"management," I heard the sound of stirring military music, played not
far away by a brass band, and something queer happened at the same
moment. The machine began to rock as if there were an earthquake, to
dart forward, to retreat, and at last to go galloping ahead at a speed
to suggest that in a sudden fit of hallucination it had persuaded itself
it was a motor-car.
"That horse!" I gasped, and swaying first against one wall, then against
the other, scarcely able to keep my feet, I tore the door open and
peeped out.
If I had not been frightened I should have laughed, for it was plain to
see from the expression of that cushiony back, that the animal was
merely pretending to be afraid of the music, in a kittenish wish for a
little early morning fun. But he was also pretending in quite a
life-like manner to run away, and the thought occurred to me that the
consequences might be as awkward for the occupant of the machine as if
the jest were earnest.
"Whoa, whoa," cried a voice in pursuit, and splash! went the beast into
the surf. He was playing that he was a sea-horse, now, and enjoying it
selfishly, without a thought of poor me in the horrid, tottery little
box that would be knocked over by a big wave, maybe, in another instant,
in a welter of sand and salt water, under a merry horse's hoofs.
I clung to the door with one hand, and the frame with the other,
swinging back and forth on the threshold, with abnormally large iron
shoes flying up and down in the wet green foreground, and the whole
North Sea towering over me in the middle distance--oh, but a very near
middle distance!
I wavered in mind as well as body. If I didn't jump out--now, this
minute--I might be caught and pinned like a mouse in a trap, under the
water. If I did jump, the horse would kick me, and the wheels of the
machine would go over me, and I should be battered as well as drowned
before anybody could fish me out. I did feel horribly alone in the
world, and the waves looked as tall as transparent green skyscrapers.
"One, two; at _three_ I'll jump," I was saying resolutely, between
chattering teeth, when a head came toward me in the sea. It came on top
of a wave, and like the dear little cut-off cherubs in old-fashioned
prayer-books, it seemed to have no body, yet I recognized it, and felt
half inclined to bow (salutation, O Caesar, from one about to die!) only
it would have seemed ridiculous to bow to a mere passing head, when one
was on the eve of being swept away by the North Sea. Phyllis might have
done it. I gave a short shriek, and then it appeared that the head had
full control of the wave, for it stopped and let the wave rush by, to
show that it had a tall, brown, dripping body, sketchily clad in the
kind of thing that men dare to call a bathing-suit.
It did not seem strange at the time that William the Silent should be
shot from a wave as if by a catapult, and still less strange that
without a word he should seize my horse by the head and stop him. It
seemed the sort of thing that ought to happen to foreigners traveling in
Holland, if in need of succor.
"Oh, thank you so much!" I heard myself saying, just as if he had had on
a frock-coat and top-hat, and had stopped a hansom cab for me in Bond
Street.
"Not at all," I heard him reply, in the same London-in-the-season tone.
Then suddenly I thought of Stanley in the desert saying, "Dr.
Livingstone, I believe?" and my bare feet, and his dripping hair, and
the whole scene struck me so quaintly that I laughed out aloud;
whereupon he smiled a wet, brown smile, showing white teeth.
"I'm _not_ having hysterics," I spluttered, with my mouth full of spray.
"It's only--only--" and the spray choked me with its salt.
"Of course," said William the Silent, grave again, and so like the
portrait that I felt I must be a historical character, acting with him
in an incident forgotten or expurgated by Motley. "I'm so glad I came. I
saw you from further out, and thought something was wrong. But it's all
right now."
"Yes, thank you," I said meekly. "Why, you're an _Englishman_, aren't
you?"
"Dutch to the backbone," he answered; and then, suddenly conscious,
perhaps, that the (might one call it "feature"?) he had mentioned, was
too much exposed to be discussed thus lightly, he changed the subject.
"Here's your man," he said quickly, and forthwith fell to scolding in
vehement Dutch the unfortunate wretch who had waded to the rescue. The
horse, made sadder if not wiser by blows from his master, allowed
himself to be backed for a certain distance, until it was safe for me to
descend and take my postponed bath. I had but time to bow and murmur
more inane thanks, to receive another bow and polite murmur in return
(both murmurs being drowned by the sea) when the retrograde movement of
the bathing-machine parted me and my living life-preserver. He stood in
the water looking after us long enough to see that there would be no
further incidents, then took a header into the waves again.
I'm not sure that my adventure did not add spice to the salt of my bath.
Anyhow, it was glorious, and I ran back to the villa at last tingling
with joy of life, in time to be let in by a maid who was cleaning the
door-steps. It was half-past seven, and breakfast was at eight. I had to
make haste with my toilet, but luckily there are few tasks which can't
be accompanied by a running fire of chat (that is, if one is a woman) so
I had told everything to Phyllis by the time I had begun fastening the
white serge frock in which I was to go to The Hague and the _Concours
Hippique_. Just then the Japanese gong sent forth its melancholy wail,
so we hurried down, and I forgot to tell Phyllis not to mention the
incident. I didn't think it the kind of incident which would be approved
by the van Buren family, and on second thoughts I didn't approve of it
myself.
Hardly were we comfortably seated at the table, however, when Phil told
Robert what a part his friend had played in my adventure. I could not
stop her, and when I was called upon for details, gave them rather than
seem to be secretive.
"We must be thankful that Brederode was taking his dip early," said
Robert. "I will tell him this afternoon that we are very grateful for
what he did."
I blushed consciously. "Oh, _must_ you?" I asked. "Somehow, I've an idea
he'll think it stupid of me to have mentioned it. Besides, maybe it
_wasn't_ your friend. Perhaps it was some one who looked like him.
The--er--dress was so different, and I had hardly seen Mr.
Brederode----"
"Jonkheer Brederode," corrected Freule Menela, softly.
I broke out laughing. "Jonkheer! Oh, do forgive me, but it sounds so
funny. I really _never_ could call a person Jonkheer, and take him
_seriously_."
"You will have to call him Jonkheer when I bring him to the box, after
he has finished his part in the _Concours Hippique_," said Robert.
"There is no one who looks like Rudolph Brederode, so it must have been
he. You can see this afternoon."
"But I don't _want_ to see," I objected, crossly, for I felt I could
not solemnly and adequately thank the young man before my listening
relatives, for popping out of the sea in his microscopic costume, and
coming to the rescue of me in mine. I had squeaked and curled up my
toes, and been altogether ridiculous; and I knew we should at best burst
out laughing in each other's faces--which would astonish the van Buren
family.
"Whoever he was, I thanked him three times this morning, and that's
enough," I went on. "He wasn't risking his life, you know, and really
and truly, I'd rather not meet him formally, if you don't mind."
"Very well," said Cousin Robert, looking offended, and turning his
attention to breakfast.
It was, when I came to notice it, the oddest breakfast imaginable, yet
it had a tempting air. There was a tiny glass vase of flowers at each
person's place, and the middle of the table was occupied by a china hen
sitting on her nest. The eggs which she protected were hard-boiled; and
ranged round the nest were platters of every kind of cold smoked meat,
and cold smoked fish, dreamed of in the philosophy of cooks. There was
also cold ham; and there were crisp, rich little rusks, and gingerbread
in Japanese tin boxes, to eat with honey in an open glass dish, and
there was coffee fit for gods and goddesses. Even Phil drank it, though
she was offered tea, excusing her treachery by saying that she found her
tastes were changing to suit the climate of Holland--a dangerous theory,
since who can tell to what wild lengths it may lead?
When we had finished, the coffee-tray was taken from its place in front
of Cousin Cornelia, and another tray, bearing two large china bowls of
hot water, a dish with soap, a toy mop with a carved wood handle, and
two towels, was substituted for it.
"I wash the fine china and the coffee-spoons myself, after breakfast,"
explained Cousin Cornelia, slipping off her rings, and beginning her
pretty task. "The best of servants are not as careful as their
mistresses, and it is a custom in Holland."
"But you didn't wash the coffee- and tea-cups last night after dinner,"
I reminded her.
"No," she replied, "I never do that."
"But isn't the china as valuable, and isn't there as much danger of it's
being broken?"
She looked puzzled, almost distressed. "Yes, that is true," she
admitted, "but--it is not a custom. I don't know why, but it never has
been."
Her housewifely pleasure was spoiled for the moment, and I wished that I
hadn't spoken.
After all, Lisbeth and Lilli were not to go with us to The Hague. This
was the morning for opening the curio cabinets in the drawing-room, and
washing the contents, and the girls were expected to help their mother.
As the glass doors are never opened, unless that some guest may
carefully handle a gold snuff-box, a miniature, or a bit of old Delft,
the things could scarcely need washing; but the rule is to have them out
once a month, and it would be a crime to break it. This Freule Menela
explained in a low voice, and with the suspicion of a smile, as if she
wished the two girls from London to understand that she was able to see
the humorous side of these things.
"Your cousins are old-fashioned," she went on, "though dear people; I've
known them since I was a child, and am fond of them for their own sakes
as well as Robert's. You must not think that everybody in our country
dines at five. For instance, if you visited in my set at The Hague, you
would find things more as they are in France. When Robert and I are
married _I_ shall manage the house."
We listened civilly, but liked her none the better for her disavowal of
van Buren ways.
"Horrid, snobbish, disloyal little wretch," said Phil, afterwards,
quite viciously. "Your cousin's a hundred times too good and too
good-looking for her; but she doesn't know that. She fancies herself
superior, and thinks she's condescending to ally herself with the
family. I do believe she's marrying your cousin for his money, and if
she could get a chance to do better according to her ideas, she'd throw
him over."
"It isn't likely she'll ever have another chance of any sort," said I;
"Robert won't get rid of his bargain easily."
"She's going with us this morning, and makes a favor of it," went on
Phil. "She says she's tired to death of the pictures; but I'm sure ten
wild horses wouldn't keep her at home."
Be that as it may, the power of twenty wild horses in motor form rushed
her away in our society and that of her fiance.
In the beautiful forest, which I was happy in seeing again, we threaded
intricate, dark avenues, and came at last (as if we had been a whole
party of tourist princes in the tale of the "Sleeping Beauty") to the
House in the Wood.
The romance of the place grew in my eyes, because a princess built it to
please her husband, and because the husband was that son of William the
Silent who best carried on his father's plans for Holland's greatness.
I'm afraid I cared more about it for the sake of Princess Amalia and
Frederic Henry of Orange, than for the sake of the Peace Conference,
because the Conference was modern; and it was of the princess I thought
as we passed through room after room of the charming old house, hidden
in the very heart of the forest. Had she commanded the exquisite Chinese
embroideries, the wonderful decorations from China and Japan, and the
lovely old china? I wouldn't ask, for if she had had nothing to do with
that part, I didn't wish to know.
In the octagonal Orange Salon where the twenty-six Powers met to make
peace, and where the walls and cupola are a riot of paintings in praise
of Frederic Henry and his relations, we strained our necks to see the
pictures, and our brains to recall who the people were and what they
had done; but even the portrait of Motley, which we'd just passed, and
the knowledge that he wrote in this very house did not always prod our
memories.
Robert would not let us stay long at the House in the Wood. He took us
to see the site of the Palace of Peace, which Mr. Carnegie's money and a
little of other people's will build, and then flashed us on to The Hague
in time to reach the Mauritshuis as it opened.
Robert didn't pretend to know much about the pictures, though he was
patriotically proud of them, as among the best to be found, if you
searched the world. But the fiancee was in her element. "Tired to death"
of these splendid things she might be, in her small soul, but she was
determined to impress us with her artistic knowledge.
"I know exactly where all the best pictures are," she said, motioning
away the official guides, "and I will take you to them."
She had a practical, energetic air, and her black eyes were sharp behind
her _pince-nez_. I felt I could not be introduced by her to the glorious
company of great men, and basely I slipped away from the party, leaving
Phil to follow with outward humility and inward rebellion--a martyr to
politeness.
Oh, how glad I was to be left alone with the pictures, with nobody to
tell me anything about them! I flew back to buy a catalogue, and then,
carefully dodging my friends, whose backs I spied from time to time, I
gave myself up to happiness.
I didn't want to see the Madonnas and nymphs and goddesses, and Italian
scenes, which a certain school conscientiously produced, because in
their day it was the fashion. I wanted only the characteristically Dutch
artists, the men who loved their dear Hollow Land, putting her beyond
all, glorifying her, and painting what they knew with their hearts as
well as eyes--the daily life of home; the rich brown dusk of humble
rooms; the sea, the sky, the gentle, flat landscape, the pleasant
domestic animals.
My acquaintance with Dutch art was made in London at the National
Gallery; now I wanted to see it at home, and understand it as one can
best understand it here.
I soon found the great Rembrandt--"the School of Anatomy," and stood for
a long time looking at the wonderful faces--faces in whose eyes each
thought lay clear to read. What a picture! A man who had done nothing
else all his life long but paint just that, would have earned the right
to be immortal; but to have been only twenty-six when he did it, and
then to have gone on, through year after year, giving the world
masterpieces, and to be repaid by that world in the end with poverty and
hardship! My cheeks burned as I stood thinking of it, and somehow I felt
guilty and responsible, as if I'd lived in Rembrandt's day, and been as
ungrateful as the others.
I had expected to be disappointed in Paul Potter's "Bull," because
people always speak of it at once, if they hear you are going to
Holland; but if you could be disappointed in that young and winning
beast who kindly stands there with diamonds in his great velvet eyes,
and the breath coming and going under his rough, wholesome coat for you
to look at and admire, when all the time you know that he could kill you
if he liked, why, you would deserve to be gored by him and trodden by
his companions.
How I wanted to have known Jan van Steen, and thanked him for his
glorious, rollicking, extraordinary pictures (especially for "The
Poultry Yard"), and have slyly stolen his bottle away from him
sometimes, so that he might have painted even more, and not have come to
ruin in the end! How I loved the gentle Van Ruysdaels, and how pathetic
the everlasting white horse got to seem, after I had seen him repeated
again and again in every sort of tender or eccentric landscape! Poor,
tired white horse! I thought he must have been as weary of his
journeyings as the Wandering Jew.
There are two Rubens in the Mauritshuis which intoxicated me, as if I'd
been drinking new red wine; and there is one little Gerard Douw, above
all other Gerard Douws, worth a three-days' journey on foot to see. In a
window of the Bull's room I found it; and I stood so long staring, that
at last I began to be afraid the others might have gone away. They came
upon me, though, all too soon, and exclaimed, "Why, where _have_ you
been?" and "We've been looking for you _everywhere_." I said I was
sorry, and wondered how I had been so stupid as to miss them. Then we
were marshalled away by Robert for luncheon, as we'd been three hours in
the Mauritshuis, and before long we must be driving to the _Concours
Hippique_.
Only three hours in some of the best society on earth, and I shall be
expected to tell about my impressions when I go back to England! I know
well that I can tell nothing worth telling; and yet, even in this short
time, I feel that I understand more about Holland and the Hollanders
than I could have come to understand, except through their
pictures--more even than Motley could have told me.
I said to myself as I went away from the galleries, that Dutch painting
would stand for me henceforth as an epitome of the Dutch people. No one
but the Dutch could have painted pictures like theirs--so quaint, so
painstaking, and at the same time so splendid. Their love of rich brown
shadow and amber light was learned in the dim little rooms of their own
homes, and of inns where the brass and pewter gleamed in the mellow dusk
of raftered kitchens, and piles of fruit and vegetables fell like
jewels, from paniers such as Gerard Douw took three days to paint on a
scale of three inches.
We had a hasty luncheon at a nice hotel with an air of Parisian gaiety
about it, and sped away in the motor to the Horse Show, which was to be
held in a park between The Hague and Scheveningen. It was advertised on
every wall and hoarding, even on lamp-posts, and Freule Menela (gorgeous
in a Paris frock and tilted hat) prophesied that, as the Queen and
Prince Consort were honoring the occasion, we should see the loveliest
women, handsomest men, and prettiest dresses, as well as the best horses
that Holland could produce.
"When I say Holland, I mean The Hague; it is the same thing," she added,
with a conceited toss of the chin; and I thought she deserved shaking
for her sly dig at Robert of Rotterdam, than whom there can be no
handsomer young man in the Netherlands.
Cousin Cornelia in filmy gray, and the twins radiant as fresh-plucked
roses in their white frocks and Leghorn hats, had arrived, and were in
one of the many long, open loggias close to the red-and-gold pavilion
which was ready for the Royalties.
Over the pavilion, with its gilded crown and crest, floated the orange
flag as well as the tricolor of Holland; everywhere flags were waving
and red bunting glowing, and there was far more effect of color than at
an English race-meeting. Every box, every seat, was full; pretty hats
nodded like flowers in a huge parterre swept by a breeze; smart-looking
men with women in trailing white walked about the lawns; and Robert and
Menela pointed out the celebrities--ambassadors and ambassadors' wives,
politicians, popular actresses, celebrated journalists, men of title or
wealth who owned horses and gave their lives to sport.
All the men of the _haut mond_ were in frock-coats and tall hats, and
most of them looked English. There were few of the type which I
preconceived as Dutch, yet I saw faces in the crowd which Rembrandt or
Rubens might have used as models; thin, dark faces; hard, shrewd faces,
with long noses and pointed chins; good-natured round faces, with
wide-open gray eyes; important, conceited faces like the burgomasters in
ancient portraits.
"Not a type has changed," I said to myself. "These people of to-day are
the same people who suffered torture smiling, who were silent on the
rack, who drove the Spaniards out of their land, and swept the English
from the seas."
This was my mood when a stir among the throng heralded the coming of the
Queen, and I applauded as patriotically as a Dutchwoman the young
daughter of the brave house of Orange and Nassau.
She had a fine procession, and made an effective entrance through the
wide gates that swung apart to let in her outriders in their green
livery, and the royal coaches, with powdered coachmen and footmen in
blazing red and gold. A charming young woman she looked, too, in her
blowing white cloud of chiffon and lace, and ostrich-plumes. While she
circled round the drive with her suite, I heard the Dutch National Hymn
for the first time, and also a soft and plaintive air which is the
Queen's own--a kind of "entrance music" which follows her about through
life, like the music for a leading actress on the stage.
When the Queen in her white dress, the stout, bland Prince Consort in
his blue uniform, and the ladies of the Court were settled under the
crimson curtains of the pavilion, officers who were competing in the
Horse Show--Hollanders in green and cerise, and plain blue; Belgians in
blue and red; two or three Danes in delicious azure--were brought up
with much ceremony to be introduced.
"There goes Rudolph Brederode," said Robert, a light of friendly
admiration kindling in his eyes for a tall, slim figure in black coat
and riding-breeches. "See, her Majesty is wishing him good luck. He--"
But my cousin glanced at me, and remembering my base ingratitude,
decided that I deserved no further information about his hero, who
ought to be my hero too.
I pretended not to hear, and watched the show of beautiful horses and
carriages. They went round and round the great grassy ring, each driver
(and some of them were English) taking off their top-hats in front of
the Royal Pavilion.
There was a good deal of this kind of entertainment, but the best part
of the show was saved for the last, when all the glittering carriages
had disappeared from the course. Then came the jumping competition, in
which the finest riders, officers and civilians, were to prove what they
and their horses could do.
The crowd had wearied of the long driving contests, but as the Dutch
soldiers ran out across the grass to take their places beside the
hedges, hurdles, water-jumps, and obstacles, there was a general
brisking up.
Then began the real excitement of the afternoon. People greeted their
favorites with applause, and Cousin Robert's hero had the largest share.
He made a splendid figure on his delicately shaped roan, a creature all
_verve_ and muscle like his master, graceful as a cat, and shining in
the sun with the rich effulgence of a chestnut fresh from the burr.
I couldn't help a jumping of the pulses when the bell rang, and the
good-looking young men on their grand horses cantered into the ring.
Rudolph Brederode was the last, and his horse came in on its hind legs,
pawing and prancing with sheer joy of life and its own beauty; yet what
a different beast from that other who had also pirouetted to the sound
of music in the morning! I wondered if William the Silent thought--but
of course he didn't.
One by one the horses started, urged on or held back by their riders.
All rode well, but not one got round the course without a fault--a jump
short at a ditch; a hind hoof that brushed a hedge; the ring of an iron
shoe on a hurdle; or a wooden brick sent flying from the top row on a
high wall; not one, until Rudolph Brederode's turn came.