From 'Hans Brinker, or The Silver Skates,' Copyright 1896, by Charles
Scribner's Sons
The 20th of December came at last, bringing with it the perfection of
winter weather. All over the level landscape lay the warm sunlight. It
tried its power on lake, canal, and river; but the ice flashed
defiance, and showed no sign of melting. The very weathercocks stood
still to enjoy the sight. This gave the windmills a holiday. Nearly
all the past week they had been whirling briskly; now, being rather
out of breath, they rocked lazily in the clear still air. Catch a
windmill working when the weathercocks have nothing to do!
There was an end to grinding, crushing, and sawing for that day. It
was a good thing for the millers near Broek. Long before noon, they
concluded to take in their sails and go to the race. Everybody would
be there. Already the north side of the frozen Y was bordered with
eager spectators; the news of the great skating-match had traveled far
and wide. Men, women, and children, in holiday attire, were flocking
toward the spot. Some wore furs and wintry cloaks or shawls; but
many, consulting their feelings rather than the almanac, were dressed
as for an October day.
[Illustration: _THE SKATER OF THE ZUYDER ZEE._
Photogravure from a Painting by G. H. Boughton, A. R. A.]
The site selected for the race was a faultless plain of ice near
Amsterdam, on that great _arm_ of the Zuyder Zee, which Dutchmen of
course must call the Eye. The townspeople turned out in large numbers.
Strangers in the city deemed it a fine chance to see what was to be
seen. Many a peasant from the northward had wisely chosen the 20th as
the day for the next city-trading. It seemed that everybody, young and
old, who had wheels, skates, or feet at command, had hastened to the
scene.
There were the gentry in their coaches, dressed like Parisians fresh
from the Boulevards; Amsterdam children in charity uniforms; girls
from the Roman Catholic Orphan House, in sable gowns and white
head-bands; boys from the Burgher Asylum, with their black tights and
short-skirted harlequin coats. There were old-fashioned gentlemen in
cocked hats and velvet knee-breeches; old-fashioned ladies too, in
stiff quilted skirts and bodices of dazzling brocade. These were
accompanied by servants bearing foot-stoves and cloaks. There were the
peasant folk, arrayed in every possible Dutch costume,--shy young
rustics in brazen buckles; simple village maidens concealing their
flaxen hair under fillets of gold; women whose long narrow aprons were
stiff with embroidery; women with short corkscrew curls hanging over
their foreheads; women with shaved heads and close-fitting caps, and
women in striped skirts and windmill bonnets; men in leather, in
homespun, in velvet and broadcloth; burghers in modern European
attire, and burghers in short jackets, wide trousers, and
steeple-crowned hats.
There were beautiful Friesland girls in wooden shoes and coarse
petticoats, with solid gold crescents encircling their heads, finished
at each temple with a golden rosette, and hung with lace a century
old. Some wore necklaces, pendants, and earrings of the purest gold.
Many were content with gilt, or even with brass; but it is not an
uncommon thing for a Friesland woman to have all the family treasure
in her headgear. More than one rustic lass displayed the value of two
thousand guilders upon her head that day.
Scattered throughout the crowd were peasants from the Island of
Marken, with sabots, black stockings, and the widest of breeches; also
women from Marken, with short blue petticoats, and black jackets gayly
figured in front. They wore red sleeves, white aprons, and a cap like
a bishop's mitre over their golden hair.
The children often were as quaint and odd-looking as their elders. In
short, one-third of the crowd seemed to have stepped bodily from a
collection of Dutch paintings.
Everywhere could be seen tall women and stumpy men, lively-faced
girls, and youths whose expressions never changed from sunrise to
sunset.
There seemed to be at least one specimen from every known town in
Holland. There were Utrecht water-bearers, Gouda cheese-makers, Delft
pottery-men, Schiedam distillers, Amsterdam diamond-cutters, Rotterdam
merchants, dried-up herring-packers, and two sleepy-eyed shepherds
from Texel. Every man of them had his pipe and tobacco pouch. Some
carried what might be called the smoker's complete outfit,--a pipe,
tobacco, a pricker with which to clean the tube, a silver net for
protecting the bowl, and a box of the strongest of brimstone matches.
A true Dutchman, you must remember, is rarely without his pipe on any
possible occasion. He may for a moment neglect to breathe; but when
the pipe is forgotten, he must be dying indeed. There were no such sad
cases here. Wreaths of smoke were rising from every possible quarter.
The more fantastic the smoke-wreath, the more placid and solemn the
smoker.
Look at those boys and girls on stilts! That is a good idea. They can
look over the heads of the tallest. It is strange to see those little
bodies high in the air, carried about on mysterious legs. They have
such a resolute look on their round faces, what wonder that nervous
old gentlemen with tender feet wince and tremble while the long-legged
little monsters stride past them!
You will read in certain books that the Dutch are a quiet people. So
they are, generally. But listen! did you ever hear such a din? All
made up of human voices--no, the horses are helping somewhat, and the
fiddles are squeaking pitifully; (how it must pain fiddles to be
tuned!) but the mass of the sound comes from the great _vox humana_
that belongs to a crowd.
That queer little dwarf, going about with a heavy basket, winding in
and out among the people, helps not a little. You can hear his shrill
cry above all other sounds, "Pypen en tabac! Pypen en tabac!"
Another, his big brother, though evidently some years younger, is
selling doughnuts and bonbons. He is calling on all pretty children,
far and near, to come quickly or the cakes will be gone.
You know quite a number among the spectators. High up in yonder
pavilion, erected upon the border of the ice, are some persons whom
you have seen very lately. In the centre is Madame Van Gleck. It is
her birthday, you remember; she has the post of honor. There is
Mynheer Van Gleck, whose meerschaum has not really grown fast to his
lips; it only appears so. There are Grandfather and Grandmother, whom
you met at the St. Nicholas fete. All the children are with them. It
is so mild, they have brought even the baby. The poor little creature
is swaddled very much after the manner of an Egyptian mummy; but it
can crow with delight, and when the band is playing, open and shut its
animated mittens in perfect time to the music.
Grandfather, with his pipe and spectacles and fur cap, makes quite a
picture as he holds Baby upon his knee. Perched high upon their
canopied platforms, the party can see all that is going on. No wonder
the ladies look complacently at the glassy ice; with a stove for a
footstool, one might sit cosily beside the North Pole.
There is a gentleman with them, who somewhat resembles St. Nicholas as
he appeared to the young Van Glecks on the fifth of December. But the
Saint had a flowing white beard, and this face is as smooth as a
pippin. His Saintship was larger round the body too, and (between
ourselves) he had a pair of thimbles in his mouth, which this
gentleman certainly has not. It cannot be St. Nicholas, after all.
Near by in the next pavilion sit the Van Holps, with their son and
daughter (the Van Gends) from The Hague. Peter's sister is not one to
forget her promises. She has brought bouquets of exquisite hot-house
flowers for the winners.
These pavilions,--and there are others beside,--have all been erected
since daylight. That semicircular one, containing Mynheer Korbes's
family, is very pretty, and proves that the Hollanders are quite
skilled at tentmaking; but I like the Van Glecks' best,--the centre
one, striped red and white, and hung with evergreens.
The one with the blue flags contains the musicians. Those pagoda-like
affairs, decked with sea-shells and streamers of every possible hue,
are the judges' stands; and those columns and flagstaffs upon the ice
mark the limit of the race-course. The two white columns twined with
green, connected at the top by that long floating strip of drapery,
form the starting point. Those flagstaffs, half a mile off, stand at
each end of the boundary line, cut sufficiently deep to be distinct to
the skaters, though not deep enough to trip them when they turn to
come back to the starting-point.
The air is so clear, it seems scarcely possible that the columns and
flagstaffs are so far apart. Of course the judges' stands are but
little nearer together. Half a mile on the ice, when the atmosphere is
like this, is but a short distance after all, especially when fenced
with a living chain of spectators.
The music has commenced. How melody seems to enjoy itself in the open
air! The fiddles have forgotten their agony, and everything is
harmonious. Until you look at the blue tent, it seems that the music
springs from the sunshine, it is so boundless, so joyous. Only the
musicians are solemn.
Where are the racers? All assembled together near the white columns.
It is a beautiful sight,--forty boys and girls in picturesque attire,
darting with electric swiftness in and out among each other, or
sailing in pairs and triplets, beckoning, chatting, whispering, in the
fullness of youthful glee.
A few careful ones are soberly tightening their straps; others,
halting on one leg, with flushed eager faces, suddenly cross the
suspected skate over their knee, give it an examining shake, and dart
off again. One and all are possessed with the spirit of motion. They
cannot stand still. Their skates are a part of them, and every runner
seems bewitched.
Holland is the place for skaters, after all. Where else can nearly
every boy and girl perform feats on the ice that would attract a crowd
if seen on Central Park? Look at Ben! I did not see him before. He is
really astonishing the natives; no easy thing to do in the
Netherlands. Save your strength, Ben; you will need it soon. Now other
boys are trying! Ben is surpassed already. Such jumping, such poising,
such spinning, such india-rubber exploits generally! That boy with a
red cap is the lion now; his back is a watch-spring, his body is
cork--no, it is iron, or it would snap at that. He is a bird, a top, a
rabbit, a corkscrew, a sprite, a flesh-ball, all in an instant. When
you think he is erect, he is down; and when you think he is down, he
is up. He drops his glove on the ice, and turns a somerset as he picks
it up. Without stopping, he snatches the cap from Jacob Poot's
astonished head, and claps it back again "hind side before."
Lookers-on hurrah and laugh. Foolish boy! It is arctic weather under
your feet, but more than temperate overhead. Big drops already are
rolling down your forehead. Superb skater as you are, you may lose the
race.
A French traveler, standing with a notebook in his hand, sees our
English friend Ben buy a doughnut of the dwarf's brother, and eat it.
Thereupon he writes in his note-book that the Dutch take enormous
mouthfuls, and universally are fond of potatoes boiled in molasses.
There are some familiar faces near the white columns. Lambert, Ludwig,
Peter, and Carl are all there, cool, and in good skating order. Hans
is not far off. Evidently he is going to join in the race, for his
skates are on,--the very pair that he sold for seven guilders. He had
soon suspected that his fairy godmother was the mysterious "friend"
who bought them. This settled, he had boldly charged her with the
deed; and she, knowing well that all her little savings had been spent
in the purchase, had not had the face to deny it. Through the fairy
god-mother, too, he had been rendered amply able to buy them back
again. Therefore Hans is to be in the race. Carl is more indignant
than ever about it; but as three other peasant boys have entered, Hans
is not alone.
Twenty boys and twenty girls. The latter by this time are standing in
front, braced for the start; for they are to have the first "run."
Hilda, Rychie, and Katrinka are among them. Two or three bend hastily
to give a last pull at their skate-straps. It is pretty to see them
stamp, to be sure that all is firm. Hilda is speaking pleasantly to a
graceful little creature in a red jacket and a new brown petticoat.
Why, it is Gretel! What a difference those pretty shoes make; and the
skirt and the new cap! Annie Bouman is there too. Even Janzoon Kolp's
sister has been admitted; but Janzoon himself has been voted out by
the directors because he killed the stork, and only last summer was
caught in the act of robbing a bird's nest,--a legal offense in
Holland.
This Janzoon Kolp, you see, was--There, I cannot tell the story just
now. The race is about to commence.
Twenty girls are formed in a line. The music has ceased.
A man whom we shall call the crier stands between the columns and the
first judges' stand. He reads the rules in a loud voice:--
"_The girls and boys are to race in turn, until one girl and
one boy have beaten twice. They are to start in a line from
the united columns, skate to the flagstaff line, turn, and
then come back to the starting-point; thus making a mile at
each run._"
A flag is waved from the judges' stand. Madame Van Gleck rises in her
pavilion. She leans forward with a white handkerchief in her hand.
When she drops it, a bugler is to give the signal for them to start.
The handkerchief is fluttering to the ground. Hark!
They are off!
No. Back again. Their line was not true in passing the judges' stand.
The signal is repeated.
Off again. No mistake this time. Whew! how fast they go!
The multitude is quiet for an instant, absorbed in eager, breathless
watching.
Cheers spring up along the line of spectators. Huzza! five girls are
ahead. Who comes flying back from the boundary mark? We cannot tell.
Something red, that is all. There is a blue spot flitting near it, and
a dash of yellow nearer still. Spectators at this end of the line
strain their eyes, and wish they had taken their post nearer the
flagstaff.
The wave of cheers is coming back again. Now we can see. Katrinka is
ahead!
She passes the Van Holp pavilion. The next is Madame Van Gleck's. That
leaning figure gazing from it is a magnet. Hilda shoots past Katrinka,
waving her hand to her mother as she passes. Two others are close now,
whizzing on like arrows. What is that flash of red and gray? Hurrah,
it is Gretel! She too waves her hand, but toward no gay pavilion. The
crowd is cheering; but she hears only her father's voice, "Well done,
little Gretel!" Soon Katrinka, with a quick merry laugh, shoots past
Hilda. The girl in yellow is gaining now. She passes them all,--all
except Gretel. The judges lean forward without seeming to lift their
eyes from their watches. Cheer after cheer fills the air; the very
columns seem rocking. Gretel has passed them. She has won.
"GRETEL BRINKER, ONE MILE!" shouts the crier.
The judges nod. They write something upon a tablet which each holds in
his hand.
While the girls are resting,--some crowding eagerly around our
frightened little Gretel, some standing aside in high disdain,--the
boys form in a line.
Mynheer Van Gleck drops the handkerchief this time. The buglers give a
vigorous blast. Off start the boys!
Half-way already. Did ever you see the like!
Three hundred legs flashing by in an instant. But there are only
twenty boys. No matter; there were hundreds of legs, I am sure. Where
are they now? There is such a noise one gets bewildered. What are the
people laughing at? Oh! at that fat boy in the rear. See him go! See
him! He'll be down in an instant; no, he won't. I wonder if he knows
he is all alone: the other boys are nearly at the boundary line. Yes,
he knows it. He stops. He wipes his hot face. He takes off his cap,
and looks about him. Better to give up with a good grace. He has made
a hundred friends by that hearty, astonished laugh. Good Jacob Poot!
The fine fellow is already among the spectators, gazing as eagerly as
the rest.
A cloud of feathery ice flies from the heels of the skaters as they
"bring to," and turn at the flagstaffs.
Something black is coming now,--one of the boys: it is all we know. He
has touched the _vox humana_ stop of the crowd; it fairly roars. Now
they come nearer; we can see the red cap. There's Ben, there's Peter,
there's Hans!
Hans is ahead. Young Madame Van Gend almost crushes the flowers in her
hand: she had been quite sure that Peter would be first. Carl Schummel
is next, then Ben, and the youth with the red cap. The others are
pressing close. A tall figure darts from among them. He passes the red
cap, he passes Ben, then Carl. Now it is an even race between him and
Hans. Madame Van Gend catches her breath.
It is Peter! He is ahead! Hans shoots past him. Hilda's eyes fill with
tears: Peter _must_ beat. Annie's eyes flash proudly. Gretel gazes
with clasped hands: four strokes more will take her brother to the
columns.
He is there! Yes; but so was young Schummel just a second before. At
the last instant, Carl, gathering his powers, had whizzed between
them, and passed the goal.
"CARL SCHUMMEL, ONE MILE!" shouts the crier.
Soon Madame Van Gleck rises again. The falling handkerchief starts the
bugle, and the bugle, using its voice as a bowstring, shoots off
twenty girls like so many arrows.
It is a beautiful sight; but one has not long to look: before we can
fairly distinguish them they are far in the distance. This time they
are close upon one another. It is hard to say, as they come speeding
back from the flagstaff, which will reach the columns first. There are
new faces among the foremost,--eager glowing faces, unnoticed before.
Katrinka is there, and Hilda; but Gretel and Rychie are in the rear.
Gretel is wavering, but when Rychie passes her she starts forward
afresh. Now they are nearly beside Katrinka. Hilda is still in
advance: she is almost "home." She has not faltered since that bugle
note sent her flying: like an arrow, still she is speeding toward the
goal. Cheer after cheer rises in the air. Peter is silent, but his
eyes shine like stars. "Huzza! Huzza!"
The crier's voice is heard again.
"HILDA VAN GLECK, ONE MILE!"
A loud murmur of approval runs through the crowd, catching the music
in its course, till all seems one sound, with a glad rhythmic
throbbing in its depths. When the flag waves all is still.
Once more the bugle blows a terrific blast. It sends off the boys like
chaff before the wind,--dark chaff, I admit, and in big pieces.
It is whisked around at the flagstaff, driven faster yet by the cheers
and shouts along the line. We begin to see what is coming. There are
three boys in advance this time, and all abreast,--Hans, Peter, and
Lambert. Carl soon breaks the ranks, rushing through with a whiff.
Fly, Hans; fly, Peter; don't let Carl beat again!--Carl the bitter,
Carl the insolent. Van Mounen is flagging, but you are as strong as
ever. Hans and Peter, Peter and Hans; which is foremost? We love them
both. We scarcely care which is the fleeter.
Hilda, Annie, and Gretel, seated upon the long crimson bench, can
remain quiet no longer. They spring to their feet, so different! and
yet one in eagerness. Hilda instantly reseats herself: none shall know
how interested she is; none shall know how anxious, how filled with
one hope. Shut your eyes then, Hilda, hide your face rippling with
joy. Peter has beaten.
"PETER VAN HOLP, ONE MILE!" calls the crier.
The same buzz of excitement as before, while the judges take notes,
the same throbbing of music through the din; but something is
different. A little crowd presses close about some object near the
column. Carl has fallen. He is not hurt, though somewhat stunned. If
he were less sullen, he would find more sympathy in these warm young
hearts. As it is, they forget him as soon as he is fairly on his feet
again.
The girls are to skate their third mile.
How resolute the little maidens look, as they stand in a line! Some
are solemn with a sense of responsibility; some wear a smile, half
bashful, half provoked; but one air of determination pervades them
all.
This third mile may decide the race. Still, if neither Gretel nor
Hilda win, there is yet a chance among the rest for the silver skates.
Each girl feels sure that this time she will accomplish the distance
in one-half the time. How they stamp to try their runners! How
nervously they examine each strap! How erect they stand at last, every
eye upon Madame Van Gleck!
The bugle thrills through them again. With quivering eagerness they
spring forward, bending, but in perfect balance. Each flashing stroke
seems longer than the last.
Now they are skimming off in the distance.
Again the eager straining of eyes; again the shouts and cheering;
again the thrill of excitement, as after a few moments, four or five
in advance of the rest come speeding back, nearer, nearer to the white
columns.
Who is first? Not Rychie, Katrinka, Annie, nor Hilda, nor the girl in
yellow, but Gretel,--Gretel, the fleetest sprite of a girl that ever
skated. She was but playing in the earlier race: _now_ she is in
earnest, or rather, something within her has determined to win. That
blithe little form makes no effort; but it cannot stop,--not until the
goal is passed!
In vain the crier lifts his voice: he cannot be heard. He has no news
to tell: it is already ringing through the crowd,--_Gretel has won the
silver skates!_
Like a bird she has flown over the ice; like a bird she looks about
her in a timid, startled way. She longs to dart to the sheltered nook
where her father and mother stand. But Hans is beside her; the girls
are crowding round. Hilda's kind, joyous voice breathes in her ear.
From that hour none will despise her. Goose-girl or not, Gretel stands
acknowledged Queen of the Skaters.
With natural pride, Hans turns to see if Peter Van Holp is witnessing
his sister's triumph. Peter is not looking toward them at all. He is
kneeling, bending his troubled face low, and working hastily at his
skate-strap. Hans is beside him at once.
"Are you in trouble, mynheer?"
"Ah, Hans! that you? Yes; my fun is over. I tried to tighten my strap
to make a new hole, and this botheration of a knife has cut it nearly
in two."
"Mynheer," said Hans, at the same time pulling off a skate, "you must
use my strap!"
"Not I, indeed, Hans Brinker!" cried Peter, looking up; "though I
thank you warmly. Go to your post, my friend: the bugle will sound in
a minute."
"Mynheer," pleaded Hans in a husky voice, "you have called me your
friend. Take this strap--quick! There is not an instant to lose. I
shall not skate this time: indeed, I am out of practice. Mynheer, you
_must_ take it;" and Hans, blind and deaf to any remonstrance, slipped
his strap into Peter's skate, and implored him to put it on.
"Come, Peter!" cried Lambert from the line: "we are waiting for you."
"For Madame's sake," pleaded Hans, "be quick! She is motioning to you
to join the racers. There, the skate is almost on: quick, mynheer,
fasten it. I could not possibly win. The race lies between Master
Schummel and yourself."
"You are a noble fellow, Hans!" cried Peter, yielding at last. He
sprang to his post just as the handkerchief fell to the ground. The
bugle sends forth its blast, loud, clear, and ringing.
Off go the boys!
"Mein Gott!" cries a tough old fellow from Delft. "They beat
everything, these Amsterdam youngsters. See them!"
See them, indeed! They are winged Mercuries, every one of them. What
mad errand are they on? Ah, I know; they are hunting Peter Van Holp.
He is some fleet-footed runaway from Olympus. Mercury and his troop of
winged cousins are in full chase. They will catch him! Now Carl is the
runaway. The pursuit grows furious. Ben is foremost!
The chase turns in a cloud of mist. It is coming this way. Who is
hunted now? Mercury himself. It is Peter, Peter Van Holp! Fly, Peter!
Hans is watching you. He is sending all his fleetness, all his
strength, into your feet. Your mother and sister are pale with
eagerness. Hilda is trembling, and dare not look up, Fly, Peter! The
crowd has not gone deranged; it is only cheering. The pursuers are
close upon you. Touch the white column! It beckons; it is reeling
before you--it--
"Huzza! Huzza! Peter has won the silver skates!"
"PETER VAN HOLP!" shouted the crier. But who heard him? "Peter Van
Holp!" shouted a hundred voices; for he was the favorite boy of the
place. "Huzza! Huzza!"
Now the music was resolved to be heard. It struck up a lively air,
then a tremendous march. The spectators, thinking something new was
about to happen, deigned to listen and to look.
The racers formed in single file. Peter, being tallest, stood first.
Gretel, the smallest of all, took her place at the end. Hans, who had
borrowed a strap from the cake-boy, was near the head.
Three gayly twined arches were placed at intervals upon the river,
facing the Van Gleck pavilion.
Skating slowly, and in perfect time to the music, the boys and girls
moved forward, led on by Peter, It was beautiful to see the bright
procession glide along like a living creature. It curved and doubled,
and drew its graceful length in and out among the arches; whichever
way Peter, the head, went, the body was sure to follow. Sometimes it
steered direct for the centre arch; then, as if seized with a new
impulse, turned away and curled itself about the first one; then
unwound slowly, and bending low, with quick snake-like curvings,
crossed the river, passing at length through the farthest arch.
When the music was slow, the procession seemed to crawl like a thing
afraid; it grew livelier, and the creature darted forward with a
spring, gliding rapidly among the arches, in and out, curling,
twisting, turning, never losing form, until at the shrill call of the
bugle rising above the music it suddenly resolved itself into boys and
girls, standing in double semicircle before Madame Van Gleck's
pavilion.
Peter and Gretel stand in the centre, in advance of the others. Madame
Van Gleck rises majestically. Gretel trembles, but feels that she
must look at the beautiful lady. She cannot hear what is said, there
is such a buzzing all around her. She is thinking that she ought to
try and make a courtesy, such as her mother makes to the _meester_,
when suddenly something so dazzling is placed in her hand that she
gives a cry of joy.
Then she ventures to look about her. Peter too has something in his
hands. "Oh, oh! how splendid!" she cries; and "Oh! how splendid!" is
echoed as far as people can see.
Meantime the silver skates flash in the sunshine, throwing dashes of
light upon those two happy faces.
"Mevrouw Van Gend sends a little messenger with her bouquets,--one for
Hilda, one for Carl, and others for Peter and Gretel."
At sight of the flowers, the Queen of the Skaters becomes
uncontrollable. With a bright stare of gratitude, she gathers skates
and bouquet in her apron, hugs them to her bosom, and darts off to
search for her father and mother in the scattering crowd.