AT three o’clock I left these pleasant people to visit the Ryks Museum and the next morning ran over to Haarlem, a half-hour away, to look at the Frans Hals in the Stadhuis. Haarlem was the city, I remember with pleasure, that once suffered the amazing tulip craze that swept over Holland in the sixteenth century—the city in which single rare tulips, like single rare carnations1 to-day, commanded enormous sums of money. Rare species, because of the value of the subsequent bulb sale, sold for hundreds of thousands of gulden. I had heard of the long line of colored tulip beds that lay between here and Haarlem and The Hague and I was prepared to judge for myself whether they were beautiful—as beautiful as the picture post-cards sold everywhere indicated. I found this so, but even more than the tulip beds I found the country round about from Amsterdam to Haarlem, The Hague and Rotterdam delightful2. I traveled by foot and by train, passing by some thirty miles of vari-colored flower-beds in blocks of red, white, blue, purple, pink, and yellow, that lie between the several cities. I stood in the old Groote Kerk of St. Bavo in Haarlem, the Groote Kerk of St. James in The Hague—both as bare of ornament4 as an anchorite’s cell—I wandered among the art treasures of the Ryks Museum in Amsterdam and the Mauritshuis and the Mesdag Museum in The Hague; I walked in the forests of moss-tinted5 trees at Haarlem and again at The Hague; my impression was that compact little Holland had all502 the charm of a great private estate, beautifully kept and intimately delightful.
But the canals of Holland—what an airy impression of romance, of pure poetry, they left on my mind! There are certain visions or memories to which the heart of every individual instinctively6 responds. The canals of Holland are one such to me. I can see them now, in the early morning, when the sun was just touching7 them with the faintest pearls, pinks, lavenders, blues8, their level surfaces as smooth as glass, their banks rising no whit3 above the level of the water, but lying even with it like a black or emerald frame, their long straight lines broken at one point or another by a low brown or red or drab cottage or windmill! I can see them again at evening, the twilight9 hour, when in that poetically10 suffused11 mood of nature, which obtains then, they lie, liquid masses of silver, a shred12 of tinted cloud reflected in their surface, the level green grass turning black about them, a homing bird, a mass of trees in the distance, or humble13 cottage, its windows faintly gold from within, lending those last touches of artistry which make the perfection of nature. As in London and Venice the sails of their boats were colored a soft brown, and now and again one appeared in the fading light, a healthy Hollander smoking his pipe at the tiller, a cool wind fanning his brow. The world may hold more charming pictures but I have not encountered them.
And across the level spaces of lush grass that seemingly stretch unbroken for miles—bordered on this side or that with a little patch of filigree14 trees; ribboned and segmented by straight silvery threads of water; ornamented15 in the foreground by a cow or two, perhaps, or a boatman steering16 his motor-power canal boat; remotely ended by the seeming outlines of a distant city, as delicately penciled as a line by Vierge—stand the windmills. I503 have seen ten, twelve, fifteen, marching serenely17 across the fields in a row, of an afternoon, like great, heavy, fat Dutchmen, their sails going in slow, patient motions, their great sides rounding out like solid Dutch ribs,—naïve, delicious things. There were times when their outlines took on classic significance. Combined with the utterly18 level land, the canals and the artistically19 martialed trees, they constitute the very atmosphere of Holland.
Haarlem, when I reached it, pleased me almost as much as Amsterdam, though it had no canals to speak of—by comparison. It was so clean and fresh and altogether lovely. It reminded me of Spotless Town—the city of advertising20 fame—and I was quite ready to encounter the mayor, the butcher, the doctor and other worthies21 of that ultra-respectable city. Coming over from Amsterdam, I saw a little Dutch girl in wooden shoes come down to a low gate which opened directly upon a canal and dip up a pitcher22 of water. That was enough to key up my mood to the most romantic pitch. I ventured forth23 right gaily24 in a warm spring sun and spent the better portion of an utterly delightful day idling about its streets and museums.
Haarlem, to me, aside from the tulip craze, was where Frans Hals lived and where in 1610, when he was thirty years of age, he married and where six years later he was brought before the Burgomaster for ill-treating his wife, and ordered to abstain25 from “dronken schnappe.” Poor Frans Hals! The day I was there a line of motor-cars stood outside the Stadhuis waiting while their owners contemplated26 the wonders of the ten Regents pictures inside which are the pride of Haarlem. When I left London Sir Scorp was holding his recently discovered portrait by Hals at forty thousand pounds or more. I fancy to-day any of the numerous portraits by Hals in his best504 manner would bring two hundred thousand dollars and very likely much more. Yet at seventy-two Hals’s goods and chattels—three mattresses27, one chair, one table, three bolsters28, and five pictures—were sold to satisfy a baker29’s bill, and from then on, until he died fourteen years later, at eighty-six, his “rent and firing” were paid for by the municipality. Fate probably saved a very great artist from endless misery30 by letting his first wife die. As it was he appears to have had his share of wretchedness.
The business of being really great is one of the most pathetic things in the world. When I was in London a close friend of Herbert Spencer told me the story of his last days, and how, save for herself, there was scarcely any one to cheer him in his loneliness. It was not that he lacked living means—he had that—but living as he did, aloft in the eternal snows of speculation31, there was no one to share his thoughts,—no one. It was the fate of that gigantic mind to be lonely. What a pity the pleasures of the bottle or a drug might not eventually have allured32 him. Old Omar knew the proper antidote33 for these speculative34 miseries35.
And Rembrandt van Ryn—there was another. It is probably true that from 1606, when he was born, until 1634, when he married at twenty-eight, he was gay enough. He had the delicious pleasure of discovering that he was an artist. Then he married Saskia van Uylenborch—the fair Saskia whom he painted sitting so gaily on his knee—and for eight years he was probably supremely36 happy. Saskia had forty thousand gulden to contribute to this ménage. Rembrandt’s skill and fame were just attaining37 their most significant proportions, when she died. Then, being an artist, his affairs went from bad to worse; and you have the spectacle of this other seer, Holland’s metaphysician, color-genius, life-interpreter,505 descending38 to an entanglement39 with a rather dull housekeeper40, losing his money, having all his possessions sold to pay his debts and living out his last days in absolute loneliness at the Keizerskroon Inn in Amsterdam—quite neglected; for the local taste for art had changed, and the public was a little sick of Hals and Rembrandt.
As I sat in the Kroon restaurant, in Haarlem, opposite the Groote Kerk, watching some pigeons fly about the belfry, looking at Lieven de Key’s meat market, the prototype of Dutch quaintness41, and meditating42 on the pictures of these great masters that I had just seen in the Stadhuis, the insignificance43 of the individual as compared with the business of life came to me with overwhelming force. We are such minute, dusty insects at best, great or small. The old age of most people is so trivial and insignificant44. We become mere45 shells—“granthers,” “Goody Two-Shoes,” “lean and slippered46 pantaloons.” The spirit of life works in masses—not individuals. It prefers a school or species to a single specimen47. A great man or woman is an accident. A great work of art of almost any kind is almost always fortuitous—like this meat market over the way. Life, for instance, I speculated sitting here, cared no more for Frans Hals or Rembrandt or Lieven de Key than I cared for the meanest butcher or baker of their day. If they chanced to find a means of subsistence—well and good; if not, well and good also. “Vanity, vanity, saith the preacher, all is vanity.” Even so.
From Haarlem I went on to The Hague, about fifty minutes away; from The Hague, late that evening, to Rotterdam; from Rotterdam to Dordrecht, and so into Belgium, where I was amused to see everything change again—the people, language, signs,—all. Belgium appeared to be French, with only the faintest suggestion of506 Holland about it—but it was different enough from France also to be interesting on its own account.
After a quick trip across Belgium with short but delightful stops at Bruges, that exquisite48 shell of a once great city, at Ghent and at Brussels, the little Paris, I arrived once more at the French capital.
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1
carnations
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| n.麝香石竹，康乃馨( carnation的名词复数 ) | |
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2
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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7
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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8
blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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9
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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poetically
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| adv.有诗意地，用韵文 | |
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suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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12
shred
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| v.撕成碎片，变成碎片；n.碎布条，细片，些少 | |
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13
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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14
filigree
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| n.金银丝做的工艺品；v.用金银细丝饰品装饰；用华而不实的饰品装饰；adj.金银细丝工艺的 | |
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15
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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16
steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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artistically
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| adv.艺术性地 | |
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advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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21
worthies
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| 应得某事物( worthy的名词复数 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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22
pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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abstain
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| v.自制，戒绝，弃权，避免 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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mattresses
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| 褥垫，床垫( mattress的名词复数 ) | |
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28
bolsters
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| n.长枕( bolster的名词复数 )；垫子；衬垫；支持物v.支持( bolster的第三人称单数 )；支撑；给予必要的支持；援助 | |
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29
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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30
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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31
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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32
allured
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| 诱引，吸引( allure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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antidote
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| n.解毒药，解毒剂 | |
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speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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35
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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36
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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37
attaining
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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38
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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39
entanglement
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| n.纠缠，牵累 | |
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40
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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41
quaintness
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| n.离奇有趣，古怪的事物 | |
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42
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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43
insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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44
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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45
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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46
slippered
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| 穿拖鞋的 | |
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47
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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48
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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