Hans Brinker, or the Silver Skates / Серебряные коньки. Книга для чтения на английском языке. Мэри Мейпс Додж

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in this picture. His unfinished works were kept carefully covered and his painting materials were put away in airtight boxes as soon as he had finished using them for the day. According to all accounts, the studio itself must have been as close as a bandbox. The artist always entered it on tiptoe, besides sitting still, before he commenced work, until the slight dust caused by his entrance had settled. I have read somewhere that his paintings are improved by being viewed through a magnifying glass. He strained his eyes so badly with the extra finishing, that he was forced to wear spectacles before he was thirty. At forty he could scarcely see to paint, and he couldn’t find a pair of glasses anywhere that would help his sight. At last, a poor old German woman asked him to try hers. They suited him exactly, and enabled him to go on painting as well as ever.”

      “Humph!” exclaimed Ludwig indignantly. “That was high![109] What did SHE do without them, I wonder?”

      “Oh,” said Peter, laughing, “likely she had another pair. At any rate she insisted upon his taking them. He was so grateful that he painted a picture of the spectacles for her, case and all, and she sold it to a burgomaster for a yearly allowance that made her comfortable for the rest of her days.”

      “Boys!” called Lambert in a loud whisper, “come look at this ‘Bear Hunt.’”

      It was a fine painting by Paul Potter[110], a Dutch artist of the seventeenth century, who produced excellent works before he was sixteen years old. The boys admired it because the subject pleased them. They passed carelessly by the masterpieces of Rembrandt and Van der Helst, and went into raptures over an ugly picture by Van der Venne, representing a sea fight between the Dutch and English. They also stood spellbound before a painting of two little urchins, one of whom was taking soup and the other eating an egg. The principal merit in this work was that the young egg-eater had kindly slobbered his face with the yolk for their entertainment.

      An excellent representation of the “Feast of Saint Nicholas” next had the honor of attracting them.

      “Look, Van Mounen,” said Ben to Lambert. “Could anything be better than this youngster’s face? He looks as if he KNOWS he deserves a whipping, but hopes Saint Nicholas may not have found him out. That’s the kind of painting I like; something that tells a story.”

      “Come, boys!” cried the captain. “Ten o’clock, time we were off!”

      They hastened to the canal.

      “Skates on! Are you ready? One, two – halloo! Where’s Poot?”

      Sure enough, where WAS Poot?

      A square opening had just been cut in the ice not ten yards off. Peter observed it and, without a word, skated rapidly toward it.

      All the others followed, of course.

      Peter looked in. They all looked in; then stared anxiously at each other.

      “Poot!” screamed Peter, peering into the hole again. All was still. The black water gave no sign; it was already glazing on top.

      Van Mounen turned mysteriously to Ben. “DIDN’t HE HAVE A FIT ONCE?”

      “My goodness! yes!” answered Ben in a great fright.

      “Then, depend upon it, he’s been taken with one[111] in the museum!”

      The boys caught his meaning. Every skate was off in a twinkling[112]. Peter had the presence of mind to scoop up a capful of water from the hole, and off they scampered to the rescue.

      Alas! They did indeed find poor Jacob in a fit, but it was a fit of sleepiness. There he lay in a recess of the gallery, snoring like a trooper! The chorus of laughter that followed this discovery brought an angry official to the spot.

      “What now! None of this racket! Here, you beer barrel, wake up!” And Master Jacob received a very unceremonious shaking.

      As soon as Peter saw that Jacob’s condition was not serious, he hastened to the street to empty his unfortunate cap. While he was stufing in his handkerchief to prevent the already frozen crown from touching his head, the rest of the boys came down, dragging the bewildered and indignant Jacob in their midst.

      The order to start was again given. Master Poot was wide-awake at last. The ice was a little rough and broken just there, but every boy was in high spirits.

      “Shall we go on by the canal or the river?” asked Peter.

      “Oh, the river, by all means,” said Carl. “It will be such fun; they say it is perfect skating all the way, but it’s much farther[113].”

      Jacob Poot instantly became interested.

      “I vote for the canal!” he cried.

      “Well, the canal it shall be,” responded the captain, “if all are agreed[114].”

      “Agreed!” they echoed, in rather a disappointed tone, and Captain Peter led the way.

      “All right, come on. We can reach Haarlem in an hour!”

      Big Manias and Little Oddities

      While skating along at full speed, they heard the cars from Amsterdam coming close behind them.

      “Halloo!” cried Ludwig, glancing toward the rail track, “who can’t beat a locomotive? Let’s give it a race!”

      The whistle screamed at the very idea – so did the boys – and at it they went.

      For an instant the boys were ahead, hurrahing with all their might – only for an instant, but even THAT was something.

      This excitement over, they began to travel more leisurely and indulge in conversation and frolic. Sometimes they stopped to exchange a word with the guards who were stationed at certain distances along the canal. These men, in winter, attend to keeping the surface free from obstruction and garbage. After a snowstorm they are expected to sweep the feathery covering away before it hardens into a marble pretty to look at but very unwelcome to skaters. Now and then the boys so far forgot their dignity as to clamber among the icebound canal boats crowded together in a widened harbor off the canal, but the watchful guards would soon spy them out and order them down with a growl.

      Nothing could be straighter than the canal upon which our party were skating, and nothing straighter than the long rows of willow trees that stood, bare and wispy, along the bank. On the opposite side, lifted high above the surrounding country, lay the carriage road on top of the great dike built to keep the Haarlem Lake within bounds; stretching out far in the distance, until it became lost in a point, was the glassy canal with its many skaters, its brown-winged iceboats, its push-chairs, and its queer little sleds, light as cork, flying over the ice by means of iron-pronged sticks in the hands of the riders. Ben was in ecstasy with the scene.

      Ludwig van Holp had been thinking how strange it was that the English boy should know so much of Holland. According to Lambert’s account, he knew more about it than the Dutch did. This did not quite please our young Hollander. Suddenly he thought of something that he believed would make the “Shon Pull” open his eyes; he drew near Lambert with a triumphant “Tell him about the tulips!”

      Ben caught the word tulpen.

      “Oh, yes!” said he eagerly, in English, “the Tulip Mania – are you speaking of that? I have often heard it mentioned but know very little about it. It reached its height in Amsterdam, didn’t it?”

      Ludwig moaned; the words were hard to understand, but there was no mistaking the enlightened expression on Ben’s face. Lambert, happily, was quite unconscious of his young countryman’s distress as he replied, “Yes, here and in Haarlem, principally; but the excitement ran high all over Holland, and in England too for that matter.”

      “Hardly in England, I think,” said Ben, “but I am not sure, as I was not there at the time.”Скачать книгу