By
Tip Toe Rosie
Dead Rebel Of The Week
~ Margaretha Zelle ~
As they woke her from an untroubled and peaceful sleep, they remarked at her loveliness. Upon sitting up they told her that, after days of uncertainty and waiting, her day had finally arrived. She sat on the bed and wrote two letters. Addressees unknown. Then she proceeded to her daily morning ritual. She bathed and oiled herself, perfumed herself behind her knees, at her breasts and, of course, throughout her hair - as one who is skilled in the art of love would know to do. She rolled the exquisite black silk stockings up her legs and slipped high heels onto her feet. She donned her dress, placed a hat upon her head and put black kid gloves on her manicured hands. Finally she announced to those waiting:
“I am ready.”
Indeed she was. Did she reflect on her childhood during that dawn drive through the Paris streets? What of her lovers? Her regrets? We may never know, but I would like to think she did.
Who was this beautiful, enticing and commanding woman?
Margaretha Zelle was born 1876 into a fairly affluent family in the Netherlands. When she was thirteen, her father claimed bankruptcy and left home. Two years later her mother died. Margaretha was sent to live elsewhere with distant family, where she began training for the very respectable position of school teacher. But, alas, she was later fired for getting down and dirty with the headmaster of the school.
And so begins our tale of one of my favorite hoochies.
After being dismissed from what I am sure would have amounted to a suicide inducing career teaching brats, she answered an ad in a newspaper:
“Wanted - wife of good qualities to help further army career.”
So she married him. She was 18. He was 40. After the couple being deployed to Java, of all inane places, she bore him two brats. Even though she was a bad girl at heart, our Margaretha tried to be a good girl and a good wife. Anyhow, the husband proved to be too old to have any fun with, and too young to kick the bucket anytime soon (thus leaving her with oodles of cash), so she did the smart thing and, GASP, divorced him. This in a time when most unhappily married women just sucked it up and grew old, dry and miserable. One of the popular rumors of that time was that the son of a bitch had taken a concubine while living in Java and, coincidentally, Margaretha’s two children were poisoned after Margaretha made a big stink about the situation. The boy died. They never proved who did it, but the smart money is on the live-in whore.
Around 1900 she moved to gay Paris and did what any sensible divorcee with a kid would do; she joined the circus. As “Lady MacLeod”, Margaretha did fancy tricks while riding a horse, and earned a little cash on the side by posing for artists. ‘Cause God knows, if Paris has anything it is an enormous amount of painters running around.
Our Margaretha soon grew bored with this and decided to mix it up a bit, becoming proficient in the art of a very erotic style of Oriental dancing; very much like belly dancing, with a little less shaking and a little more swaying, and some fancy nude moves. Along with the moves came the claim she was a "royal Indian princess" trained in this exotic art since birth. And because of her so-called pedigree and the sensuality of her dance, Margaretha is the one who successfully promoted exotic dancing in early 20th century Paris as something to be respected. Consequently, she then became a courtesan of sorts… with many, many men from many different countries seeking her attentions.
She lived her life the way she wanted and on her own terms, no matter the odds or adversities. Which is why I love this broad and think she kicks total ass.
Anyhow, rumors started to spread about some not so nice activities involving Margaretha, and, frankly, I’m not going to get into them because nothing was ever proven. I have yet to see anything to prove any allegations made towards her that satisfy me as to her guilt. Unless we discuss her “confession”. Which we won’t, because that smells like a crock of goat shit to me.
OK... So now we are back in the car, traveling the streets of Paris in the early morning light of October 15, 1917. Arriving at their destination, she stepped out of the car and into the place where a gathering of men were waiting for her. And she gazed upon them. Her execution squad.
She refused a blindfold, as well as being tied, and they acquiesced to her demands. She stared the men in their eyes.
The only words spoken were:
“I AM READY.”
It is said that the man who gave the signal to fire did so by slicing his sword in a downward arc through the air. Testimony from people who were there claim that at the moment he gave the signal for her death, the sun finally came out and the rays reflected off the sword to bathe her in a glow of light. It seems our Dutch born, self- proclaimed Indian Princess had chosen her final new name with a great deal of foresight. In Indonesian it means "Sun", or more accurately “Eye of the day.”
I leave you with one of her quotes from her ridiculous trial that she never took seriously:
“A harlot, yes. A traitor? Never.”
- Mata Hari, Paris, 1917
TTR
