CHAPTER XI

THREE HUNDRED WINDMILLS

Two rooms high up in a modest little hotel just off the “Dam” were considered satisfactory quarters for the three travellers who arrived in Amsterdam late one evening in early June. “The rooms have the advantage of facing the street and of being off to themselves,” said Miss Cavendish, viewing them complacently, “and I am sure they are very cheap, though I have always heard that in Holland one must expect to pay high prices for everything. To be sure this doesn’t compare with what one gets in Italy for the same money, but it is much better than I expected. We get our breakfast at the hotel, our dinner in the restaurant below and our luncheon wherever we happen to be.”

“I like that arrangement,” responded Gabriella; “it gives a pleasing variety, and is quite different from any process of living that we have indulged in.” She was perched upon the broad window-sill in their room, looking down upon the street. Miss Cavendish was occupied in unpacking her small trunk, and Sidney, in the next room, was absorbed in her letters which she found awaiting her. “Do you know what I find rather remarkable?” continued Gabriella, after watching the passers-by for some minutes. “Here in Amsterdam the people remind me of Americans. In Italy one expects to see the Latin type prevailing; in Germany one has no difficulty in realizing that he is running up against the Teuton race; in Switzerland there is no mistaking the fact that you are in a foreign country, but if I were to fall asleep in New York and were to wake up in Amsterdam I should never know that I had crossed the seas unless I looked up at the houses, or happened to catch sight of a woman with gilt bed-springs over her ears, or a gold plate under her cap. So far as the actual physiognomy is concerned they might as well be my own townsmen.”

“That is rather interesting.” Miss Cavendish looked up from a small work-box she was emptying into her lap. “I can’t think what I did with those buttons. I’ll come and join you, Gabriella, and pursue this study of mankind, just as soon as I can find that big pearl button that belongs to my grey shirt-waist. Where could I have put it?”

“It’s in that little box where you keep your cuff-pins,” Gabriella told her. “I saw them there when I upset the box the other day. Hurry up, Gem, this is a fine place for observing the world of Amsterdam. To be sure we are rather high up in that world, and can only get a bird’s-eye view, but it is entertaining to look down on the people, and across at the long narrow houses with their gable ends toward the street; then there are the domes and cupolas and clock towers to see. Listen to those carillons. That’s the word, isn’t it? Aren’t they fascinating? That is one thing that impresses me over here: the wonderful chiming of the bells. Shall you ever forget how they sounded in Florence? They seem to ring out history every hour. Yes, this isn’t a bad location, though I am rather sorry we are not right on a canal; still this is very convenient. Where to-morrow, Gem?”

“To the Museum, I think, unless you would rather explore some of the little places near by; there are ever so many of them: Zaandam, Monnikendam, Volendam, Broek, Marken.”

“Let’s take Amsterdam first and sandwich the other places between, though I must say I am wild to see more of the windmills and dikes that we caught sight of as we came along.”

“I think then it would be rather a good plan to take the cloudy days for Amsterdam and the bright ones for the outside places, as this is not sunny Italy, and we may expect rain at any time.”

“We certainly don’t want to visit Marken in the rain,” remarked Sidney, coming in, “and yet we do want to see Amsterdam to the best advantage.”

“We’ll go to the Museum to-morrow, then, and trust to luck for the next day,” Miss Cavendish decided.

“We must have a good, clear and large map,” she announced, as they started forth the next morning. “The one in the guide book is rather small, and Amsterdam is not so simply laid out as some of the other cities. All these canals are bewildering.” The map was secured, and they triumphantly started off to find their way on foot to the Rijks Museum. It was a cool morning; a stiff breeze was blowing, reminding them of their proximity to the sea; over the sky flying clouds were scudding, though the sun was shining, and the city had that clean, newly washed look that seaside cities are likely to present. At the first corner Miss Cavendish opened her map in order to get her bearings. The map was larger than she had supposed, being not smaller than a newspaper’s double sheet, and it took the three to hold it down, for the fresh breeze flapped it in their faces, and threatened to carry it off bodily. As the three heads were bent studiously over the labyrinthine lines designed to show streets and canals, the attention of passers-by was arrested. Here were strangers in difficulty, and the kindly spirit of two or three was disturbed. One of them approached. “Did they speak Dutch?”

“No.” Each stranger shook her head.

Perhaps French. The speaker knew a little. Therefore in French they made known their dilemma. The shortest way to the Rijks Museum was what they wished to discover. The young man gave them careful directions. They were to follow the street, upon which they were, to a certain corner, then turn off till they came to the Park Hotel, and they would then have no trouble in finding the Museum.

They thanked their informant and started off again valiantly, feeling quite sure of their way, but they had gone only a short distance, the length perhaps of two or three blocks, when Miss Cavendish looked around with a puzzled expression. “I am afraid that we are off the track,” she said hesitatingly. “We seem to be going around in a circle. You know these streets and canals do follow a horse-shoe curve. I think we’d better look at the map again before we go further.” Therefore the map was again unfolded to the breeze and upon its flapping surface Miss Cavendish tried to outline their road.

They were still engaged in a discussion over it, and were anxiously looking up and down the street, when Sidney clutched Miss Cavendish. “Here he comes,” she cried.

“Who? Who?” asked both the others.

“The young man who showed us the way. Put up the map. Let him think we have stopped to tie our shoes or that we are interested in the architecture of this building--anything.”

A tumultuous effort was made to fold up the map, but in the strong wind it proved itself an obstreperous offender, and was only too plainly in evidence when the young man stepped smilingly up to them. There was no explanation to be made. Their flag of distress was obvious in the flapping map. It was only too apparent that they had again lost their way, and when the young Dutchman politely offered to pilot them they meekly accepted his escort.

“But we shall be taking you out of your way, and using your valuable time,” expostulated Miss Cavendish, as it became evident that he did not mean to lose sight of them till they had reached the very doors of the Museum.

“I am not too busy to do the honors of my city,” returned their guide. “Some day I may be in your New York and then I shall be very glad if one of your countrymen will show me the way.” And at the suggested compensation they had nothing to say except to declare that if it might fall to their lot, hereafter, to pilot any Dutchman through the mazes of New York streets, they would do it gratefully. With a few parting directions the young man left them at their destination, and they soon became absorbed in the treasures displayed.

“I had no idea that I should like the old Dutch masters so well,” said Gabriella, pausing before a fine Rembrandt. “I fancied an array of burgomasters and juffrouws, painted in a very low key, would not specially appeal to me, but they are wonderful. Look at those hands; they are so carefully studied and yet they are painted broadly.”

“You may notice that all these Dutch painters were careful of their drawing,” Miss Cavendish drew attention to the fact.

“I don’t care particularly for their subjects. This large gathering of worthy members of guilds isn’t so very interesting. I prefer the miles of saints in the Italian galleries.” Sidney signified the pictures with a comprehensive wave of the hand.

“I must confess I like the Dutchmen,” Gabriella maintained, “and I like Franz Hals particularly. Of course the ‘Night Watch’ is magnificent; no one can dispute that, but somehow it seems to me that Franz Hals combines the best qualities of the old school and the modern. There is nothing photographic about his work, and yet it doesn’t look like a crazy quilt, though it is broadly enough painted to suit an impressionist. If I had belonged to the honorable guild of cap-makers, or apron-wearers, I should have had Franz Hals paint my portrait when I was young, and when I became a dear old mutterkin in a cap I should have preferred Rembrandt; nobody ever painted old women as he did.”

The clouds which had overclouded the sky when they started forth in the morning, now fulfilled their promise of rain, and a steady downpour had set in; therefore they concluded to take luncheon in the restaurant attached to the Museum and to continue their examination of the many objects of interest at hand.

“This Museum is a nice, safe, dry place,” said Miss Cavendish, “and I think we may as well browse around here the rest of the day. There is some beautiful old furniture to see.”

“And that queer collection of Dutch national costumes on life-size figures; we must be sure not to miss that,” suggested Sidney.

“It was a day well spent,” Miss Cavendish uttered the words as they climbed the steep stairway to their rooms, “but oh, I am tired,” she added, “and I am thankful we have no further to go than downstairs for our dinner.”

“I wonder whether all the Dutchmen are as good-natured and polite as our little guide,” said Gabriella, gazing out of the window at the wet street. “He certainly did exhibit the kindliest interest in us. Imagine finding anyone in our rushing America who would take the time to do such a favor for a party of strangers. They are busy here, but they are deliberate in the matter of business, and the respite from rush is refreshing. I wonder if we shall have seven kinds of cheese for dinner, Gem?”

“Did you like the breakfast?”

“Yes; it was a change from the usual Continental breakfast. The coffee was the best I have tasted since I left home, and the butter was delicious, but from such an array of cold meats and cheese it was hard to choose, and I ended up by sampling so many kinds of cheese that I was rather unhappy for an hour afterward. I suppose it was too fresh for American digestion. I’ll abstain next time.”

“Amsterdam is rather fascinating, don’t you think?” questioned Sidney, joining Gabriella at the window. “It must be the canals that make it so, at least it is partly that. It is something like Venice in having so many waterways, though it is really not a bit like it, for here the streets provide a road on each side the canals and a waterway down the middle, while in Venice we rarely had even a sidewalk; it was all water.”

“That flower market that we saw this morning was beautiful,” observed Gabriella; “all those bright flowers in the canal boats reflected in the water, and the long shady street. It must be the trees, Sid, that make the difference; there are so many here, and in Venice scarcely any. For a summer day what pleasanter combination than cool looking grey and white houses, and shaded streets with a canal down the middle. Yes, I am quite in love with Amsterdam.”

The weather did not clear before noon the next day, and the contemplated trip to Marken was deferred, but Zaandam was discovered to be possible, and they complacently sallied forth, Sidney bearing her camera, and Gabriella insisting upon conveying a huge loaf of gingerbread. “You know Amsterdam is celebrated for its gingerbread,” she remarked, as she issued from the bake-shop with her package. “They wouldn’t cut this, and so I had to buy it all, but it was very cheap, and after looking at those three hundred windmills this afternoon, we shall probably need something fortifying. If we can’t eat it all to-day we can save the rest for to-morrow. This sharp sea air gives me an appetite.”

“So I have observed,” remarked Sidney.

Gabriella laughed and they started for the little steamer which was to take them to their destination. Sidney found abundant opportunity for using her camera as they proceeded upon their slow way. “Holland is so nice and flat,” she observed, “and the air is so clear that I am sure my Holland views will turn out well, whatever my Italian ones may do.”

“And we are not pestered to death with beggars here,” remarked Miss Cavendish, as they stepped ashore. But here they were beset by cabmen, who persistently followed them and used every persuasion to induce them to take a drive to see the three hundred windmills. Finding that their repeated refusals did no good, the ladies walked rapidly away, though one individual, more pertinacious than the rest, did not cease his importunity, but kept behind them at hailing distance.

“He actually is getting on my nerves,” said Gabriella at last. “If he didn’t speak English we could shut our ears and pretend he was talking about the weather. Let us cut through one of these little side places and see if we can’t get rid of him.” So they made a sudden turn and slipped out of sight to find themselves upon a picturesque street intersected by little canals. Smiling Dutch children played before the doors, cleanly housewives scoured and scrubbed their brass vessels in the _schloats_.

“This is ideal,” said Sidney focusing her camera upon a specially pleasing group. But she had not time to take a snap-shot before Gabriella cried, “There he comes!” and she looked to see the form of their tormentor bearing down upon them. Gabriella fairly took to her heels, leaving the others to add another dignified refusal to those already given.

They found Gabriella laughing behind the palings of a fence which enclosed a small garden where she had taken refuge. “Did you get rid of him?” she inquired, “or is the avenger still upon our track? I really didn’t feel that I could face him again. Isn’t this an interesting place? Such pretty gardens and such clean houses. Somewhere about here is the cottage where Peter the Great lived when he was learning ship-building; I caught sight of it as I came along. That nice, rosy-cheeked, fat little boy, in the wooden shoes, will tell us where it is. When we have seen it we will try to escape through another street so we shall not have to pass the tormenter again. I know he is lying in wait for us.”

Miss Cavendish laughed. “Gabriella has really a panic. I think it is rather funny myself. I don’t in the least mind saying no whenever it is necessary.”

“Ah, but you have had chances to say no so much oftener than I,” complained Gabriella. The rosy-cheeked child who stood staring at them could not withstand the smile which she gave him and, after accepting a large piece of the gingerbread, he pointed the way to the cottage of Peter the Great.

A circuitous route took them to the other end of the quiet clean town where scrubbing and scouring were going on incessantly, outside the small houses. Windmills flung around their arms in every direction; in the lush green meadows beyond the town neat black and white cows were quietly grazing; groups of blue-aproned, tow-headed children frolicked unrestrained in the streets. Everyone appeared serenely content.

“It is just as placidly Dutch as I believed it would be,” began Gabriella. “Now, if we can get back to the boat without being importuned to take a drive--”

“Ladies, you will just have time for a ride around the town to see the three hundred windmills before your boat goes,” said a voice at her elbow. She gave a little surprised scream and dashed on, leaving Miss Cavendish so full of laughter that she could scarcely rebuff the persistent man who cheerfully travelled along within a few feet of her to the very door of the waiting-room.

“If only he wouldn’t speak English,” groaned Gabriella, “and if he wouldn’t have that way with him as if he fully meant to keep up his arguments until we actually had to give in, I wouldn’t care. When he startled me by that last appearance every hair on my head began to rise. What did you say, Sidney?”

“I said that this is the wrong landing. We came down on that steamer that is waiting on the other side. Evidently the first-class steamers come in at one wharf and the second-class at the other.”

“Oh, then if this is second-class let us go from here. I don’t mind, do you? Anything rather than cross that bridge again.”

“But our tickets aren’t for this line,” explained Miss Cavendish.

“Oh!” Gabriella meekly gave in and they essayed to return. But just as they reached the end of the bridge there stood their man. He pointed in triumph to the steamer now slowly leaving her dock. “You’ll not get your steamer, ladies,” he said. “There will not be another leaving for an hour, and you’ll just have time for a--” Gabriella stopped her ears and ran on wildly, not stopping till she was safe at the pier.

“I really couldn’t hear him mention those three hundred windmills again,” she declared. “We are safe now, for no one can come inside the gates without a ticket and we shall have a lovely time taking photographs and eating our gingerbread.” But the delectable food disproved its appearance, for it was by no means as good as it looked. “And I thought it was going to be delicious,” said Gabriella, looking ruefully at the large supply she had bought. “We can’t eat it; I can’t bear to throw it away, and I don’t believe there are any poor people in Holland; I haven’t seen any who couldn’t make better gingerbread than this. I wish I had tasted it at once and then I could have given it to the goat we saw at the other end of the town. Nothing but a goat could make way with this.”

“Leave it on the bench when we go,” suggested Sidney, “and then you will not know what becomes of it.”

“That is a good idea,” returned Gabriella. But she was not permitted to follow out her plan, for upon stepping upon the gangplank a workman perceived the package, rushed back and politely handed it to her. She gave him a weak “Thank you,” and cast upon her friends such a look as made them laugh every time they recalled it. “Perhaps they don’t have gingerbread at Marken,” Gabriella had a sudden inspiration. “I will take it down there to-morrow and give it to some youngster.” Even this privilege was denied her, for she forgot it in the hurry of getting off, and the final disposition of the gingerbread was never settled, for they left it upon the table when at last they took their departure from their rooms.

“Marken was rather disappointing,” Miss Cavendish gave her opinion as they set out upon their return from this far-famed island the next day. “It is so evidently a show place nowadays. The people pose for effect, and even the rapturous woman who threw her arms around us when we told her we were Americans, was simply a good actress.”

“But the littlest of the boys and girls do still dress exactly alike,” asserted Gabriella, who did not wish her illusions to vanish, “and they do have a queer costume.”

“And their cottages are most interesting, I am sure,” Sidney agreed with Gabriella. “And the little caps I bought are genuine. I did want to get those so I could show them to grandfather. I shall have to label them at once before I forget whether it is the round patch on the back or the square one which is for the boys.”

“It is a desolate place, that island,” Miss Cavendish went on. “I shouldn’t like to live there in winter.”

“But Monnikendam is dear,” said Sidney. “I simply love that sleepy old place.”

“And Broek is exactly like Spotless Town,” continued Gabriella.

“We must go to Alkmaar on market day,” decided Miss Cavendish. “I fancy there we shall see more costumes, and get an idea of the people more satisfactorily than by taking these special excursions, which I am sure the fisher folk prepare for. I suppose if we were to seek out the unfrequented villages there would still be much in Holland which would appeal to us.”

“I think we have been able to get an excellent idea of Holland in the little while we have been here,” Sidney assured her.

“We might stay another day, perhaps, if you have seen enough of _schloats_ and windmills and all that. We can take in The Hague on our way to Antwerp.”

This was agreed upon and then, with a distinct recollection of the quality of the gingerbread in a certain bake-shop and of the fact that there were three hundred windmills in Zaandam, they sought their beds.