XLIV
THE RACE
The Twentieth of December came at last, bringing with it the perfectionof winter weather. All over the level landscape lay the warm sunlight.It tried its power on lake, canal and river; but the ice flasheddefiance and showed no sign of melting. The very weather-cocks stoodstill to enjoy the sight. This gave the windmills a holiday. Nearly allthe past week they had been whirling briskly; now, being rather out ofbreath, they rocked lazily in the clear, still air. Catch a windmillworking when the weather-cocks have nothing to do!
There was an end to grinding, crushing and sawing for that day. It was agood thing for the millers near Broek. Long before noon they concludedto take in their sails, and go to the race. Everybody would bethere--already the north side of the frozen Y was bordered with eagerspectators; the news of the great skating match had traveled far andwide. Men, women, and children in holiday attire were flocking towardthe spot. Some wore furs, and wintry cloaks or shawls; but many,consulting their feelings rather than the almanac, were dressed as foran October day.
The site selected for the race was a faultless plain of ice nearAmsterdam, on that great _arm_ of the Zuider Zee which Dutchmen ofcourse must call--the Eye. The townspeople turned out in large numbers.Strangers in the city deemed it a fine chance to see what was to beseen. Many a peasant from the northward had wisely chosen the Twentiethas the day for the next city-trading. It seemed that everybody, youngand old, who had wheels, skates or feet at command, had hastened to thescene.
There were the gentry in their coaches, dressed like Parisians, freshfrom the Boulevards; Amsterdam children in charity uniforms; girls fromthe Roman Catholic Orphan House, in sable gowns and white head-bands;boys from the Burgher Asylum, with their black tights and short-skirted,harlequin coats.[29] There were old-fashioned gentlemen in cocked hatsand velvet knee-breeches; old-fashioned ladies, too, in stiff, quiltedskirts and bodies of dazzling brocade. These were accompanied byservants bearing foot-stoves and cloaks. There were the peasant folkarrayed in every possible Dutch costume--Shy young rustics in brazenbuckles; simple village maidens concealing their flaxen hair underfillets of gold; women whose long, narrow aprons were stiff withembroidery; women with short, corkscrew curls hanging over theirforeheads; women with shaved heads and close-fitting caps, and women instriped skirts and windmill bonnets. Men in leather, in homespun, invelvet and broadcloth; burghers in model European attire, and burghersin short jackets, wide trousers and steeple-crowned hats.
[Footnote 29: This is not said in derision. Both the girls and boys ofthis Institution wear garments quartered in red and black, alternately.By making the dress thus conspicuous, the children are, in a measure,deterred from wrong-doing while going about the city. The Burgher OrphanAsylum affords a comfortable home to several hundred boys and girls.Holland is famous for its charitable institutions.]
There were beautiful Friesland girls in wooden shoes and coarsepetticoats, with solid gold crescents encircling their heads, finishedat each temple with a golden rosette, and hung with lace a century old.Some wore necklaces, pendants and earrings of the purest gold. Manywere content with gilt or even with brass, but it is not an uncommonthing for a Friesland woman to have all the family treasure in herhead-gear. More than one rustic lass displayed the value of two thousandguilders upon her head that day.
Scattered throughout the crowd were peasants from the Island of Marken,with sabots, black stockings, and the widest of breeches; also womenfrom Marken with short blue petticoats, and black jackets, gaily figuredin front. They wore red sleeves, white aprons, and a cap like a bishop'smitre over their golden hair.
The children often were as quaint and odd-looking as their elders. Inshort, one-third of the crowd seemed to have stepped bodily from acollection of Dutch paintings.
Everywhere could be seen tall women, and stumpy men, lively faced girls,and youths whose expression never changed from sunrise to sunset.
There seemed to be at least one specimen from every known town inHolland. There were Utrecht water bearers, Gouda cheese makers, Delftpottery-men, Schiedam distillers, Amsterdam diamond-cutters, Rotterdammerchants, dried up herring-packers, and two sleepy-eyed shepherds fromTexel. Every man of them had his pipe and tobacco-pouch. Some carriedwhat might be called the smoker's complete outfit--a pipe, tobacco, apricker with which to clean the tube, a silver net for protecting thebowl, and a box of the strongest of brimstone matches.
A true Dutchman, you must remember, is rarely without his pipe on anypossible occasion. He may for a moment neglect to breathe, but when thepipe is forgotten, he must be dying indeed. There were no such sadcases here. Wreaths of smoke were rising from every possible quarter.The more fantastic the smoke wreath, the more placid and solemn thesmoker.
Look at those boys and girls on stilts! That is a good idea. They cansee over the heads of the tallest. It is strange to see those littlebodies high in the air, carried about on mysterious legs. They have sucha resolute look on their round faces, what wonder that nervous oldgentlemen, with tender feet, wince and tremble while the long-leggedlittle monsters stride past them.
You will read in certain books that the Dutch are a quiet people--sothey are generally--but listen: did ever you hear such a din? All madeup of human voices--no, the horses are helping somewhat, and the fiddlesare squeaking pitifully (how it must pain fiddles to be tuned!) but themass of the sound comes from the great _vox humana_ that belongs to acrowd.
That queer little dwarf going about with a heavy basket, winding in andout among the people, helps not a little. You can hear his shrill cryabove all the other sounds, "Pypen en tabac! Pypen en tabac!"
Another, his big brother though evidently some years younger, is sellingdoughnuts and bonbons. He is calling on all pretty children far and nearto come quickly or the cakes will be gone.
You know quite a number among the spectators. High up in yonderpavilion, erected upon the border of the ice, are some persons whom youhave seen very lately. In the centre is Madame van Gleck. It is herbirthday, you remember; she has the post of honor. There is Mynheer vanGleck whose meerschaum has not really grown fast to his lips--it onlyappears so. There are grandfather and grandmother whom you met at theSt. Nicholas fete. All the children are with them. It is so mild theyhave brought even the baby. The poor little creature is swaddled verymuch after the manner of an Egyptian mummy, but it can crow withdelight, and when the band is playing, open and shut its animatedmittens in perfect time to the music.
Grandfather with his pipe and spectacles and fur cap, makes quite apicture as he holds baby upon his knee. Perched high upon their canopiedplatforms, the party can see all that is going on. No wonder the ladieslook complacently at the glassy ice; with a stove for a footstool onemight sit cozily beside the North Pole.
There is a gentleman with them who somewhat resembles St. Nicholas as heappeared to the young Van Glecks on the fifth of December. But the sainthad a flowing white beard; and this face is as smooth as a pippin. Hissaintship was larger around the body, too, and (between ourselves) hehad a pair of thimbles in his mouth, which this gentleman certainly hasnot. It cannot be Saint Nicholas after all.
Near by, in the next pavilion sit the Van Holps with their son anddaughter (the Van Gends) from the Hague. Peter's sister is not one toforget her promises. She has brought bouquets of exquisite hothouseflowers for the winners.
These pavilions, and there are others beside, have all been erectedsince daylight. That semicircular one, containing Mynheer Korbes'family, is very pretty, and proves that the Hollanders are quite skilledat tent-making, but I like the Van Glecks' best--the centre one--stripedred and white, and hung with evergreens.
The one with the blue flags contains the musicians. Those pagoda-likeaffairs, decked with sea-shells and streamers of every possible hue, arethe judges' stands, and those columns and flagstaffs upon the ice markthe limit of the race-course. The two white columns twined with green,connected at the top by that long, floating strip of drapery, form thestarting-point. Those
flagstaffs, half a mile off, stand at each end ofthe boundary line, cut sufficiently deep to be distinct to the skaters,though not enough so to trip them when they turn to come back to thestarting-point.
The air is so clear it seems scarcely possible that the columns andflagstaffs are so far apart. Of course the judges' stands are but littlenearer together.
Half a mile on the ice, when the atmosphere is like this, is but a shortdistance after all, especially when fenced with a living chain ofspectators.
The music has commenced. How melody seems to enjoy itself in the openair! The fiddles have forgotten their agony, and everything isharmonious. Until you look at the blue tent it seems that the musicsprings from the sunshine, it is so boundless, so joyous. Only when yousee the staid-faced musicians you realize the truth.
Where are the racers? All assembled together near the white columns. Itis a beautiful sight. Forty boys and girls in picturesque attire dartingwith electric swiftness in and out among each other, or sailing in pairsand triplets, beckoning, chatting, whispering in the fullness ofyouthful glee.
A few careful ones are soberly tightening their straps; others haltingon one leg, with flushed, eager faces suddenly cross the suspected skateover their knee, give it an examining shake, and dart off again. Oneand all are possessed with the spirit of motion. They cannot standstill. Their skates are a part of them and every runner seems bewitched.
Holland is the place for skaters after all. Where else can nearly everyboy and girl perform feats on the ice that would attract a crowd if seenon Central Park? Look at Ben! I did not see him before. He is reallyastonishing the natives; no easy thing to do in the Netherlands. Saveyour strength, Ben, you will need it soon. Now other boys are trying!Ben is surpassed already. Such jumping, such poising, such spinning,such india-rubber exploits generally! That boy with a red cap is thelion now; his back is a watch-spring, his body is cork--no it is iron,or it would snap at that! He is a bird, a top, a rabbit, a corkscrew, asprite, a flesh-ball all in an instant. When you think he's erect he isdown; and when you think he is down he is up. He drops his glove on theice and turns a somersault as he picks it up. Without stopping, hesnatches the cap from Jacob Poot's astonished head and claps it backagain "hind side before." Lookers-on hurrah and laugh. Foolish boy! Itis Arctic weather under your feet, but more than temperate overhead. Bigdrops already are rolling down your forehead. Superb skater as you are,you may lose the race.
A French traveler, standing with a note-book in his hand, sees ourEnglish friend, Ben, buy a doughnut of the dwarf's brother, and eat it.Thereupon he writes in his note-book, that the Dutch take enormousmouthfuls, and universally are fond of potatoes boiled in molasses.
There are some familiar faces near the white columns. Lambert, Ludwig,Peter and Carl are all there, cool and in good skating order. Hans isnot far off. Evidently he is going to join in the race, for his skatesare on--the very pair that he sold for seven guilders! He had soonsuspected that his fairy godmother was the mysterious "friend" whobought them. This settled, he had boldly charged her with the deed, andshe knowing well that all her little savings had been spent in thepurchase, had not had the face to deny it. Through the fairy godmother,too, he had been rendered amply able to buy them back again. ThereforeHans is to be in the race. Carl is more indignant than ever about it,but as three other peasant boys have entered, Hans is not alone.
Twenty boys and twenty girls. The latter by this time are standing infront, braced for the start, for they are to have the first "run."Hilda, Rychie and Katrinka are among them--two or three bend hastily togive a last pull at their skate-straps. It is pretty to see them stamp,to be sure that all is firm. Hilda is speaking pleasantly to a gracefullittle creature in a red jacket and a new brown petticoat. Why, it isGretel! What a difference those pretty shoes make, and the skirt, andthe new cap. Annie Bouman is there too. Even Janzoon Kolp's sister hasbeen admitted--but Janzoon himself has been voted out by the directors,because he killed the stork, and only last summer was caught in the actof robbing a bird's nest, a legal offence in Holland.
This Janzoon Kolp, you see, was----There, I cannot tell the story justnow. The race is about to commence.
Twenty girls are formed in a line. The music has ceased.
A man, whom we shall call The Crier, stands between the columns and thefirst judges' stand. He reads the rules in a loud voice:
"THE GIRLS AND BOYS ARE TO RACE IN TURN, UNTIL ONE GIRL AND ONE BOY HASBEATEN TWICE. THEY ARE TO START IN A LINE FROM THE UNITED COLUMNS--SKATETO THE FLAGSTAFF LINE, TURN, AND THEN COME BACK TO THE STARTING-POINT;THUS MAKING A MILE AT EACH RUN."
A flag is waved from the judges' stand. Madame van Gleck rises in herpavilion. She leans forward with a white handkerchief in her hand. Whenshe drops it, a bugler is to give the signal for them to start.
The handkerchief is fluttering to the ground. Hark!
They are off!
No. Back again. Their line was not true in passing the judges' stand.
The signal is repeated.
Off again. No mistake this time. Whew! how fast they go!
The multitude is quiet for an instant, absorbed in eager, breathlesswatching.
Cheers spring up along the line of spectators. Huzza! five girls areahead. Who comes flying back from the boundary mark? We cannot tell.Something red, that is all. There is a blue spot flitting near it, and adash of yellow nearer still. Spectators at this end of the line straintheir eyes and wish they had taken their post nearer the flagstaff.
The wave of cheers is coming back again. Now we can see! Katrinka isahead!
She passes the Van Holp pavilion. The next is Madame van Gleck's. Thatleaning figure gazing from it is a magnet. Hilda shoots past Katrinka,waving her hand to her mother as she passes. Two others are close now,whizzing on like arrows. What is that flash of red and gray? Hurrah, itis Gretel! She, too, weaves her hand, but toward no gay pavilion. Thecrowd is cheering, but she hears only her father's voice, "Well done,little Gretel!" Soon Katrinka, with a quick merry laugh, shoots pastHilda. The girl in yellow is gaining now. She passes them all, allexcept Gretel. The judges lean forward without seeming to lift theireyes from their watches. Cheer after cheer fills the air; the verycolumns seem rocking. Gretel has passed them. She has won.
"GRETEL BRINKER--ONE MILE!"--shouts the crier.
The judges nod. They write something upon a tablet which each holds inhis hand.
While the girls are resting--some crowding eagerly around our frightenedlittle Gretel, some standing aside in high disdain--the boys form in aline.
Mynheer van Gleck drops the handkerchief this time. The buglers give avigorous blast!
The boys have started.
Half-way already! Did ever you see the like!
Three hundred legs flashing by in an instant. But there are only twentyboys. No matter, there were hundreds of legs I am sure! Where are theynow? There is such a noise one gets bewildered. What are the peoplelaughing at? Oh, at that fat boy in the rear. See him go! See him! He'llbe down in an instant, no, he won't. I wonder if he knows he is allalone; the other boys are nearly at the boundary line. Yes, he knows it.He stops! He wipes his hot face. He takes off his cap and looks abouthim. Better to give up with a good grace. He has made a hundred friendsby that hearty, astonished laugh. Good Jacob Poot!
The fine fellow is already among the spectators gazing as eagerly as therest.
A cloud of feathery ice flies from the heels of the skaters as they"bring to" and turn at the flagstaffs.
Something black is coming now, one of the boys--it is all we know. Hehas touched the _vox humana_ stop of the crowd; it fairly roars. Nowthey come nearer--we can see the red cap. There's Ben--there'sPeter--there's Hans!
Hans is ahead! Young Madame van Gend almost crushes the flowers in herhand; she had been quite sure that Peter would be first. Carl Schummelis next, then Ben, and the youth with the red cap. The others arepressing close. A tall figure darts from among them. He passes the redcap, he passes Ben, then Carl. Now it is an
even race between him andHans. Madame van Gend catches her breath.
It is Peter! He is ahead! Hans shoots past him. Hilda's eyes fill withtears. Peter _must_ beat. Annie's eyes flash proudly. Gretel gazes withclasped hands--four strokes more will take her brother to the columns.
He is there! Yes, but so was young Schummel just a second before. At thelast instant, Carl, gathering his powers, had whizzed between them andpassed the goal.
"CARL SCHUMMEL! ONE MILE!" shouts the crier.
Soon Madame van Gleck rises again. The falling handkerchief starts thebugle; and the bugle, using its voice as a bowstring, shoots off twentygirls like so many arrows.
It is a beautiful sight, but one has not long to look; before we canfairly distinguish them they are far in the distance. This time theyare close upon one another; it is hard to say as they come speeding backfrom the flagstaff which will reach the columns first. There are newfaces among the foremost--eager, glowing faces, unnoticed before.Katrinka is there, and Hilda, but Gretel and Rychie are in the rear.Gretel is wavering, but when Rychie passes her, she starts forwardafresh. Now they are nearly beside Katrinka. Hilda is still in advance;she is almost "home." She has not faltered since that bugle note senther flying; like an arrow still she is speeding toward the goal. Cheerafter cheer rises in the air. Peter is silent but his eyes shine likestars. "Huzza! Huzza!"
The crier's voice is heard again.
"HILDA VAN GLECK, ONE MILE!"
A loud murmur of approval runs through the crowd, catching the music inits course, till all seems one sound, with a glad rhythmic throbbing inits depths. When the flag waves all is still.
Once more the bugle blows a terrific blast. It sends off the boys likechaff before the wind--dark chaff I admit, and in big pieces.
It is whisked around at the flagstaff, driven faster yet by the cheersand shouts along the line. We begin to see what is coming. There arethree boys in advance this time, and all abreast. Hans, Peter andLambert. Carl soon breaks the ranks, rushing through with a whiff! Fly,Hans, fly, Peter, don't let Carl beat again. Carl the bitter, Carl theinsolent. Van Mounen is flagging, but you are strong as ever. Hans andPeter, Peter and Hans; which is foremost? We love them both. We scarcelycare which is the fleeter.
Hilda, Annie and Gretel seated upon the long crimson bench, can remainquiet no longer. They spring to their feet--so different, and yet one ineagerness. Hilda instantly reseats herself; none shall know howinterested she is, none shall know how anxious, how filled with onehope. Shut your eyes then, Hilda--hide your face rippling with joy.Peter has beaten.
"PETER VAN HOLP, ONE MILE!" calls the crier.
The same buzz of excitement as before, while the judges take notes, thesame throbbing of music through the din--but something is different. Alittle crowd presses close about some object, near the column. Carl hasfallen. He is not hurt, though somewhat stunned. If he were less sullenhe would find more sympathy in these warm young hearts. As it is theyforget him as soon as he is fairly on his feet again.
The girls are to skate their third mile.
How resolute the little maidens look as they stand in a line! Some aresolemn with a sense of responsibility, some wear a smile half bashful,half provoked, but one air of determination pervades them all.
This third mile may decide the race. Still if neither Gretel nor Hildawin, there is yet a chance among the rest for the Silver Skates.
Each girl feels sure that this time she will accomplish the distance inone-half the time. How they stamp to try their runners, how nervouslythey examine each strap--how erect they stand at last, every eye uponMadame van Gleck!
The bugle thrills through them again. With quivering eagerness theyspring forward, bending, but in perfect balance. Each flashing strokeseems longer than the last.
Now they are skimming off in the distance.
Again the eager straining of eyes--again the shouts and cheering, againthe thrill of excitement as, after a few moments, four or five, inadvance of the rest, come speeding back, nearer, nearer to the whitecolumns.
Who is first? Not Rychie, Katrinka, Annie, nor Hilda, nor the girl inyellow--but Gretel--Gretel, the fleetest sprite of a girl that everskated. She was but playing in the earlier race, _now_ she is inearnest, or rather something within her has determined to win. Thatlithe little form makes no effort; but it cannot stop--not until thegoal is passed!
In vain the crier lifts his voice--he cannot be heard. He has no news totell--it is already ringing through the crowd. _Gretel has won theSilver Skates!_
Like a bird she has flown over the ice, like a bird she looks about herin a timid, startled way. She longs to dart to the sheltered nook whereher father and mother stand. But Hans is beside her--the girls arecrowding round. Hilda's kind, joyous voice breathes in her ear. Fromthat hour, none will despise her. Goose-girl or not, Gretel standsacknowledged Queen of the Skaters!
With natural pride Hans turns to see if Peter van Holp is witnessing hissister's triumph. Peter is not looking toward them at all. He iskneeling, bending his troubled face low, and working hastily at hisskate-strap. Hans is beside him at once.
"Are you in trouble, mynheer?"
"Ah, Hans! that you? Yes, my fun is over. I tried to tighten mystrap--to make a new hole--and this botheration of a knife has cut itnearly in two."
"Mynheer," said Hans, at the same time pulling off a skate--"you mustuse my strap!"
"Not I, indeed, Hans Brinker," cried Peter, looking up, "though I thankyou warmly. Go to your post, my friend, the bugle will sound in aminute."
"Mynheer," pleaded Hans in a husky voice, "you have called me yourfriend. Take this strap--quick! There is not an instant to lose. I shallnot skate this time--indeed I am out of practice. Mynheer, you _must_take it"--and Hans blind and deaf to any remonstrance, slipped his strapinto Peter's skate and implored him to put it on.
"Come, Peter!" cried Lambert, from the line, "we are waiting for you."
"For madame's sake," pleaded Hans, "be quick. She is motioning to you tojoin the racers. There the skate is almost on; quick, mynheer, fastenit. I could not possibly win. The race lies between Master Schummel andyourself."
"You are a noble fellow, Hans!" cried Peter yielding at last. He sprangto his post just as the white handkerchief fell to the ground. The buglesends forth its blast, loud, clear and ringing.
Off go the boys!
"Mine gott," cries a tough old fellow from Delft. "They beat everything,these Amsterdam youngsters. See them!"
See them, indeed! They are winged Mercuries every one of them. What maderrand are they on? Ah, I know; they are hunting Peter van Holp. He issome fleet-footed runaway from Olympus. Mercury and his troop of wingedcousins are in full chase. They will catch him! Now Carl is therunaway--the pursuit grows furious--Ben is foremost!
The chase turns in a cloud of mist. It is coming this way. Who is huntednow? Mercury himself. It is Peter, Peter van Holp; fly, Peter--Hans iswatching you. He is sending all his fleetness, all his strength intoyour feet. Your mother and sister are pale with eagerness. Hilda istrembling and dare not look up. Fly, Peter! the crowd has not gonederanged, it is only cheering. The pursuers are close upon you! Touchthe white column! It beckons--it is reeling before you--it----
Huzza! Huzza! Peter has won the Silver Skates!
"PETER VAN HOLP!" shouted the crier. But who heard him? "Peter vanHolp!" shouted a hundred voices, for he was the favorite boy of theplace. Huzza! Huzza!
Now the music was resolved to be heard. It struck up a lively air, thena tremendous march. The spectators thinking something new was about tohappen, deigned to listen and to look.
The racers formed in single file. Peter, being tallest, stood first.Gretel, the smallest of all, took her place at the end. Hans, who hadborrowed a strap from the cake-boy, was near the head.
Three gaily twined arches were placed at intervals upon the river facingthe Van Gleck pavilion.
Skating slowly, and in perfect time to the music, the boys and girlsmoved forward, led on by Pe
ter.
It was beautiful to see the bright procession glide along like a livingcreature. It curved and doubled, and drew its graceful length in and outamong the arches--whichever way Peter, the head, went, the body was sureto follow. Sometimes it steered direct for the centre arch, then, as ifseized with a new impulse, turned away and curled itself about the firstone; then unwound slowly and bending low, with quick, snake-likecurvings, crossed the river, passing at length through the furthestarch.
_Skating slowly the boys and girls moved forward_]
When the music was slow, the procession seemed to crawl like a thingafraid; it grew livelier, and the creature darted forward with a spring,gliding rapidly among the arches, in and out, curling, twisting,turning, never losing form until, at the shrill call of the bugle risingabove the music, it suddenly resolved itself into boys and girlsstanding in double semicircle before Madame van Gleck's pavilion.
Peter and Gretel stand in the centre in advance of the others. Madamevan Gleck rises majestically. Gretel trembles, but feels that she mustlook at the beautiful lady. She cannot hear what is said, there is sucha buzzing all around her. She is thinking that she ought to try and makea curtsey, such as her mother makes to the meester, when suddenlysomething so dazzling is placed in her hand that she gives a cry of joy.
Then she ventures to look about her. Peter, too, has something in hishands--"Oh! oh! how splendid!" she cries, and "oh! how splendid!" isechoed as far as people can see.
Meantime the silver skates flash in the sunshine, throwing dashes oflight upon those two happy faces.
Mevrouw van Gend sends a little messenger with her bouquets. One forHilda, one for Carl, and others for Peter and Gretel.
At sight of the flowers the Queen of the Skaters becomes uncontrollable.With a bright stare of gratitude she gathers skates and bouquet in herapron--hugs them to her bosom, and darts off to search for her fatherand mother in the scattering crowd.