savings, but it was not necessary to open it, for just as he was about to
do so Wolfgang started to play. The customs officer turned with a start
and listened, and the people gathered there forgot all about duty charges
as they crowded around the little musician. His tiny hands swept the
strings as if his fingers had some magic power, and the melody they made
was sweeter than any ever heard on that old wharf. For five minutes, ten,
he kept at it, and there was not a whisper or a murmur, only a sort of
breathless surprise that one so young could play so wonderfully.
“What!” one exclaimed as he finished, “a lad of his age to perform like
that!”
“Yes,” the father answered with a smile, “he does well at the harp.”
“Amazing,” the officer murmured, “’tis amazing! I’ve heard many a good
harpist in my day, but never anything sweeter than that. Play some more,
boy,” he said.
Wolfgang smiled. The idea was working out, and he was very glad. Already
he had visions of a happy sister in a handsome new gown, and turning
again to the instrument, he played even more beautifully than before, for
the gladness that crept into his heart was creeping also into the music.
For some minutes he picked the strings, while the people listened as
if held in a spell, until the father said, “We must go now, for it is
getting late, and we have yet to find lodgings in the city.” And he
handed the money to the officer.
But the man shook his head. “No,” he said, and his eyes were very tender
as he spoke. “A boy who can give as much pleasure as that deserves
something. Keep the money and buy a present for him.”
As Wolfgang heard the words he gave a bound. “Father,” he exclaimed, with
sparkling eyes, “buy the dress for Marianne. You can do it now, since you
have saved the customs money.”
The officer looked at him in amazement. “He is a wonderful lad, truly,”
he exclaimed, “and as kind as he is wonderful!”
“Yes,” came the low reply. “He has wanted nothing so much as a new dress
for his sister, and now he is happy because he thinks she will get it.”
And she did get it, too, a beautiful one of soft, bright red, all trimmed
with shining buttons. Wolfgang danced with delight when he saw it, and
there was no happier child in all that great capital.
They gave many concerts there, some before the royal family; and Maria
Theresa, the empress, became greatly attached to both brother and sister,
gave them handsome clothes and beautiful gifts, and forgot all about
affairs of state while Wolfgang played. She called him the “little
sorcerer,” and agreed with the customs officer that he was a wonderful
child.
Then, after some weeks, they went back to the home in Salzburg, where
the boy kept on at his music, doing such marvelous things that his fame
traveled far. He grew to be the great master, Mozart, at whose glorious
music the world still wonders, and he was a generous and sweet-souled
man, just as he was a big-hearted and thoughtful child. Many lovely acts
are told of him, but none that shows his kindness and tenderness in a
more delightful way than when as a boy on the Vienna wharf he charmed the
customs officer and all others who heard, and Marianne had the dress for
which she had wished by the evening star with the duty money that wasn’t
paid.
WILHELMINA’S WOODEN SHOES
(_Biography—Art Teaching_)
It was summer time, and a boy named Rembrandt van Rijn was lying on top
of the ramparts that walled in the city of Leyden, his eyes fixed on
the yellow highroad that stretched away toward The Hague. It was good
to be there in the shadow of the mill sails, for the trees beyond were
beautifully green, and he loved to watch the market folk coming and
going, loved to see strangers journeying from far away and to dream
of the time when he, too, would fare forth to see the world. Instead
of being a miller like his father and living always beside the Leyden
ramparts, he would go to Amsterdam, where ships sailed in from the
Indies, and perhaps he would board one of those wonderful craft and
journey over leagues of ocean to distant realms of the East. The thought
brought a smile to his face and a deeper blue to his eyes, and he
whistled a strain from an old Dutch song of rejoicing.
Suddenly he started up in surprise, for a familiar figure was coming
along the Rhine road. It looked like his Uncle Peter, but that seemed
impossible, for it was Saturday morning, and his uncle was an industrious
merchant who was never known to leave his shop on business days. Then
as the man hurried through the great gate that opened into the city,
Rembrandt saw that it was his Uncle Peter; and his surprise changed to
alarm, for he believed his uncle’s coming would mean trouble for him.
The day before, in the Latin school, he had drawn pictures on his cousin
Wilhelmina’s wooden shoes and had been caught. She was quite willing
to have them decorated, and laughed merrily at sight of the ducks
and chickens and spotted pigs marching from heel to toe; but Mynheer
Speelburg, the teacher, had a very different idea. He considered that
it was defacing property, and wasting one’s time as well. Although
Wilhelmina declared it was all her fault, Rembrandt was severely scolded,
and the master sent a note home to his uncle. Now the uncle was probably
coming to tell the boy’s father about it, and the thought sent all the
brightness out of the day.
The merchant did not notice Rembrandt until he had passed the ramparts
and a cawing crow caused him to turn and see the boy on top of the wall.
Then he looked up and smiled, which did not seem like anger, and yet—what
else could have taken him from the shop on Saturday morning?
“I’ve come to have a talk with your mother,” he said as he stopped a
moment.
Rembrandt climbed down to go with him, hoping that something besides the
shoes had brought him, but the man shook his head.
“No, stay where you are,” he said. “I want to see your mother alone.”
Again the uneasy feeling surged over the lad. After all, it must be those
wooden shoes, and he felt very uncomfortable; and a little later, when
both mother and uncle came from the house and hurried to the mill, he
wished very much that he never had seen pigs and fowls—most of all that
he had not drawn them on his cousin’s shoes. Then his father called to
him, and although he wanted to creep away and hide, he went on the run.
“Here’s the young rascal,” the uncle said as the boy went in at the
broad, low door. Rembrandt noticed that he held one of Wilhelmina’s
shoes, and his heart sank. But a moment later he was as much amazed as he
had been alarmed, for his mother spoke pleasantly and asked, “Would you
really like to be a painter?”
“A painter?” he answered quickly. “More than anything else in the world.”
Then his father smiled, too, which seemed strange indeed, for he had
declared that his son never should become an artist. Often Rembrandt had
dreamed of being one, and when he spoke to his mother about it the idea
seemed to please her. But the sturdy Dutch miller shook his head and
announced that his boy must become a syndic, one of the wise lawgivers of
Holland, or else a miller like himself. So, instead of being allowed to
spend his days drawing the pictures that were constantly running through
his fancy, Rembrandt had been sent to the Latin school to do sums and
conjugations. It seemed impossible that the miller could have changed his
mind; but he had changed it, for he said, “Very well. We will see about
it.”
Then, while the mill sails whirred above them, and the voices of passing
market folk came in through the open window, the merchant uncle told what
seemed to Rembrandt a wonderful story.
“This morning, as I was opening the shop,” he began, “Speelburg, the
schoolmaster, came to talk about the pictures on Wilhelmina’s shoes. He
urged me not to be too hard on the lad because he had thought much about
it during the night and had come to believe that perhaps Rembrandt
cannot help drawing. He is a wise man, this Speelburg, and told me much
of how the young masters Giotto, Cimabue, and Raphael had made pictures
on stones, sand, and anything that would hold a drawing, and that their
parents could no more prevent it than they could keep water from running
downhill. He thinks our Rembrandt may be like them, and so he offered to
tend the shop for me if I would come and ask you, his father, to let him
study with Master Swannenburg.”
Those words were music to Rembrandt’s ears, for Swannenburg was the
master painter of Leyden.
An hour later, miller and merchant went through the old White Gate into
the city, and Rembrandt trudged along beside them, carrying a roll of
paper. As they hurried along the highway his eyes gleamed, for it seemed
to him like a dream come true, and the stern Dutch schoolmaster began to
appear in the guise of a fairy godfather. He did not see the market folk
they passed on the way, did not hear the murmur of the Rhine sweeping
seaward just beyond them, for the thought that he might become a painter
had crowded out all other things.
Very soon they reached the workshop of the artist, and knew what the
great man thought of the sketches, for as he looked them over he
murmured, “H’m, h’m! Pretty good! The old woman’s head is too small for
her body, and a pig never had legs as crooked as that; but he will learn,
and if he is willing to work I’ll gladly take him as a pupil.”
So Rembrandt went into the studio of the painter, for his father had come
to believe that he was intended for neither a syndic nor a miller. He was
so eager to learn that he worked with all his might, and his progress
amazed his teacher, who, although he knew he had talent, had not dreamed
he could advance so rapidly. Before two years were gone his pictures
were better than those of Swannenburg himself, who said sadly one day, “I
am no longer the master painter of Leyden.”
But that artist had a great, good heart, and he was so glad to see the
boy’s progress that he helped him all he could.
Now it happened, about the time the work of the miller’s son was causing
Leyden folk to open their eyes, that Jan Lievens, who was a successful
painter in Amsterdam, came home to visit his parents, who were neighbors
of Rembrandt’s family. He was greatly excited over the work of his young
friend and exclaimed, “You must go back to Amsterdam with me, for the
best masters of Holland are there, and you must study with them.”
The idea seemed good to the miller, who was very proud of the progress
of his son; so to Amsterdam young Rembrandt went, where he progressed as
amazingly as he had done in the studio of Swannenburg. The great harbor
city fascinated him, and he loved to roam along its splendid streets
watching the people hurrying to and fro or idling in groups on the
corners, laughing and chatting in their merry Dutch way; loved to go to
the docks where ships came in from the Indies, and to see the sunrise
and sunset painting marvelous-hued pictures on the waves of the wild
North Sea. Then he would go back to the studio and work, picturing the
men and women he saw on his rambles, the mill by the old White Gate, and
the market folk he used to watch from the Leyden ramparts. His paintings
delighted the great of Amsterdam just as the pigs and chickens he drew on
Wilhelmina’s shoes had delighted the boys and girls in the Latin school,
and he became rich and famous. He lived in a palace fine enough for a
prince, and could have bought whole cargoes of those ships that sailed in
from the Indies; and his wealth seemed all the more glorious because he
had earned it with the labor of his hand and brain. He married a great
and gracious lady, and as his children drove through the streets in
their fine carriage the people would say, “See, the son and daughter of
Rembrandt van Rijn, the wonderful painter.”
But all his good fortune and all the honors heaped upon him did not make
him selfish and overbearing. He never forgot or ceased to love his native
Leyden. He lived in the harbor city because it fascinated him and was a
better place for an artist than his childhood town, but he never tired of
going back to the old home or lost interest in the pigs and cows and the
market folk on the Rhine road. Sometimes on these visits he would lie on
the ramparts just as he had done when a boy, and strangers journeying to
and from The Hague had no idea that the grave-eyed man dreaming there in
the shadow of the mill sails was the famous painter of Amsterdam.
Then, one day he died, and they laid him to rest in the harbor city where
for so many years he had lived and worked. The people of Leyden asked
to have him taken back there, and those who know how he loved it wish
it had been done; for it would be pleasant to think of him sleeping in
the shadow of the mill sails, and perhaps if he could have been asked he
would have wanted it, too.
Years passed, but instead of dimming the glory of Rembrandt’s name they
brightened it. After his death his works became priceless, and the world
still prizes them just as Amsterdam prized them two hundred years ago.
To own a canvas by this king of Dutch painters is to be rich and envied,
for it requires a great deal of money to buy one of his paintings. Even
the crude drawings of his boyhood are now treasured by princes, and one
of the most prized possessions of a great museum in Holland is a pair of
wooden shoes. They are brown and clumsy and covered with marks, half of
which have been worn away by the staining finger of Time; but a fortune
could not buy them, because ever so long ago they were worn by little
Wilhelmina van Rijn to the Latin school of Leyden, and were decorated by
the hand of a mill boy, and who would not be proud to own them? That mill
boy became the immortal Flemish painter, Rembrandt, whose work will be
treasured as long as the world loves beautiful things.
THE LADY OF STAVOREN
RETOLD FROM A DUTCH LEGEND
(_Geography—Ethics_)
There was once, in Holland, a great and beautiful city called Stavoren.
It stood beside the sea, and many of the inhabitants were proud and rich.
They had houses stately enough for royal palaces. They had gold and
silver plate and diamonds without number, and great oaken chests filled
with money. Their vessels sailed to the farthest parts of the ocean and
brought back treasures from every land, and as the wealth of the people
increased their selfishness increased, until they thought of nothing but
their good fortune and had no pity for the poor.
Richest of all the rich folk in the city was a stately, beautiful woman.
There was no home in Stavoren as princely as hers, there were no jewels
as gorgeous or silks and velvets as lustrous as those she possessed, and
when she drove through the streets in her gold-blazoned carriage her
splendor dazzled the eyes of all who saw. But she was as selfish as she
was rich and powerful, and always she pondered in her mind the question,
“How can I become richer still?”
One day she summoned the captain of her largest vessel and said, “Make
ready to sail at once.”
“Yes, madame,” the officer replied, “but where shall I go and upon what
mission?”
“Where you go you must decide for yourself, for I care nothing about
that. But you must bring back the most precious cargo in all the world.”
The man looked at her in surprise.
“That shall I gladly do, madame,” he said, “if you will but tell me what
you wish. Is it to be gold and silver, diamonds and jewels, or rare
laces, tapestries, and velvets?”
The rich woman tossed her head and replied haughtily, “There is but one
thing in the world more precious than all others, and what it is you must
find out. I have given my orders. Go now and fulfill them.”
The captain was greatly troubled, for he feared the anger of his
mistress. She was so powerful that she could have him thrown into prison
or even put to death if she chose, and as he walked down the street from
the house he thought, “What is the most precious thing in all the world?”
Sometimes he thought it was one thing and sometimes another, but when he
reached the shipyard he had not decided. He called to the officers and
sailors standing there, told them of the woman’s strange order, and said
sadly, “But, alas! I know not what it may be. If any among you can tell,
let him speak.”
Every one thought a minute, then came a chorus of suggestions. One
officer suggested gold, another silver, and another precious stones, but
the captain was not sure which was right. He must not decide too quickly,
for to make a mistake would be a terrible thing.
Silently listening the sailors stood, for according to the law of the
city they must not open their lips until the officers had had their say.
Then one of the group, a slender, blue-eyed fellow, who seemed no more
than a boy, said, “No, my captain! The most precious thing in the world
is neither gold and silver, pearls and diamonds, nor costly laces and
velvets. It is wheat, for without it we could have no bread, and without
bread we cannot live.”
Some of the officers laughed at this idea, for common sailors were not
supposed to know much. But the captain quieted them, saying, “He is
right. We will sail away and bring back a cargo of wheat.”
So they sailed out of the harbor, and across the Baltic to Dantzic.
There they bought a great cargo of wheat, the largest that had ever been
started out to sea, and the captain, delighted with the purchase, turned
the ship’s prow back toward Stavoren town.
He could hardly wait to get to his mistress and tell her what a wise and
wonderful choice he had made. She frowned when she saw him, displeased
that he had returned so soon.
“You must have flown like a pigeon,” she said. “Have you brought me the
cargo I ordered?”
“Yes, madame,” he replied, bowing low before her. “I have the finest
cargo of wheat that ever went out of a port.”
The woman screamed in anger. “Wheat!” she yelled. “A cargo of wheat! I
told you to bring me the most precious thing in the world, and do you
mean to say that you have brought a common, cheap thing like wheat?”
The captain was terribly frightened, but he did not regret his selection.
He believed in the value of his cargo, and tried to lead the woman to see
that he had made a wise purchase.
“Pardon, madame,” he spoke. “Wheat is not cheap and common. It is in
truth the most precious thing in the world, for without it we could have
no bread, and without bread we could not live.”
But he could not convince his mistress. She tossed her head and wrung her
hands in anger and exclaimed, “Wheat! Wheat! Go to the port and throw
your precious cargo of wheat into the sea.”
The captain was horrified.
“Madame!” he exclaimed, “surely you do not command me to do that! Wheat
is precious. If you will not have it yourself, give it to the poor and
hungry, of whom there are many in Stavoren.”
But she drove him from the house, saying, “Do as I bid you. In a few
minutes I shall come myself to see if you have carried out my order.”
Sadly the man went down the street, wondering how one so rich and
beautiful could be so hard and unkind. But he had no thought of executing
the order. Instead, he told all the poor he met, and dispatched
messengers to tell others, that his mistress had refused to accept the
cargo of wheat and perhaps, if they came to the port and asked her, she
would give it to them.
A little later the great lady of Stavoren drove in her gold-emblazoned
carriage to the shipyard, where a group of men, women, and children had
joined the sailors and stood looking at the splendid vessel piled high
with the best wheat that ever came out of Dantzic. But when she saw them
her anger increased.
“Have you carried out my orders?” she said to the captain, as he came in
answer to her summons and stood beside the carriage.
“No, madame, not yet,” he replied.
“Then,” the woman commanded, “do it at once. Throw the cargo of wheat
into the sea. I want to see, myself.”
But the captain shook his head. “See these poor people,” he said,
pointing to the hollow-eyed men, women, and children who were standing
there. “Give them the wheat, for they are hungry.”
But the haughty woman silenced him and commanded, “Throw it into the sea!”
Then the captain seemed afraid no longer. He stood straight and fearless
before her and declared, “Never, madame!”
But she shouted word to the officers, who dared not disobey, and amid the
cries and pleas of the poor, the cargo that would have meant bread for
thousands, was thrown into the sea.
The woman watched the waters swallow it up and smiled heartlessly. Then
she called to the people, “Did you see it go into the waves?”
“Yes, madame,” they answered sadly.
“Yes, madame,” repeated the captain, “and a day will come when you will
regret what you have done. A day will come when you will be hungry, and
no one will pity and help you.”
The mistress looked at him in amazement. Then she laughed loudly. “I, go
hungry,” she exclaimed, “I, the richest of all the rich of Stavoren! It
is impossible!”
Then she took a diamond ring, held it up for the people to see, and
tossed it into the ocean. “When that ring returns into my hand,” she
said, “I shall believe what the captain has said.” And she drove away in
her splendid carriage, and boasted to the citizens of what she had done.
The next day one of her servants came running to her in wild excitement.
“Madame,” she cried, “the cook has found this in the stomach of a fish he
is preparing for dinner.” And she held up the diamond ring the woman had
tossed into the sea the day before.
The great lady of Stavoren opened her eyes wide and wider. She was amazed
and frightened, for she remembered the captain’s words. “Can it be,” she
thought, “that they are to come true?”
It proved to be just as she feared, for that same afternoon she received
word of the destruction of all her ships, of the loss of all her houses
and lands, of the pillaging of her chests of gold. She was no longer the
richest woman in Stavoren, but was as poor as any beggar. She went from
house to house, begging for food as pitifully as the people at the port
had begged her for wheat, but no one helped her, and at last she died
from cold and hunger.
The other rich folk of Stavoren still lived on in the old selfish way.
They drove through the streets in sumptuous carriages. They wore costly
clothing and jewels, they danced and feasted and sailed their vessels out
across the seas, forgetful of every one but themselves. There were still
many poor in the city, but they neither thought nor cared about them.
They believed themselves to be so great and powerful that nothing could
harm them, and they refused to listen to advice.
After a while the port of Stavoren became blocked by a great sandbank.
It rose just at the spot where the lady’s cargo had been thrown into the
sea, and was covered with wheat. Ships could no longer go in and out.
Commerce was ruined, and because there were no vessels to unload, the
poor lost the only way they had of making a living. They begged the rich
people to help them dig the bar away, but they refused. They had enough
to eat and plenty of gold, so what cared they for the distress of the
laborers?
Then something else happened. One night as they feasted, a man came
running into the banquet hall. “I have found two fish in my well,” he
said. “The dike is broken. Protect the city! Protect the houses of the
poor that are close to the sea wall and will be swept away.”
But one of the great folk said haughtily, “Let the beggars take care of
themselves. The sea cannot harm us. We must finish the banquet.” They
turned away from him and went on with their revelry, but only for a short
time. A few hours later the entire dike gave away, and the ocean rolled
in and covered the houses,—not only the huts of the poor which were in
the low quarter of the city, but even the palaces of the rich who had
declared they could not be harmed. The great perished as well as the
humble, and the waves of the Zuider Zee rolled where the banquet laughter
had sounded.
It rolls there still. The sailors say that sometimes when the weather
is fine and the sea is smooth as glass, they see spires and domes and
stately columns far down under the water. They declare, too, that often
strange, weird music like the sound of distant bells falls upon their
ears, and then they look and listen and nod to each other, for they think
of the palaces and chimes of Stavoren, once the fairest city of the
Netherlands, submerged hundreds of years ago while the poor cried for
help and the mighty danced.
THE LUCK BOAT OF LAKE GENEVA
A SWISS LEGEND
(_Geography_)