The Silver Skates Read online

  On their return, the boys pronounced the great porcelain stove in the family sitting room a decidedly useful piece of furniture, for they could gather round it and get warm without burning their noses or bringing on chilblains. It was so very large that, though hot nowhere, it seemed to send out warmth by the houseful. Its pure white sides and polished brass rings made it a pretty object to look upon, notwithstanding the fact that our ungrateful Ben, while growing thoroughly warm and comfortable beside it, concocted a satirical sentence for his next letter, to the effect that a stove in Holland must of course resemble a great tower of snow or it wouldn’t be in keeping with the oddity of the country.

  To describe all the boys saw and did on that day and the next would render this little book a formidable volume indeed. They visited the brass cannon foundry, saw the liquid fire poured into moulds, and watched the smiths who, half naked, stood in the shadow, like demons playing with flame. They admired the grand public buildings and massive private houses, the elegant streets and noble Bosch – pride of all beauty-loving Hollanders. The palace, with its brilliant mosaic floors, its frescoed ceilings and gorgeous ornament, filled Ben with delight. He was surprised that some of the churches were so very plain – elaborate sometimes in external architecture, but bare and bleak within with their blank whitewashed walls.

  If there were no printed record, the churches of Holland would almost tell her story. I will not enter into the subject here, except to say that Ben – who had read of her struggles and wrongs, and of the terrible retribution she from time to time dealt forth – could scarcely tread a Holland town without mentally leaping horror-stricken over the bloody stepping stones of its history. He could not forget Philip of Spain nor the Duke of Alba, even while rejoicing in the prosperity that followed the liberation. He looked in the meekest of Dutch eyes for something of the fire that once lit the haggard faces of those desperate, lawless men who, wearing with pride the title of “Beggars” which their oppressors had mockingly cast upon them, became the terror of land and sea. In Haarlem he had wondered that the air did not still resound with the cries of Alba’s three thousand victims. In Leiden his heart had swelled in sympathy as he thought of the long procession of scarred and famished creatures who after the siege, with Pieter van der Werff at their head, tottered to the great church to sing a glorious anthem because Leiden was free! He remembered that this was even before they had tasted the bread brought by the Dutch ships. They would praise God first, then eat. Thousands of trembling voices were raised in glad thanksgiving. For a moment it swelled higher and higher, then suddenly changed to sobbing – not one of all the multitude could sing another note. But who shall say that the anthem, even to its very end, was not heard in heaven?

  Here, in The Hague, other thoughts came to Ben. Of how Holland in later years unwillingly put her head under the French yoke, and how, galled and lashed past endurance, she had resolutely jerked it out again. He liked her for that. What nation of any spirit, thought he, could be expected to stand such work, paying all her wealth into a foreign treasury, and yielding up the flower of her youth under foreign conscription?* It was not so very long ago, either, since English guns had been heard booming close by the German Ocean. Well, all the fighting was over at last. Holland was a snug little monarchy now in her own right, and Ben, for one, was glad of it. Arrived at this charitable conclusion, he was prepared to enjoy to the utmost all the wonders of her capital. He quite delighted Mynheer van Gend with his hearty and intelligent interest – so, in fact, did all the boys, for a merrier, more observant party never went sightseeing.

  Chapter 28

  Through The Hague

  The picture gallery in the Mauritshuis, one of the finest in the world, seemed only to have flashed by the boys during a two hours’ visit, so much was there to admire and examine. As for the royal cabinet of curiosities in the same building, they felt that they had but glanced at it, though they were there nearly half a day. It seemed to them that Japan had poured all her treasures within its walls. For a long period, Holland, always foremost in commerce, was the only nation allowed to have an intercourse with Japan. One can well forgo a journey to that country if he can but visit the museum at The Hague.

  Room after room is filled with collections from the Hermit Empire* – costumes peculiar to various ranks and pursuits, articles of ornament, household utensils, weapons, armour and surgical instruments. There is also an ingenious Japanese model of the island of Dejima, the Dutch factory in Japan. It appears almost as the island itself would if seen through a reversed opera glass, and makes one feel like a Gulliver coming unexpectedly upon a Japanese Lilliput.* There you see hundreds of people in native costumes, standing, kneeling, stooping, reaching – all at work, or pretending to be – and their dwellings, even their very furniture, spread out before you, plain as day. In another room a huge tortoiseshell baby house, fitted up in Dutch style and inhabited by dignified Dutch dolls, stands ready to tell you at a glance how people live in Holland.

  Gretel, Hilda, Katrinka, even the proud Rychie Korbes, would have been delighted with this, but Peter and his gallant band passed it by without a glance. The war implements had the honour of detaining them for an hour – such clubs, such murderous krits* or daggers, such firearms and, above all, such wonderful Japanese swords, quite capable of performing the accredited Japanese feat of cutting a man in two at a single stroke!

  There were Chinese and other oriental curiosities in the collection. Native historical relics, too, upon which our young Dutchmen gazed very soberly, though they were secretly proud to show them to Ben.

  There was a model of the cabin at Zaandam in which Peter the Great lived during his short career as a shipbuilder. Also wallets and bowls once carried by the “Beggar” confederates who, uniting under the Prince of Orange, had freed Holland from the tyranny of Spain;* the sword of Admiral van Speyk, who about ten years before had perished in voluntarily blowing up his own ship; and Tromp’s armour with the marks of bullets upon it. Jacob looked around, hoping to see the broom which the plucky admiral fastened to his masthead, but it was not there. The waistcoat which William III of England wore during the last days of his life possessed great interest for Ben, and one and all gazed with a mixture of reverence and horror worship at the identical clothing worn by William the Silent when he was murdered at Delft by Balthasar Gérard. A tawny leather doublet and plain surcoat of grey cloth, a soft felt hat and a high neck-ruff from which hung one of the “Beggars’” medals – these were not in themselves very princely objects, though the doublet had a tragic interest from its dark stains and bullet holes. Ben could readily believe, as he looked upon the garments, that the silent prince, true to his greatness of character, had been exceedingly simple in his attire. His aristocratic prejudices were, however, decidedly shocked when Lambert told him of the way in which William’s bride first entered The Hague.

  “The beautiful Louise de Coligny, whose father and former husband both had fallen at the massacre of St Bartholomew,* was coming to be fourth wife to the prince, and of course,” said Lambert, “we Hollanders were too gallant to allow the lady to enter the town on foot. No, sir, we sent (or rather my ancestors did) a clean open post-wagon to meet her, with a plank across it for her to sit upon!”

  “Very gallant indeed!” exclaimed Ben, with almost a sneer in his polite laugh. “And she the daughter of an admiral of France.”

  “Was she? Upon my word I had nearly forgotten that. But you see, Holland had very plain ways in the good old time. In fact, we are a very simple, frugal people to this day. The van Gend establishment is a decided exception, you know.”

  “A very agreeable exception, I think,” said Ben.

  “Certainly, certainly. But between you and me, Mynheer van Gend, though he has wrought his own fortunes, can afford to be magnificent, and yet be frugal.”

  “Exactly so,” said Ben profoundly, at the same time stroking upper lip and chin, which latterly he belie
ved had been showing delightful and unmistakable signs of coming dignities.

  While tramping on foot through the city, Ben often longed for a good English sidewalk. Here, as in the other towns, there was no kerb, no raised pavement for foot travellers, but the streets were clean and even, and all vehicles were kept scrupulously within a certain tract. Strange to say, there were nearly as many sleds as wagons to be seen, though there was not a particle of snow. The sleds went scraping over the bricks or cobblestones, some provided with an apparatus in front for sprinkling water, to diminish the friction, and some rendered less musical by means of a dripping oil rag, which the driver occasionally applied to the runners.

  Ben was surprised at the noiseless way in which Dutch labourers do their work. Even around the warehouses and docks there was no bustle, no shouting from one to another. A certain twitch of the pipe, or turn of the head, or, at most, a raising of the hand, seemed to be all the signal necessary. Entire loads of cheeses or herrings are pitched from cart or canal boat into the warehouses without a word, but the passer-by must take his chance of being pelted, for a Dutchman seldom looks before or behind him while engaged at work.

  Poor Jacob Poot, who seemed destined to bear all the mishaps of the journey, was knocked nearly breathless by a great cheese, which a fat Dutchman was throwing to a fellow labourer, but he recovered himself, and passed on without evincing the least indignation.

  Ben professed great sympathy on the occasion, but Jacob insisted that it was “notting”.

  “Then why did you screw your face so when it hit you?”

  “What for screw mine face,” repeated Jacob soberly, “vy, it vash de – de…”

  “The what?” insisted Ben maliciously.

  “Vy, de – de – vat you call dis, vat you taste mit de nose?”

  Ben laughed.

  “Oh, you mean the smell.”

  “Yesh. Dat ish it,” said Jacob eagerly, “it wash de shmell. I draw mine face for dat!”

  “Ha! Ha!” roared Ben. “That’s a good one. A Dutch boy smell a cheese. You can never make me believe that!”

  “Vell, it is no matter,” replied Jacob, trudging on beside Ben in perfect good humour, “vait till you hit mit cheese – dat ish all.”

  Soon he added pathetically: “Penchamin, I no likes be call Tutch – dat ish no goot. I bees a Hollander.”

  Just as Ben was apologizing, Lambert hailed him.

  “Hold up, Ben! Here is the fish market. There is not much to be seen at this season. But we can take a look at the storks if you wish.”

  Ben knew that storks were held in peculiar reverence in Holland, and that the bird figured upon the arms of the capital. He had noticed cartwheels placed upon the roofs of Dutch cottages to entice storks to settle upon them. He had seen their huge nests, too, on many a thatched gable roof from Broek to The Hague. But it was winter now. The nests were empty. No greedy birdlings opened their mouths – or rather their heads – at the approach of a great white-winged thing, with outstretched neck and legs, bearing a dangling something for their breakfast. The long bills were far away, picking up food on African shores, and before they would return in the spring, Ben’s visit to the land of dykes would be over.

  Therefore he pressed eagerly forwards, as van Mounen led the way through the fish market, anxious to see if storks in Holland were anything like the melancholy specimens he had seen in the Zoological Gardens of London.

  It was the same old story. A tamed bird is a sad bird – say what you will. These storks lived in a sort of kennel, chained by the feet like felons, though supposed to be honoured by being kept at the public expense. In summer they were allowed to walk about the market, where the fish stalls were like so many free dining saloons to them. Untasted delicacies in the form of raw fish and butcher’s offals lay about their kennels now, but the city guests preferred to stand upon one leg, curving back their long neck and leaning their head sideways, in a blinking reverie. How gladly they would have changed their petted state for the busy life of some hard-working stork mother, or father, bringing up a troublesome family on the roof of a rickety old building, where flapping windmills frightened them half to death every time they ventured forth on a frolic.

  Ben soon made up his mind – and rightly too – that The Hague, with its fine streets and public parks shaded with elms, was a magnificent city. The prevailing costume was like that of London or Paris, and his British ears were many a time cheered by the music of British words. The shops were different in many respects from those in Oxford Street and the Strand, but they often were illumined by a printed announcement that English was “spoken within”. Others proclaimed themselves to have London stout for sale – and one actually promised to regale its customers with English roast beef.

  Over every possible shop door was the never-failing placard: “Tabak te koop” (tobacco to be sold). Instead of coloured glass globes in the windows, or high jars of leeches, the drug stores had a gaping Turk’s head at the entrance – or, if the establishment were particularly fine, a wooden mandarin entire, indulging in a full yawn.

  Some of these queer faces amused Ben exceedingly: they seemed to have just swallowed a dose of physic, but van Mounen declared he could not see anything funny about them. A druggist showed his sense by putting a gaper before his door, so that his place could be known at once as an apotheek, and that was all there was about it.

  Another thing attracted Ben – the milkmen’s carts. These were small affairs, filled with shiny brass kettles, or stone jars, and drawn by dogs. The milkman walked meekly beside his cart, keeping his dog in order, and delivering the milk to customers. Certain fish dealers had dog carts also, and when a herring dog chanced to meet a milk dog, he invariably put on airs and growled as he passed. Sometimes a milk dog would recognize an acquaintance before another milk-cart across the street, and then how the kettles would rattle, especially if they were empty! Each dog would give a bound and, never caring for his master’s whistle, insist upon meeting the other halfway. Sometimes they contented themselves with an inquisitive sniff, but generally the smaller dog made an affectionate snap at the larger one’s ear, or a friendly tussle was engaged in by way of exercise. Then woe to the milk kettles, and woe to the dogs!

  The whipping over, each dog, expressing his feelings as best he could, would trot leisurely back to his work.

  If some of these animals were eccentric in their ways, others were remarkably well behaved. In fact, there was a school for dogs in the city, established expressly for training them. Ben probably saw some of its graduates. Many a time he noticed a span of barkers trotting along the street with all the dignity of horses, obeying the slightest hint of the man walking briskly beside them. Sometimes, when their load was delivered, the dealer would jump in the cart, and have a fine drive to his home beyond the gates of the city. And sometimes, I regret to say, a patient vrouw would trudge beside the cart, with fish-basket upon her head, and a child in her arms, while her lord enjoyed his drive, carrying no heavier burden than a stumpy clay pipe, the smoke of which mounted lovingly into her face.

  Chapter 29

  A Day of Rest

  The sightseeing came to an end at last, and so did our boys’ visit to The Hague. They had spent three happy days and nights with the van Gends, and, strange to say, had not once, in all that time, put on skates. The third day had indeed been one of rest. The noise and bustle of the city was hushed. Sweet Sunday bells sent blessed, tranquil thoughts into their hearts. Ben felt, as he listened to their familiar music, that the Christian world is one, after all, however divided by sects and differences it may be. As the clock speaks everyone’s native language in whatever land it may strike the hour, so church bells are never foreign if our hearts but listen.

  Led on by those clear voices, our party, with Mevrouw van Gend and her husband, trod the quiet but crowded streets, until they came to a fine old church in the southern part of the city.
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  The interior was large and, notwithstanding its great stained windows, seemed dimly lit, though the walls were white, and dashes of red and purple sunshine lay brightly upon pillar and pew.

  Ben saw a few old women moving softly through the aisles, each bearing a high pile of foot stoves which she distributed among the congregation by skilfully slipping out the under one until none were left. It puzzled him that Mynheer should settle himself with the boys in a comfortable side pew, after seating his vrouw in the body of the church, which was filled with chairs exclusively appropriated to the women. But Ben was learning only a common custom of the country.

  The pews of the nobility and the dignitaries of the city were circular in form, each surrounding a column. Elaborately carved, they formed a massive base to their great pillars standing out in bold relief against the blank white walls beyond. These columns, lofty and well proportioned, were nicked and defaced from violence done to them long ago, yet it seemed quite fitting that, before they were lost in the deep arches overhead, their softened outlines should leaf out as they did into richness and beauty.

  Soon Ben lowered his gaze to the marble floor. It was a pavement of gravestones. Nearly all the large slabs of which it was composed marked the resting places of the dead. An armorial design engraved upon each stone, with inscription and date, told whose form was sleeping beneath, and sometimes three of a family were lying one above the other in the same sepulchre.

  He could not but think of the solemn funeral procession winding by torchlight through those lofty aisles, and bearing its silent burden towards a dark opening whence a slab had been lifted in readiness for its coming. It was something to feel that his sister Mabel, who died in her flower, was lying in a sunny churchyard, where a brook rippled and sparkled in the daylight, and waving trees whispered together all night long; where flowers might nestle close to the headstone, and moon and stars shed their peace upon it, and morning birds sing sweetly overhead.