The country grew prettier. It was the sort of landscape old-fashioned artists used to produce out of their abundant imagination, scorning to be tied down by models, dashing in anything charming or _outre_ which they happened to think of at the moment, and jumbling together an extravagant whole too good to be true. But there were only a few miles of it left after Delft: and we hadn"t reveled in impossibly delicious farm-yards and supernaturally bowery gardens half long enough, when we ran into the outskirts of The Hague--"S. Gravenhage," as I love to call it to myself.
Until this moment, I"d been mentally patronizing Holland, admiring it, and wondering at it, of course, but half-consciously saying that quaintness, snugness, and historical interest were all we could expect of the Low Country. Elegance and beauty of form we mustn"t look for: but I found myself surrounded by it in The Hague. There were streets of tall, brown palaces, far finer than the royal dwelling which Robert pointed out; the shops made me long to spring from the car and spend every penny set apart for the tour; the Binnenhof--that sinister theater of Dutch history--with its strangely grouped towers and palaces, and its huge squares, made me feel an insignificant insect with no right to opinions of any kind; and as I gazed up at the dark, medieval buildings, vague visions of Cornelis and John de Witt in their torture, of van Oldenbarneveld, and fair Adelaide de Poelgust stabbed and bleeding, flitted fearfully through my brain. I wanted to get out and look for the stone where Adelaide had fallen to die (how well I remembered that story, told in twilight and firelight by my father!), and only the set of Robert"s shoulders deterred me. What was a romantic fragment of history, compared to the certainty that the roast would be overdone?
But when we swept into the green-gold dusk of the forest, I forgot such trivialities as buildings made by man.
Suddenly we were in a different world, an old, old world, with magic that lurked in each dusky vista, breathed from the perfume of leaf and fern, and whispered in the music of the trees, as if we had strayed upon the road that leads to fairyland.
"Fancy seeing fairyland from the motor-car!" I said to myself. "I never thought to go in such a fashion, though I"ve been sure that one day or another I would find the way there through such a forest as this."
I felt that, if I walked here alone, I might see something more mysterious than alder-trees, than giant beeches, and ancient oaks; than glints of flower-strewn waters shining out of shadow in green darkness deep and cool; than rustic bridges twined with creepers, or kiosks glimmering at the end of long, straight alleys. I should have seen processions of dim figures; chanting Druids and their victims; wild, fierce warriors, and blue-eyed women, their white arms and the gold of their long hair shining through the mist of centuries.
But then, I was in the motor-car: and though Robert, in a different and more sketchy costume, would have been a gallant Batavian warrior, there would be a certain indecorousness in permitting my fancy to make the necessary changes. I had to content myself, therefore, with things as they were; with the teuf-teuf of the automobile instead of the wild wailing of white-robed Druids, and with the coming and going of modern carriages under the shadowy branches, instead of strange chariots of bygone kings.
After all, we did not find fairy-land but merely villa-land, when we flashed out from the mysterious heart of the forest; but the villas were charming, scattered in the woods, ringed with flowery lawns, and not one without a huge veranda like a garden-room, fitted up with so many cushioned sofas, easy-chairs, and little tables, that it was clear the family life was lived there.
"I do hope my Dutch cousin"s house at Scheveningen is as pretty as these," I said to myself. "It would be delicious to visit in a garden-room"; but presently we slipped out of the shade into sunlight, and were in a town of brick streets, huge hotels, with flags all a-flutter in a spanking, salt-smelling breeze, gay little shops and houses such as grow up by the sea. It was Scheveningen.
I blinked in the blaze of sunlight which tore open the green veil of dusk, and the air, though tingling with ozone, felt hot after the depths of the forest.
Not a flower, not a garden was to be seen, yet Scheveningen was a flower-garden of color in itself. Where the color came from you could scarcely say, yet it struck at your eyes from all directions. Flags flamed, roofs were red as beds of geraniums; or else they were green, or else they were vivid yellow. The hotels were of quaint design, with a suggestion of the Oriental; the shops had covered galleries, and the people moving in the big, circular _place_ into which we drove--the _place_ of the Kurhaus and of the circus--were drifting particles of the bright mosaic; tall, dark young officers (not at all typically Dutch according to preconceived ideas) in green and crimson or bright blue uniforms; pretty girls in white with rose-trimmed or scarlet hats; nursemaids in the costume of some remote province, the sunlight setting their gold head-ornaments on fire; tiny children in blue sailor-suits, or with a little red fez on a yellow head; old, white-haired gentlemen holding on unsuitable top-hats as they walked against the wind; white-ap.r.o.ned waiters flitting about restaurant verandas, carrying pink ices, or baskets of fruit, like jewels.
It was a gay scene, but Robert said it was nothing to the "high season,"
which began on the first of August, and brought throngs of fashionable people from all over Europe. As for the top-hats at which I laughed, he defended them stoutly, saying they were as much _de rigueur_ at The Hague as in London, and he could see nothing comic in wearing them at the seaside.
Still we had had no glimpse of the sea; but Robert turned the car, and driving between two gigantic hotels, ran down to a beach with sands of gleaming gold, and a background of wind-blown dunes billowing away as far as the eye could reach. The very wildness of this background gave a bizarre sort of charm to the fantastic buildings which made up the fashionable center of Scheveningen.
In the center, the Kurhaus dominated all; hotel, restaurant, concert-room, theater, in one. Terrace below terrace it descended and sent out into the green water of the North Sea a great pier blossoming with flags. But the most individual feature was the large and enterprising family of "wind stoels"--dear, cozy basket-houses for one, like green and yellow bee-hives cut in half, or giant sunbonnets crowding the beach behind the bathing-machines. There one could nestle, self-contained as a hermit-crab in a sh.e.l.l, defying east wind or baking sun, happy with a book, or the person one liked best in a twin wind-stoel opposite.
Reposeful gaiety seemed at this first glance to be the note struck by Scheveningen, and the air was buoyant as I had never known air to be before.
"If you visit us in August," said Robert, "you will hear the best operas, see the best automobile races, the most exciting motor-boat races----"
"But we shall be on our own motor-boat in August," said I.
"I do not think so. You will perhaps let your boat. We will talk to my mother," Robert answered, as one soothes a fractious child. Then, before I had breath to answer, he swept us away from the beach, and drew up before an aggressively comfortable villa on a terrace opening to the sea.
VI
There was a garden-room with flower-painted walls, and j.a.panese furniture and silk things; and in the garden-room stood Cousin Robert"s mother. The great gla.s.s doors were wide open, and she moved slowly to the threshold to meet us.
Yes, she is far too large to come and call upon a stranger; far, far too large for the motor-boat.
I saw in a flash why Robert put the family dinner-hour before the most important historical events which helped to make Holland. If his jaw is square enough, his gray eyes piercing enough to make his mother feel it convenient to entertain unknown guests, whatever her plans and inclinations, there"s no doubt that her personality is more than commanding enough to exact respect for domestic arrangements.
It would need such a giant as Robert not to be overawed by her, outside domestic matters; and as for myself, though her pretty, smooth gray hair parts in the middle, and her cheeks grew as pink as a baby"s when she smiled and told me in nice English to call her "Cousin Cornelia," I knew that if she said black were white I would instantly agree with her.
There are gla.s.s doors between the garden-room and a drawing-room behind.
They were closed, because the Dutch (I am already learning) like to draw a firm dividing line between being in the house and in the open air; and I could see through the gla.s.s a half-length, life-size portrait of a humorous little brown gentleman, who was, no doubt, Cousin Cornelia"s late husband, and Robert"s father. Taking this for granted, it"s evident that Robert gets his inches and his blond splendor of looks from his mother. There was so much of Cousin Cornelia in her black and white spotted muslin, that at first I was conscious of her presence alone. It was only her rich voice (like Devonshire cream, all in soft lumps when the English words were difficult) introducing "Freule Menela van der Windt, and your two cousins, Lisbeth and Lilli," which made me aware that others were present.
I turned to the fiancee first, and found her a dark, thin, near-sighted girl, with eye-gla.s.ses that pinched her nose, and perhaps her temper as well, for there isn"t a line of her face which won"t be cross-grained when she is old. She looked hard through her gla.s.ses at me and at Phil, taking stock of us both, and didn"t offer to shake hands; but Lisbeth and Lilli, adorable strawberry-and-cream girls, twins of fifteen or sixteen, put out dimpled fingers.
Cousin Cornelia asked how we liked Holland, but without waiting for us to answer, told off Lisbeth and Lilli to show us our room, as there was only just time to wash away the dust of motoring.
I was awestruck by Cousin Cornelia, and depressed by Menela; still I hugged the thought that we were in luck to see the inside of a Dutch home, and determined to make the most of our experience, which may not occur again.
I never supposed it possible for the interior of a house to shine as this does. Everything shines, even things that no one expects to present a polished surface. For instance, does anybody (not Dutch) call upon walls to behave as if they were mirrors? Yet as I went up the rather steep stairs of the Villa van Buren I could see each movement I made, each rise and fall of an eyelash repeated on a surface of brilliantly varnished walnut.
"What wonderful wood!" I exclaimed.
"It is not real. It is paint," said pretty Lisbeth. "Do you not have walls like this?"
"Never," I replied.
"Every one does in Holland. We admire them," explained Lilli.
"But what a lot of work to keep them so bright."
"It is only done once a day," she said apologetically. "The servant does it when she has finished the windows."
"What--all the windows in the house--every day?"
"How else would they be clean?" asked Lisbeth, surprised.
There was no answer to this, from a Dutch point of view, so I remarked meekly that it must take all the servant"s time.
"It is what they like," said Lilli. "But we have another woman for the floors and beating out the rugs, and doing the bra.s.s, so it is not so much."
"Floors and rugs and bra.s.s every day, too?"
"Of course," returned both girls together, as if I had asked them about their baths or their tooth-brushes. "_Of course._"
Lisbeth opened the door of a front room on the second floor.
"This is the spare room," said she, and advanced cautiously through the dusk caused by the closing of the shutters. "We keep them so in the afternoon," she explained, "because of the sunshine."
"Yes, otherwise the room would be hot, I suppose?"
"We do not mind its being hot. It is because the sun would fade the carpet and the curtains." She threw open the blinds as she spoke, but carefully shut both windows again.
"Oh, mayn"t we have them open?" I ventured to ask. "The air is lovely."
"If you like," my cousin replied. "Only, if you do, the sand may blow in."
"Just at the top then."