help at once--Your pretty chain pleased him much--he said 'that boy has
a clean cut, he would be good at carving'--There is to be a carved
portal to our new summer-house, and father will pay well for the job."
"God is good!" cried Hans in sudden delight--"Oh! mynheer, that would be
too much joy--I have never tried big work--but I can do it--I know I
can."
"Well, tell my father you are the Hans Brinker of whom I spoke. He will
be glad to serve you."
Hans stared in honest surprise.
"Thank you, mynheer."
"Now, captain," shouted Carl, anxious to appear as good-humored as
possible, by way of atonement, "here we are in the midst of Haarlem, and
no word from you yet--we await your orders, and we're as hungry as
wolves."
Peter made a cheerful answer, and turned hurriedly to Hans.
"Come get something to eat, and I will detain you no longer."
What a quick, wistful look Hans threw upon him! Peter wondered that he
had not noticed before that the poor boy was hungry.
"Ah, mynheer, even now the mother may need me, the father may be
worse--I must not wait--May God care for you"--and, nodding hastily,
Hans turned his face homeward and was gone.
"Come, boys," sighed Peter, "now for our tiffin!"
XV
HOMES
It must not be supposed that our young Dutchmen had already forgotten
the great skating-race which was to take place on the Twentieth. On the
contrary, they had thought and spoken of it very often during the day.
Even Ben, though he had felt more like a traveler than the rest, had
never once, through all the sightseeing, lost a certain vision of silver
skates which, for a week past, had haunted him night and day.
Like a true "John Bull," as Jacob had called him, he never doubted that
his English fleetness, English strength, English everything, could at
any time enable him, on the ice, to put all Holland to shame, and the
rest of the world, too, for that matter. Ben certainly was a superb
skater. He had enjoyed not half the opportunities for practicing that
had fallen to his new comrades; but he had improved his share to the
utmost; and was, besides, so strong of frame, so supple of limb--in
short such a tight, trim, quick, graceful fellow in every way, that he
had taken to skating as naturally as a chamois to leaping, or an eagle
to soaring.
Only to the heavy heart of poor Hans had the vision of the Silver Skates
failed to appear during that starry winter night and the brighter sunlit
day.
Even Gretel had seen them flitting before her as she sat beside her
mother through those hours of weary watching--not as prizes to be won,
but as treasures passing hopelessly beyond her reach.
Rychie, Hilda and Katrinka--why they had scarcely known any other
thought than "the race! the race! It will come off on the Twentieth!"
These three girls were friends. Though of nearly the same age, talent
and station, they were as different as girls could be.
Hilda van Gleck you already know, a warm-hearted, noble girl of
fourteen. Rychie Korbes was beautiful to look upon, far more sparkling
and pretty than Hilda, but not half so bright and sunny within. Clouds
of pride, of discontent and envy had already gathered in her heart, and
were growing bigger and darker every day. Of course these often relieved
themselves very much after the manner of other clouds--But who saw the
storms and the weeping? Only her maid, or her father, mother and little
brother--those who loved her better than all. Like other clouds, too,
hers often took queer shapes, and what was really but mist and vapory
fancy, assumed the appearance of monster wrongs, and mountains of
difficulty. To her mind, the poor peasant-girl Gretel was not a human
being, a God-created creature like herself--she was only something that
meant poverty, rags and dirt. Such as Gretel had no right to feel, to
hope; above all, they should never cross the paths of their
betters--that is, not in a disagreeable way. They could toil and labor
for them at a respectful distance, even admire them, if they would do it
humbly, but nothing more. If they rebel, put them down--If they suffer,
don't trouble me about it, was Rychie's secret motto. And yet how witty
she was, how tastefully she dressed, how charmingly she sang; how much
feeling she displayed (for pet kittens and rabbits), and how completely
she could bewitch sensible, honest-minded lads like Lambert van Mounen
and Ludwig van Holp!
Carl was too much like her, within, to be an earnest admirer, and
perhaps he suspected the clouds. He, being deep and surly, and always
uncomfortably in earnest, of course preferred the lively Katrinka, whose
nature was made of a hundred tinkling bells. She was a coquette in her
infancy, a coquette in her childhood, and now a coquette in her
school-days. Without a thought of harm, she coquetted with her studies,
her duties, even her little troubles. They shouldn't know when they
bothered her, not they. She coquetted with her mother, her pet lamb, her
baby brother, even with her own golden curls--tossing them back as if
she despised them. Every one liked her, but who could love her? She was
never in earnest. A pleasant face, a pleasant heart, a pleasant
manner--these only satisfy for an hour. Poor, happy Katrinka! such as
she, tinkle, tinkle so merrily through their early days; but Life is so
apt to coquette with them in turn, to put all their sweet bells out of
tune, or to silence them one by one!
How different were the homes of these three girls from the tumbling old
cottage where Gretel dwelt. Rychie lived in a beautiful house near
Amsterdam, where the carved sideboards were laden with services of
silver and gold, and where silken tapestries hung in folds from ceiling
to floor.
Hilda's father owned the largest mansion in Broek. Its glittering roof
of polished tiles, and its boarded front, painted in half a dozen
various colors, were the admiration of the neighborhood.
Katrinka's home, not a mile distant, was the finest of Dutch
country-seats. The garden was so stiffly laid out in little paths and
patches that the birds might have mistaken it for a great Chinese puzzle
with all the pieces spread out ready for use. But in summer it was
beautiful; the flowers made the best of their stiff quarters, and, when
the gardener was not watching, glowed and bent and twined about each
other in the prettiest way imaginable. Such a tulip bed! Why, the Queen
of the Fairies would never care for a grander city in which to hold her
court! but Katrinka preferred the bed of pink and white hyacinths. She
loved their freshness and fragrance, and the light-hearted way in which
their bell-shaped blossoms swung in the breeze.
Carl was both right and wrong when he said that Katrinka and Rychie were
furious at the very idea of the peasant Gretel joining in the race. He
had heard Rychie declare it was "disgraceful, shameful, TOO BAD!" which
in Dutch, as in English, is generally the strongest expression an
indignant girl can use; and he had seen Katrinka nod her pretty head,
and heard her sweetly echo "shameful, too bad!" as nearly like Rychie as
tinkling bells can be like the voice of real anger. That had satisfied
him. He never suspected that had Hilda, not Rychie, first talked with
Katrinka upon the subject, the bells would have jingled as willing an
echo. She would have said, "Certainly, let her join us," and would have
skipped off thinking no more about it. But now Katrinka with sweet
emphasis pronounced it a shame that a goose-girl, a forlorn little
creature like Gretel should be allowed to spoil the race.
Rychie being rich and powerful (in a schoolgirl way) had other
followers, besides Katrinka, who were induced to share her opinions
because they were either too careless or too cowardly to think for
themselves.
Poor little Gretel! Her home was sad and dark enough now. Raff Brinker
lay moaning upon his rough bed, and his vrouw, forgetting and forgiving
everything, bathed his forehead, his lips, weeping and praying that he
might not die. Hans, as we know, had started in desperation for Leyden
to search for Dr. Boekman, and induce him, if possible, to come to their
father at once. Gretel, filled with a strange dread, had done the work
as well as she could, wiped the rough brick floor, brought peat to build
up the slow fire, and melted ice for her mother's use. This
accomplished, she seated herself upon a low stool near the bed, and
begged her mother to try and sleep a while.
"You are so tired," she whispered, "not once have you closed your eyes
since that dreadful hour last night. See, I have straightened the willow
bed in the corner, and spread everything soft upon it I could find, so
that the mother might lie in comfort. Here is your jacket. Take off that
pretty dress, I'll fold it away very careful, and put it in the big
chest before you go to sleep."
Dame Brinker shook her head without turning her eyes from her husband's
face.
"I can watch, mother," urged Gretel, "and I'll wake you every time the
father stirs. You are so pale, and your eyes are so red--oh, mother,
_do_!"
The child pleaded in vain. Dame Brinker would not leave her post.
Gretel looked at her in troubled silence, wondering whether it were very
wicked to care more for one parent than for the other--and sure, yes,
quite sure, that she dreaded her father, while she clung to her mother
with a love that was almost idolatry.
"Hans loves the father so well," she thought, "why cannot I? Yet I could
not help crying when I saw his hand bleed that day, last month, when he
snatched the knife--and now, when he moans, how I ache, ache all over.
Perhaps I love him, after all, and God will see I am not such a bad,
wicked girl as I thought. Yes, I love the poor father--almost as Hans
does--not quite, for Hans is stronger and does not fear him. Oh, will
that moaning go on forever and ever! Poor mother, how patient she is;
_she_ never pouts, as I do, about the money that went away so strange.
If he only could, just for one instant, open his eyes and look at us, as
Hans does, and tell us where mother's guilders went, I would not care
for the rest--yes, I would care--I don't want the poor father to die, to
be all blue and cold like Annie Bouman's little sister--I _know_ I
don't--dear God, I don't want father to die."
Her thoughts merged into a prayer. When it ended, the poor child
scarcely knew. Soon she found herself watching a little pulse of light
at the side of the fire, beating faintly but steadily, showing that
somewhere in the dark pile there was warmth and light that would
overspread it at last. A large earthen cup filled with burning peat
stood near the bedside; Gretel had placed it there to "stop the father's
shivering" she said. She watched it as it sent a glow around the
mother's form, tipping her faded skirt with light, and shedding a sort
of newness over the threadbare bodice. It was a relief to Gretel to see
the lines in that weary face soften as the firelight flickered gently
across it.
Next she counted the window-panes, broken and patched as they were; and
finally, after tracing every crack and seam in the walls, fixed her gaze
upon a carved shelf made by Hans. The shelf hung as high as Gretel
could reach. It held a large leather-covered Bible, with brass clasps, a
wedding present to Dame Brinker from the family at Heidelberg.
"Ah, how handy Hans is! If he were here he could turn the father some
way so the moans would stop--dear! dear! if this sickness lasts, we
shall never skate any more. I must send my new skates back to the
beautiful lady. Hans and I will not see the race," and Gretel's eyes,
that had been dry before, grew full of tears.
"Never cry, child," said her mother soothingly. "This sickness may not
be as bad as we think. The father has lain this way before."
Gretel sobbed now.
"Oh, mother, it is not that alone--you do not know all--I am very, very
bad and wicked!"
"_You_, Gretel! you so patient and good!" and a bright, puzzled look
beamed for an instant upon the child. "Hush, lovey, you'll wake him."
Gretel hid her face in her mother's lap, and tried not to cry.
Her little hand, so thin and brown, lay in the coarse palm of her
mother, creased with many a hard day's work. Rychie would have shuddered
to touch either, yet they pressed warmly upon each other. Soon Gretel
looked up with that dull, homely look which, they say, poor children in
shanties are apt to have, and said in a trembling voice:
"The father tried to burn you--he did--I saw him, and he was
_laughing_!"
"Hush, child!"
The mother's words came so suddenly and sharply, that Raff Brinker,
dead as he was to all that was passing round him, twitched slightly upon
the bed.
Gretel said no more, but plucked drearily at the jagged edge of a hole
in her mother's holiday gown. It had been burned there--well for Dame
Brinker that the gown was woolen.
XVI
HAARLEM.--THE BOYS HEAR VOICES
Refreshed and rested, our boys came forth from the coffee-house just as
the big clock in the Square, after the manner of certain Holland
timekeepers, was striking TWO with its half-hour bell, for half-past
TWO.
The captain was absorbed in thought, at first, for Hans Brinker's sad
story still echoed in his ears. Not until Ludwig rebuked him with a
laughing "Wake up, Grandfather!" did he reassume his position as gallant
boy-leader of his band.
"Ahem! this way, young gentlemen!"
They were walking through the streets of the city, not on a curbed
_sidewalk_, for such a thing is rarely to be found in Holland, but on
the brick pavement that lay on the borders of the cobblestone
carriage-way without breaking its level expanse.
Haarlem, like Amsterdam, was gayer than usual, in honor of St. Nicholas.
A strange figure was approaching them. It was a small man dressed in
black, with a short cloak; he wore a wig and a cocked hat from which a
long crape streamer was flying.
"Who comes here?" cried Ben; "what a queer-looking object."
"That's the aanspreeker," said Lambert; "some one is dead."
"Is that the way men dress in mourning in this country?"
"Oh no. The aanspreeker attends funerals, and it is his business, when
any one dies, to notify all the friends and relatives."
"What a strange custom."
"Well," said Lambert "we needn't feel very badly about this particular
death, for I see another man has lately been born to the world to fill
up the vacant place."
Ben stared. "How do you know that?"
"Don't you see that pretty red pincushion hanging on yonder door?" asked
Lambert in return.
"Yes."
"Well, that's a boy."
"A boy! what do you mean?"
"I mean that here in Haarlem whenever a boy is born, the parents have a
red pincushion put out at the door. If our young friend had been a girl
instead of a boy the cushion would have been white. In some places they
have much more fanciful affairs, all trimmed with lace, and even among
the very poorest houses you will see a bit of ribbon or even a string
tied on the door-latch----"
"Look!" almost screamed Ben, "there _is_ a white cushion, at the door of
that double-jointed house with the funny roof."
"I don't see any house with a funny roof."
"Oh, of course not," said Ben. "I forget you're a native; but all the
roofs are queer to me, for that matter. I mean the house next to that
green building."
"True enough--there's a girl! I tell you what, captain," called out
Lambert, slipping easily into Dutch, "we must get out of this street as
soon as possible. It's full of babies! They'll set up a squall in a
moment."
The captain laughed. "I shall take you to hear better music than that,"
he said; "we are just in time to hear the organ of St. Bavon. The church
is open to-day."
"What, the great Haarlem organ?" asked Ben. "That will be a treat
indeed. I have often read of it, with its tremendous pipes, and its _vox
humana_[21] that sounds like a giant singing."
[Footnote 21: An organ stop which produces an effect resembling the
human voice.]
"The same," answered Lambert van Mounen.
Peter was right. The church was open, though not for religious services.
Some one was playing upon the organ. As the boys entered, a swell of
sound rushed forth to meet them. It seemed to bear them, one by one,
into the shadows of the building.
Louder and louder it grew until it became like the din and roar of some
mighty tempest, or like the ocean surging upon the shore. In the midst
of the tumult a tinkling bell was heard; another answered, then another,
and the storm paused as if to listen. The bells grew bolder; they rang
out loud and clear. Other deep toned bells joined in; they were tolling
in solemn concert--ding, dong! ding, dong! The storm broke forth again
with redoubled fury--gathering its distant thunder. The boys looked at
each other, but did not speak. It was growing serious. What was that?
_Who_ screamed? _What_ screamed--that terrible, musical scream? Was it
man or demon? Or was it some monster shut up behind that carved brass
frame--behind those great silver columns--some despairing monster
begging, screaming for freedom? It was the Vox Humana!
At last an answer came,--soft, tender, loving, like a mother's song. The
storm grew silent; hidden birds sprang forth filling the air with glad,
ecstatic music, rising higher and higher until the last faint note was
lost in the distance.
The Vox Humana was stilled; but in the glorious hymn of thanksgiving
that now arose, one could almost hear the throbbing of a human heart.
What did it mean? That man's imploring cry should in time be met with a
deep content? That gratitude would give us freedom? To Peter and Ben it
seemed that the angels were singing. Their eyes grew dim, and their
souls dizzy with a strange joy. At last, as if borne upward by invisible
hands, they were floating away on the music, all fatigue forgotten, and
with no wish but to hear forever those beautiful sounds--when suddenly
Van Holp's sleeve was pulled impatiently and a gruff voice beside him
asked:
"How long are you going to stay here, captain--blinking at the ceiling
like a sick rabbit? It's high time we started."
"Hush!" whispered Peter, only half aroused.
"Come, man! Let's go," said Carl, giving the sleeve a second pull.
Peter turned reluctantly; he would not detain the boys against their
will. All but Ben were casting rather reproachful glances upon him.
"Well, boys," he whispered, "we will go. Softly now."
"That's the greatest thing I've seen or heard since I've been in
Holland!" cried Ben, enthusiastically, as soon as they reached the open
air. "It's glorious!"
Ludwig and Carl laughed slyly at the English boy's _wartaal_, or
gibberish; Jacob yawned; Peter gave Ben a look that made him instantly
feel that he and Peter were not so very different after all, though one
hailed from Holland and the other from England; and Lambert, the
interpreter, responded with a brisk--
"You may well say so. I believe there are one or two organs nowadays
that are said to be as fine; but for years and years this organ of St.
Bavon was the grandest in the world."
"Do you know how large it is?" asked Ben. "I noticed that the church
itself was prodigiously high and that the organ filled the end of the
great aisle almost from floor to roof."
"That's true," said Lambert, "and how superb the pipes looked--just like
grand columns of silver. They're only for show, you know; the _real_
pipes are behind them, some big enough for a man to crawl through, and
some smaller than a baby's whistle. Well, sir, for size, the church is
higher than Westminster Abbey, to begin with, and, as you say, the organ
makes a tremendous show even then. Father told me last night that it is
one hundred and eight feet high, fifty feet broad, and has over five
thousand pipes; it has sixty-four _stops_, if you know what they are,
_I_ don't, and three keyboards."
"Good for you!" said Ben. "You have a fine memory. _My_ head is a
perfect colander for figures; they slip through as fast as they're
poured in. But other facts and historical events stay behind--that's
some consolation."
"There we differ," returned Van Mounen. "I'm great on names and figures,
but history, take it altogether, seems to me to be the most hopeless
kind of a jumble."
Meantime Carl and Ludwig were having a discussion concerning some square
wooden monuments they had observed in the interior of the church; Ludwig
declared that each bore the name of the person buried beneath, and Carl
insisted that they had no names, but only the heraldic arms of the
deceased painted on a black ground, with the date of the death in gilt
letters.
"I ought to know," said Carl, "for I walked across to the east side, to
look for the cannon-ball which mother told me was embedded there. It was
fired into the church, in the year fifteen hundred and something, by
those rascally Spaniards, while the services were going on. There it was
in the wall, sure enough, and while I was walking back, I noticed the
monuments--I tell you they haven't a sign of a name upon them."
"Ask Peter," said Ludwig, only half convinced.
"Carl is right," replied Peter, who though conversing with Jacob, had
overheard their dispute. "Well, Jacob, as I was saying, Handel the great
composer chanced to visit Haarlem and of course he at once hunted up
this famous organ. He gained admittance, and was playing upon it with
all his might, when the regular organist chanced to enter the building.
The man stood awe-struck; he was a good player himself, but he had never
heard such music before. 'Who is there?' he cried. 'If it is not an
angel or the devil, it must be Handel!' When he discovered that it _was_
the great musician, he was still more mystified! 'But how is this?' said
he; 'you have done impossible things--no ten fingers on earth can play
the passages you have given; human hands couldn't control all the keys
and stops!' 'I know it,' said Handel, coolly, 'and for that reason, I
was forced to strike some notes with the end of my nose.' Donder! just
think how the old organist must have stared!"
"Hey! What?" exclaimed Jacob, startled when Peter's animated voice
suddenly became silent.
"Haven't you heard me, you rascal?" was the indignant rejoinder.
"Oh, yes--no--the fact is--I heard you at first--I'm awake now, but I do
believe I've been walking beside you half asleep," stammered Jacob, with
such a doleful, bewildered look on his face, that Peter could not help
laughing.
XVII
THE MAN WITH FOUR HEADS
After leaving the church, the boys stopped near by in the open
market-place, to look at the bronze statue of Laurens Janzoon Coster,
who is believed by the Dutch to have been the inventor of printing. This
is disputed by those who award the same honor to Johannes Gutenberg of
Mayence; while many maintain that Faustus, a servant of Coster, stole
his master's wooden types on a Christmas eve, when the latter was at
church, and fled with his booty, and his secret, to Mayence. Coster was
a native of Haarlem, and the Hollanders are naturally anxious to secure
the credit of the invention for their illustrious townsman. Certain it
is, that the first book he printed, is kept, by the city, in a silver
case wrapped in silk, and is shown with great caution as a most precious
relic. It is said, he first conceived the idea of printing from cutting
his name upon the bark of a tree, and afterward pressing a piece of
paper upon the characters.
Of course Lambert and his English friend fully discussed this subject.
They also had rather a warm argument concerning another invention.
Lambert declared that the honor of giving both the telescope and
microscope to the world lay between Metius and Jansen, both Hollanders;
while Ben as stoutly insisted that Roger Bacon, an English monk of the
thirteenth century, "wrote out the whole thing, sir, perfect
descriptions of microscopes and telescopes, too, long before either of
those other fellows were born."
On one subject, however, they both agreed: that the art of curing and
pickling herrings was discovered by William Beukles of Holland, and that
the country did perfectly right in honoring him as a national
benefactor, for its wealth and importance had been in a great measure
due to its herring trade.
"It is astonishing," said Ben, "in what prodigious quantities those fish
are found. I don't know how it is here, but on the coast of England, off
Yarmouth, the herring shoals have been known to be six and seven feet
deep with fish."