughly, crazily in love, and so was Griet. Soon after their engagement was announced, Griet began to address her letters “My dearest Johnie” and filled them with pet names such as “my sweet angel” and “my treasure.” Her signature shifted, becoming “your loving little wife,” which, with the daring content of some letters, suggests that the couple were physically intimate. Though few of Rudolf’s letters are preserved, Griet’s show clearly that she was answering his inquiries and suggestions. In a letter in late March she wrote in a romantic passion,
You ask me if I am longing to do crazy things? Well, Johnie, rather ten times than only one. Go on, you know, in several weeks I will be your wife. What luck that we both have the same ardent temperament. No, I do not believe either that all these pleasures can ever end. Yes, my dear, I wish very much to wear everything that you find beautiful. The rose silk suits me very well, because I am so brown[-skinned] and have dark hair. Surely, I find these nightgowns beautiful.
Pardon my ignorance, but tell me, should such a chemise end above or below the knee? I will make sure that they are very low cut…! And the underdrawers, should they be the same style as my white ones?…
Ah! How we will play!…Be amorous, my treasure, for I will be also, and be strong when I come [to you].
A few days later, she wrote to him saying she was uneasy about their rapid decision to marry. Was it wise? He replied on March 30, dated “the day of our engagement”: “I thank you for your very sweet letter but I’m sorry you have any doubts. Let these go and trust in me completely, trust in me like a rock, and I promise you on my word of honor as a Dutch Indies officer that I will love you and protect you without reservations, my darling.”
She wrote a few days later: “Do not believe that I am indisposed, I go exactly by the date [I am very regular in my menstrual periods] and naturally it is past by several days. You know you can ask me whatever you wish…. I dare to hope that once married, I will respond to your beautiful expectations in my chemise of rose silk.”
She dreamed in writing that they would make a beautiful, magnificent couple, that she would be exquisite in her lovely wedding gown.
The correspondence was so suggestive and so intimate that Griet was harshly scolded by her aunt Mrs. Visser, who found some of MacLeod’s letters. Griet responded furiously. Was her aunt trying to ruin her best chance at happiness by coming between her and her fiancé? Griet countercharged that the Vissers were stingy tightwads who had never wanted her in the first place. She had then and for the rest of her life a horror of frugality that doubtless arose after her father’s bankruptcy.
As the wedding approached, several problems arose. Rudolf was still very ill intermittently. In one of her letters, Griet wrote:
Oh darling, I feel such pity for you, and I am so terribly sorry that our plan once again has gone wrong. All accidents happen at once, don’t they? Well, John, don’t feel too bad about it, tootie. When I come to see you on Sunday I hope the pain will be gone.
Did you suffer much, and couldn’t you write me yourself?—I guess not, for otherwise you would have done so. Do you think yo
u’ll be able to walk again on Sunday? I do hope so, darling, but try not to overdo it….
Louise wrote me: “I hope for both of you that in a few weeks at the city hall everything will be floating in sunshine.” Well, I hope so too, and you, John? What do you think? You’d better be brave and gay, for that brings the best results. Your little wife always does that, and if I had not, my gaiety would have worn off a long time ago. Do you expect me Sunday?
When you are able to, will you write me and let me know how you are feeling? Just give me a wonderful kiss, and just imagine that I am with you, that’s what I do too.
Well, Johnie, adieu with a delicious kiss from your so very loving wife—Greta.
The letter is full of the sort of romantic babbling that appeals mostly to young lovers themselves, but two points are evident. First, Griet was blithely sympathetic to his ailments but had no doubt his physical problems would be short-lived. She did not think she was marrying an invalid who would infect her. The nursemaid role was not one for which she had any talent or taste. Second, she had little forewarning of the interference in their lives that would be forthcoming from Rudolf’s sister, Louise. Before the wedding, their married future looked bright and promising and Louise was apparently in favor of the marriage. Once they were married, Louise’s attitude was conspicuously different.
Another difficulty to be overcome was that Griet had to be approved by Rudolf’s superiors. In the MacLeod family, this meant taking the girl to meet the family patriarch, Rudolf’s uncle the retired general Norman MacLeod. Uncle Norman was apparently a shrewd judge of character and wielded considerable power within the family. His assessment was, “Young but good-looking, damn good-looking.” Griet was certainly young and immature; she was also clearly very attractive, and Norman MacLeod seemed to feel those qualities were sufficient.
By military regulation, Rudolf also had to obtain permission from his superior officer to marry. Because he was home on leave, that meant applying to the Ministry of Colonial Affairs in The Hague, who would charge someone with determining the suitability of the girl. Surprisingly, Rudolf’s military records contain no evidence that he ever applied for permission to marry, nor was there much time for such an application between his meeting of Griet on March 24 and their engagement, announced on March 30. No previous biographer has noticed this point or considered its implications.
The cost of not asking permission was serious. Aside from the military’s condemnation of those who did not follow the rules, there were financial consequences to an unapproved marriage. If indeed he did marry Griet without such approval, he was then personally liable for her fare to and from the Indies, instead of its being paid by the army. Further, he would not receive the higher salary and larger quarters to which a married officer was entitled. It was downright foolhardy of Rudolf to marry without obtaining permission unless, among the network of officers, the approval of his uncle the general would suffice. But marry they did, come what might.
Griet was not the only one who had to be approved. Although she had told Rudolf she was an orphan—a romantic lie—her father was still living. And because she was under the age of consent, Adam Zelle’s permission had to be obtained for her to marry Rudolf. How exactly she broached the subject is unknown, but the third Mrs. MacLeod recounted a family story about the occasion to one Mata Hari biographer, Sam Waagenaar. She said that Griet finally blurted out that she had a father, and Rudolf replied, in jest, “That happens in the best of families.”
“But,” Griet replied, “he is alive!” Her lie became apparent.
Zelle was living with his second wife at 148 Lange Leidsew-arsstraat in Amsterdam, a poor neighborhood. At first Griet offered to meet with Zelle alone, probably to spare Rudolf the embarrassment of being judged by a man far his social inferior—or to spare herself the embarrassment of having her fiancé meet her ne’er-do-well father. But Zelle, of course, insisted on meeting his daughter’s intended and felt that having such an important officer call upon him was an opportunity to improve his social standing with his neighbors. However, Griet refused to call on her father at home, where he lived with the woman who had replaced her mother and who had taken in Griet’s brothers but not Griet herself. Clearly Griet and her stepmother were not fond of each other. Griet offered to meet Zelle at the station, promising Rudolf that she would keep her temper and quickly “dispose” of her father—“that is what I continue to call him,” she said, despite his neglect of her—before joining Rudolf elsewhere. Again, Zelle insisted: they must both come to meet him, and in a grand, two-horse carriage.
“I will give my consent,” Zelle bargained, “but I wish to attend the wedding and I wish that someone brings me there in a carriage.” He had what he wanted.
Griet and Rudolf were married in a civil ceremony at the City Hall in Amsterdam on July 11, 1895. Rudolf wore his full-dress uniform, with gold braid, medals, and a tall shako helmet. Griet was resplendent in a glorious silk gown with a long train and floor-length veil. Instead of the traditional white, which might not have flattered Griet’s complexion, she selected a vibrant yellow silk for her gown. She had two bridesmaids. Two of Rudolf’s fellow officers were witnesses, and de Balbian Verster and the publisher H. J. W. Becht attended, along with Rudolf’s widowed sister, Louise. Though Louise was seemingly polite at the ceremony, that very morning she had pleaded with her brother, “Johnie—don’t do it.”
Rudolf did not listen. He was determined to marry this lovely young creature who fascinated and tantalized him, and did so. Zelle must have attended the ceremony, but when it came to the luncheon and reception at the American Hotel, he was absent. Griet and Rudolf had pulled a rather cruel trick, telling Zelle’s carriage driver to take him somewhere else so he would not embarrass them at the reception.
In March of 1895, Margaretha impulsively answered an ad for a Dutch army soldier seeking a wife. She and Rudolf MacLeod became engaged six days after meeting. They were wed on June 7, 1895, shortly before Margaretha’s nineteenth birthday. (The Mata Hari Foundation/Fries Museum)
Their honeymoon was spent in Wiesbaden, a popular spa town in Germany. As ever, Griet’s striking good looks and regal carriage drew the attention of a number of young men, to Rudolf’s displeasure. “Gentlemen,” he snapped at her admirers haughtily, “that lady is my wife.” An ugly jealousy was already brewing. Nonetheless, later Griet remembered her honeymoon as an idyllic time: “We went to Wiesbaden and we lived like people who can spend one hundred thousand guilders in one year…I love luxury. It was just the right thing for me; I was proud of him, and he of me, we could do what we wanted.”
They soon had to return to the Netherlands, and the only place they could afford to live was with Louise—now known to Griet as Tante (Aunt) Frida—at 79 Leidsekade, just down the street from the American Café. Finances quickly became an issue. Rudolf was on part pay during his sick leave and had accumulated substantial debts through heavy drinking and high living. He also had borrowed money in the Dutch East Indies, as many soldiers did, and was still paying back those loans. For her part, Griet knew nothing about housekeeping and was hardly inclined to frugality. Newly wed to a military officer from an old aristocratic family, she had no expectations of living carefully within limited means. The marriage began to deteriorate almost immediately.
Griet’s feelings during this period can be glimpsed in two sources: a book her father published in 1906, which was clearly aimed at casting all the blame for the failure of the marriage on Rudolf, and an interview she gave to journalist G. H. Priem shortly after the publication of her father’s book. In the former, the period of living with Tante Frida was described as unbearable, with no privacy for the newlyweds and a busybody, interfering sister-in-law who disapproved both of the marriage and of the young woman her brother had chosen to marry. In the interview with Priem, given years after the emotion of the situation had faded, Mata Hari (as she called herself by then) was more moderate in her criticisms of Tante Frida:
Have yo
u ever heard of a young married wife that got on very well with her mother-in-law? No, well? Now, in the same way I did not get on very well with Tante Frida. As an isolated event this means little; she was helpful, but—as she was dealing with a young wife who knew little of housekeeping—she was perhaps too censorious, something that I naturally did not like.
As for the deterioration of the marriage after the honeymoon, Mata Hari told Priem: “Well, [the marriage] did alter, from the moment that there was no more money…. I had not married to go without luxury and…I was flirtatious and he did not like that. He was jealous.”
Priem remarked that Rudolf’s jealousy was a kind of compliment, and Griet replied,
Certainly, but it was also difficult. He was so much older than I am…. He could have been almost my father. And then, a woman with my temperament…. I want to confess truly and openly, that seeing a handsome young man made my heart start to beat quicker. And that is very natural, that is something that one can’t help….
I was very temperamental. I had also artistic aspirations…. I [had] inclinations that made it impossible for a woman like me to be a good housewife…. I was not like that [content at home], I confess frankly; I wanted to live like a colorful butterfly in the sun, rather than in the calmness of the inside of my room.
As for their continual financial difficulties, with the distance of time Mata Hari admitted that she spent as recklessly as Rudolf.
Marriage did not reform Rudolf’s manners or his way of living. About two weeks after their return from their honeymoon, Rudolf was already seeing other women. One day he explained boldly to de Balbian Verster that he had a date with two women and asked if his friend would go keep Griet company that evening, as he would be home late. De Balbian Verster spent an evening with Griet, listening to her play the piano and sing, which she did well and charmingly. Griet, young and innocent as she was, did not yet suspect her husband. When Rudolf returned some hours later, he posed as the perfect husband, greeted his friend, gave Griet a loving kiss, and apologized for being detained. De Balbian Verster was disgusted with him.