THREE HUNDRED WINDMILLS
Two rooms high up in a modest little hotel just off the “Dam” were
considered satisfactory quarters for the three travellers who arrived
in Amsterdam late one evening in early June. “The rooms have the
advantage of facing the street and of being off to themselves,” said
Miss Cavendish, viewing them complacently, “and I am sure they are
very cheap, though I have always heard that in Holland one must expect
to pay high prices for everything. To be sure this doesn’t compare
with what one gets in Italy for the same money, but it is much better
than I expected. We get our breakfast at the hotel, our dinner in the
restaurant below and our luncheon wherever we happen to be.”
“I like that arrangement,” responded Gabriella; “it gives a pleasing
variety, and is quite different from any process of living that we have
indulged in.” She was perched upon the broad window-sill in their room,
looking down upon the street. Miss Cavendish was occupied in unpacking
her small trunk, and Sidney, in the next room, was absorbed in her
letters which she found awaiting her. “Do you know what I find rather
remarkable?” continued Gabriella, after watching the passers-by for
some minutes. “Here in Amsterdam the people remind me of Americans. In
Italy one expects to see the Latin type prevailing; in Germany one has
no difficulty in realizing that he is running up against the Teuton
race; in Switzerland there is no mistaking the fact that you are in a
foreign country, but if I were to fall asleep in New York and were to
wake up in Amsterdam I should never know that I had crossed the seas
unless I looked up at the houses, or happened to catch sight of a woman
with gilt bed-springs over her ears, or a gold plate under her cap. So
far as the actual physiognomy is concerned they might as well be my own
townsmen.”
“That is rather interesting.” Miss Cavendish looked up from a small
work-box she was emptying into her lap. “I can’t think what I did with
those buttons. I’ll come and join you, Gabriella, and pursue this study
of mankind, just as soon as I can find that big pearl button that
belongs to my grey shirt-waist. Where could I have put it?”
“It’s in that little box where you keep your cuff-pins,” Gabriella
told her. “I saw them there when I upset the box the other day. Hurry
up, Gem, this is a fine place for observing the world of Amsterdam.
To be sure we are rather high up in that world, and can only get a
bird’s-eye view, but it is entertaining to look down on the people,
and across at the long narrow houses with their gable ends toward
the street; then there are the domes and cupolas and clock towers to
see. Listen to those carillons. That’s the word, isn’t it? Aren’t
they fascinating? That is one thing that impresses me over here: the
wonderful chiming of the bells. Shall you ever forget how they sounded
in Florence? They seem to ring out history every hour. Yes, this isn’t
a bad location, though I am rather sorry we are not right on a canal;
still this is very convenient. Where to-morrow, Gem?”
“To the Museum, I think, unless you would rather explore some of
the little places near by; there are ever so many of them: Zaandam,
Monnikendam, Volendam, Broek, Marken.”
“Let’s take Amsterdam first and sandwich the other places between,
though I must say I am wild to see more of the windmills and dikes that
we caught sight of as we came along.”
“I think then it would be rather a good plan to take the cloudy days
for Amsterdam and the bright ones for the outside places, as this is
not sunny Italy, and we may expect rain at any time.”
“We certainly don’t want to visit Marken in the rain,” remarked Sidney,
coming in, “and yet we do want to see Amsterdam to the best advantage.”
“We’ll go to the Museum to-morrow, then, and trust to luck for the
next day,” Miss Cavendish decided.
“We must have a good, clear and large map,” she announced, as they
started forth the next morning. “The one in the guide book is rather
small, and Amsterdam is not so simply laid out as some of the other
cities. All these canals are bewildering.” The map was secured, and
they triumphantly started off to find their way on foot to the Rijks
Museum. It was a cool morning; a stiff breeze was blowing, reminding
them of their proximity to the sea; over the sky flying clouds were
scudding, though the sun was shining, and the city had that clean,
newly washed look that seaside cities are likely to present. At
the first corner Miss Cavendish opened her map in order to get her
bearings. The map was larger than she had supposed, being not smaller
than a newspaper’s double sheet, and it took the three to hold it down,
for the fresh breeze flapped it in their faces, and threatened to
carry it off bodily. As the three heads were bent studiously over the
labyrinthine lines designed to show streets and canals, the attention
of passers-by was arrested. Here were strangers in difficulty, and the
kindly spirit of two or three was disturbed. One of them approached.
“Did they speak Dutch?”
“No.” Each stranger shook her head.
Perhaps French. The speaker knew a little. Therefore in French they
made known their dilemma. The shortest way to the Rijks Museum
was what they wished to discover. The young man gave them careful
directions. They were to follow the street, upon which they were, to
a certain corner, then turn off till they came to the Park Hotel, and
they would then have no trouble in finding the Museum.
They thanked their informant and started off again valiantly, feeling
quite sure of their way, but they had gone only a short distance, the
length perhaps of two or three blocks, when Miss Cavendish looked
around with a puzzled expression. “I am afraid that we are off the
track,” she said hesitatingly. “We seem to be going around in a circle.
You know these streets and canals do follow a horse-shoe curve. I think
we’d better look at the map again before we go further.” Therefore the
map was again unfolded to the breeze and upon its flapping surface Miss
Cavendish tried to outline their road.
They were still engaged in a discussion over it, and were anxiously
looking up and down the street, when Sidney clutched Miss Cavendish.
“Here he comes,” she cried.
“Who? Who?” asked both the others.
“The young man who showed us the way. Put up the map. Let him think
we have stopped to tie our shoes or that we are interested in the
architecture of this building--anything.”
A tumultuous effort was made to fold up the map, but in the strong wind
it proved itself an obstreperous offender, and was only too plainly
in evidence when the young man stepped smilingly up to them. There was
no explanation to be made. Their flag of distress was obvious in the
flapping map. It was only too apparent that they had again lost their
way, and when the young Dutchman politely offered to pilot them they
meekly accepted his escort.
“But we shall be taking you out of your way, and using your valuable
time,” expostulated Miss Cavendish, as it became evident that he did
not mean to lose sight of them till they had reached the very doors of
the Museum.
“I am not too busy to do the honors of my city,” returned their guide.
“Some day I may be in your New York and then I shall be very glad if
one of your countrymen will show me the way.” And at the suggested
compensation they had nothing to say except to declare that if it might
fall to their lot, hereafter, to pilot any Dutchman through the mazes
of New York streets, they would do it gratefully. With a few parting
directions the young man left them at their destination, and they soon
became absorbed in the treasures displayed.
“I had no idea that I should like the old Dutch masters so well,”
said Gabriella, pausing before a fine Rembrandt. “I fancied an array
of burgomasters and juffrouws, painted in a very low key, would not
specially appeal to me, but they are wonderful. Look at those hands;
they are so carefully studied and yet they are painted broadly.”
“You may notice that all these Dutch painters were careful of their
drawing,” Miss Cavendish drew attention to the fact.
“I don’t care particularly for their subjects. This large gathering of
worthy members of guilds isn’t so very interesting. I prefer the miles
of saints in the Italian galleries.” Sidney signified the pictures with
a comprehensive wave of the hand.
“I must confess I like the Dutchmen,” Gabriella maintained, “and I like
Franz Hals particularly. Of course the ‘Night Watch’ is magnificent;
no one can dispute that, but somehow it seems to me that Franz Hals
combines the best qualities of the old school and the modern. There
is nothing photographic about his work, and yet it doesn’t look
like a crazy quilt, though it is broadly enough painted to suit an
impressionist. If I had belonged to the honorable guild of cap-makers,
or apron-wearers, I should have had Franz Hals paint my portrait when
I was young, and when I became a dear old mutterkin in a cap I should
have preferred Rembrandt; nobody ever painted old women as he did.”
The clouds which had overclouded the sky when they started forth in the
morning, now fulfilled their promise of rain, and a steady downpour had
set in; therefore they concluded to take luncheon in the restaurant
attached to the Museum and to continue their examination of the many
objects of interest at hand.
“This Museum is a nice, safe, dry place,” said Miss Cavendish, “and I
think we may as well browse around here the rest of the day. There is
some beautiful old furniture to see.”
“And that queer collection of Dutch national costumes on life-size
figures; we must be sure not to miss that,” suggested Sidney.
“It was a day well spent,” Miss Cavendish uttered the words as they
climbed the steep stairway to their rooms, “but oh, I am tired,” she
added, “and I am thankful we have no further to go than downstairs for
our dinner.”
“I wonder whether all the Dutchmen are as good-natured and polite as
our little guide,” said Gabriella, gazing out of the window at the wet
street. “He certainly did exhibit the kindliest interest in us. Imagine
finding anyone in our rushing America who would take the time to do
such a favor for a party of strangers. They are busy here, but they
are deliberate in the matter of business, and the respite from rush is
refreshing. I wonder if we shall have seven kinds of cheese for dinner,
Gem?”
“Did you like the breakfast?”
“Yes; it was a change from the usual Continental breakfast. The coffee
was the best I have tasted since I left home, and the butter was
delicious, but from such an array of cold meats and cheese it was hard
to choose, and I ended up by sampling so many kinds of cheese that I
was rather unhappy for an hour afterward. I suppose it was too fresh
for American digestion. I’ll abstain next time.”
“Amsterdam is rather fascinating, don’t you think?” questioned Sidney,
joining Gabriella at the window. “It must be the canals that make it
so, at least it is partly that. It is something like Venice in having
so many waterways, though it is really not a bit like it, for here the
streets provide a road on each side the canals and a waterway down
the middle, while in Venice we rarely had even a sidewalk; it was all
water.”
“That flower market that we saw this morning was beautiful,” observed
Gabriella; “all those bright flowers in the canal boats reflected in
the water, and the long shady street. It must be the trees, Sid, that
make the difference; there are so many here, and in Venice scarcely
any. For a summer day what pleasanter combination than cool looking
grey and white houses, and shaded streets with a canal down the middle.
Yes, I am quite in love with Amsterdam.”
The weather did not clear before noon the next day, and the
contemplated trip to Marken was deferred, but Zaandam was discovered
to be possible, and they complacently sallied forth, Sidney bearing
her camera, and Gabriella insisting upon conveying a huge loaf of
gingerbread. “You know Amsterdam is celebrated for its gingerbread,”
she remarked, as she issued from the bake-shop with her package. “They
wouldn’t cut this, and so I had to buy it all, but it was very cheap,
and after looking at those three hundred windmills this afternoon, we
shall probably need something fortifying. If we can’t eat it all to-day
we can save the rest for to-morrow. This sharp sea air gives me an
appetite.”
“So I have observed,” remarked Sidney.
Gabriella laughed and they started for the little steamer which was to
take them to their destination. Sidney found abundant opportunity for
using her camera as they proceeded upon their slow way. “Holland is so
nice and flat,” she observed, “and the air is so clear that I am sure
my Holland views will turn out well, whatever my Italian ones may do.”
“And we are not pestered to death with beggars here,” remarked Miss
Cavendish, as they stepped ashore. But here they were beset by cabmen,
who persistently followed them and used every persuasion to induce them
to take a drive to see the three hundred windmills. Finding that their
repeated refusals did no good, the ladies walked rapidly away, though
one individual, more pertinacious than the rest, did not cease his
importunity, but kept behind them at hailing distance.
“He actually is getting on my nerves,” said Gabriella at last. “If
he didn’t speak English we could shut our ears and pretend he was
talking about the weather. Let us cut through one of these little side
places and see if we can’t get rid of him.” So they made a sudden turn
and slipped out of sight to find themselves upon a picturesque street
intersected by little canals. Smiling Dutch children played before the
doors, cleanly housewives scoured and scrubbed their brass vessels in
the _schloats_.
“This is ideal,” said Sidney focusing her camera upon a specially
pleasing group. But she had not time to take a snap-shot before
Gabriella cried, “There he comes!” and she looked to see the form of
their tormentor bearing down upon them. Gabriella fairly took to her
heels, leaving the others to add another dignified refusal to those
already given.
They found Gabriella laughing behind the palings of a fence which
enclosed a small garden where she had taken refuge. “Did you get rid of
him?” she inquired, “or is the avenger still upon our track? I really
didn’t feel that I could face him again. Isn’t this an interesting
place? Such pretty gardens and such clean houses. Somewhere about
here is the cottage where Peter the Great lived when he was learning
ship-building; I caught sight of it as I came along. That nice,
rosy-cheeked, fat little boy, in the wooden shoes, will tell us where
it is. When we have seen it we will try to escape through another
street so we shall not have to pass the tormenter again. I know he is
lying in wait for us.”
Miss Cavendish laughed. “Gabriella has really a panic. I think it is
rather funny myself. I don’t in the least mind saying no whenever it is
necessary.”
“Ah, but you have had chances to say no so much oftener than I,”
complained Gabriella. The rosy-cheeked child who stood staring at them
could not withstand the smile which she gave him and, after accepting
a large piece of the gingerbread, he pointed the way to the cottage of
Peter the Great.
A circuitous route took them to the other end of the quiet clean town
where scrubbing and scouring were going on incessantly, outside the
small houses. Windmills flung around their arms in every direction; in
the lush green meadows beyond the town neat black and white cows were
quietly grazing; groups of blue-aproned, tow-headed children frolicked
unrestrained in the streets. Everyone appeared serenely content.
“It is just as placidly Dutch as I believed it would be,” began
Gabriella. “Now, if we can get back to the boat without being
importuned to take a drive--”
“Ladies, you will just have time for a ride around the town to see
the three hundred windmills before your boat goes,” said a voice at
her elbow. She gave a little surprised scream and dashed on, leaving
Miss Cavendish so full of laughter that she could scarcely rebuff the
persistent man who cheerfully travelled along within a few feet of her
to the very door of the waiting-room.
“If only he wouldn’t speak English,” groaned Gabriella, “and if he
wouldn’t have that way with him as if he fully meant to keep up his
arguments until we actually had to give in, I wouldn’t care. When he
startled me by that last appearance every hair on my head began to
rise. What did you say, Sidney?”
“I said that this is the wrong landing. We came down on that steamer
that is waiting on the other side. Evidently the first-class steamers
come in at one wharf and the second-class at the other.”
“Oh, then if this is second-class let us go from here. I don’t mind, do
you? Anything rather than cross that bridge again.”
“But our tickets aren’t for this line,” explained Miss Cavendish.
“Oh!” Gabriella meekly gave in and they essayed to return. But just as
they reached the end of the bridge there stood their man. He pointed
in triumph to the steamer now slowly leaving her dock. “You’ll not get
your steamer, ladies,” he said. “There will not be another leaving for
an hour, and you’ll just have time for a--” Gabriella stopped her ears
and ran on wildly, not stopping till she was safe at the pier.
“I really couldn’t hear him mention those three hundred windmills
again,” she declared. “We are safe now, for no one can come inside
the gates without a ticket and we shall have a lovely time taking
photographs and eating our gingerbread.” But the delectable food
disproved its appearance, for it was by no means as good as it looked.
“And I thought it was going to be delicious,” said Gabriella, looking
ruefully at the large supply she had bought. “We can’t eat it; I can’t
bear to throw it away, and I don’t believe there are any poor people in
Holland; I haven’t seen any who couldn’t make better gingerbread than
this. I wish I had tasted it at once and then I could have given it to
the goat we saw at the other end of the town. Nothing but a goat could
make way with this.”
“Leave it on the bench when we go,” suggested Sidney, “and then you
will not know what becomes of it.”
“That is a good idea,” returned Gabriella. But she was not permitted
to follow out her plan, for upon stepping upon the gangplank a workman
perceived the package, rushed back and politely handed it to her. She
gave him a weak “Thank you,” and cast upon her friends such a look as
made them laugh every time they recalled it. “Perhaps they don’t have
gingerbread at Marken,” Gabriella had a sudden inspiration. “I will
take it down there to-morrow and give it to some youngster.” Even this
privilege was denied her, for she forgot it in the hurry of getting
off, and the final disposition of the gingerbread was never settled,
for they left it upon the table when at last they took their departure
from their rooms.
“Marken was rather disappointing,” Miss Cavendish gave her opinion as
they set out upon their return from this far-famed island the next day.
“It is so evidently a show place nowadays. The people pose for effect,
and even the rapturous woman who threw her arms around us when we told
her we were Americans, was simply a good actress.”
“But the littlest of the boys and girls do still dress exactly alike,”
asserted Gabriella, who did not wish her illusions to vanish, “and they
do have a queer costume.”
“And their cottages are most interesting, I am sure,” Sidney agreed
with Gabriella. “And the little caps I bought are genuine. I did want
to get those so I could show them to grandfather. I shall have to label
them at once before I forget whether it is the round patch on the back
or the square one which is for the boys.”
“It is a desolate place, that island,” Miss Cavendish went on. “I
shouldn’t like to live there in winter.”
“But Monnikendam is dear,” said Sidney. “I simply love that sleepy old
place.”
“And Broek is exactly like Spotless Town,” continued Gabriella.
“We must go to Alkmaar on market day,” decided Miss Cavendish. “I fancy
there we shall see more costumes, and get an idea of the people more
satisfactorily than by taking these special excursions, which I am
sure the fisher folk prepare for. I suppose if we were to seek out the
unfrequented villages there would still be much in Holland which would
appeal to us.”
“I think we have been able to get an excellent idea of Holland in the
little while we have been here,” Sidney assured her.
“We might stay another day, perhaps, if you have seen enough of
_schloats_ and windmills and all that. We can take in The Hague on our
way to Antwerp.”
This was agreed upon and then, with a distinct recollection of the
quality of the gingerbread in a certain bake-shop and of the fact that
there were three hundred windmills in Zaandam, they sought their beds.