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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Parthenon By Way Of Papendrecht, by
+F. Hopkinson Smith
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Parthenon By Way Of Papendrecht
+       1909
+
+Author: F. Hopkinson Smith
+
+Illustrator: F. Hopkinson Smith
+
+Release Date: December 3, 2007 [EBook #23703]
+Last Updated: March 8, 2018
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PARTHENON ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Widger
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE PARTHENON BY WAY OF PAPENDRECHT
+
+By F. Hopkinson Smith
+
+1909
+
+
+“WILYUM!....._Wilyum!_.....WILYUM!”
+
+It was mine host of the Ferry Inn at Cook-ham who was calling, and at
+the top of his voice--and a big-chested voice it was--the sound leaping
+into crescendo as the object of his search remained hidden. Then he
+turned to me:
+
+“He's somewheres 'round the boat house--you can't miss him--there's too
+much of him!”
+
+“Are ye wantin' me, sor?” came another shout as I rounded the squat
+building stuffed with boats--literally so--bottom, top, and sides.
+
+“Yes--are you the boatman?”
+
+“I am, sor--and bloody sick of me job. Do ye see that wherry shovin'
+off--the one with the lady in a sweater? Yes--that's right--just slipped
+under the bridge. Well, sor, what d'ye think the bloke did for me? Look
+at it, sor!” (Here he held out his hand, in which lay a half-penny.)
+“And me a-washin' out 'is boat, feedin' of 'is dog, and keepin' an eye
+on 'is togs and 'is ladies--and then shoves off and 'ands me this--a
+'a'penny, sor--_a 'a'penny_--from the likes o' 'im to the likes o' me!
+Damn 'im!”--and away went the coin into the river. “You'll excuse me,
+sor, but i couldn't choke it down. Is it a punt ye're lookin' for?”
+
+The landlord was right--there was a good deal of him--six feet and an
+inch, I should think; straight as an oar, his bared arms swinging free;
+waist, thighs, and back tough as a saw-log. To this was added two big
+blue eyes set in a clean-shaven face bronzed by the sun, and a double
+row of teeth that would have shamed an ear of corn. I caught, too, the
+muscles of his chest rounding out his boating shirt, and particularly
+the muscles of the neck supporting the round head crowned with closely
+cropped hair--evidently a young Englishman of that great middle class
+which the nation depends upon in an emergency. My inspection also
+settled any question I might have had as to why he was “William,” and
+never “Bill,” to those about him.
+
+The one thing lacking in his make-up--and which only came into view when
+he turned his head--was the upper part of one ear. This was clipped as
+close as a terrier's.
+
+Again he repeated the question--with a deprecatory smile, as if he
+already regretted his outburst.
+
+“Is it a punt ye're wantin', sor?”
+
+“Yes--and a man to pole it and look after me while I paint. I had old
+Norris for the past few years, but I hear he's gone back to gardening.
+Will you have time with your other work?”
+
+“Time! I'll chuck my job if I don't.”
+
+“No,--you can do both,--Norris did. You can pole me out to where I
+want to work; bring me my lunch when you have yours, and come for me at
+night. You weren't here two years ago--were you?”
+
+“No--I was with General French. Got this clip outside Kimberly--” and he
+touched his ear. “Been all my life on the river--Maidenhead and Bourne's
+End mostly--and so when my time was up I come home and the boss here put
+me on.”
+
+“A soldier! I thought so. I see now why you got mad. Wonder you didn't
+throw that chap into the river.” I am a crank on the happiness one gets
+from the giving of tips--and a half-penny man is the rock bottom of
+meanness.
+
+His face straightened.
+
+“Well, we can't do that, sor--we can't never talk back. Got to grin and
+bear it or lose yer job. Learned that in the Hussahs. I didn't care for
+his money--maybe it was the way he did it that set me goin'--as if I
+was--Well--let it go! And it's a punt ye want?--Yes, sor--come and pick
+it out.”
+
+After that it was plain sailing--or punting. The picture of that London
+cad sprawling in the water, which my approval had created in his mind,
+had done it. And it was early and late too (there were few visitors
+that month); down by the Weir below the lock as far as Cliveden; up the
+backwater to the Mill--William stretched beside me while I worked, or
+pulling back and forth when a cool bottle--beer, of course--or a kettle
+and an alcohol lamp would add to my comfort.
+
+*****
+
+Many years of tramping and boating up and down the Thames from Reading
+to Maidenhead have taught me the ins and outs of the river. I know it
+as I do my own pocket (and there is more in that statement than you
+think--especially during regatta week).
+
+First comes Sonning with its rose gardens and quaint brick bridge; and
+then Marlowe with that long stretch of silver bordered by nodding trees
+and dominated by the robber Inn--four shillings and six for a sawdust
+sandwich! Then Maidenhead, swarming with boats and city folks after
+dark (it is only a step from the landing to any number of curtained
+sitting-rooms with shaded candles--and there be gay times at Maidenhead,
+let me tell you!). And, between, best of all, lovely Cookham.
+
+Here the river, crazy with delight, seems to lose its head and goes
+meandering about, poking its nose up backwaters, creeping across
+meadows, flooding limpid shallows, mirroring oaks and willows upside
+down, surging up as if to sweep away a velvet-shorn lawn, only to pour
+itself--its united self--into an open-mouthed lock, and so on to a saner
+life in a level stretch beyond. If you want a map giving these vagaries,
+spill a cup of tea and follow its big and little puddles with their
+connecting rivulets: ten chances to one it will come out right.
+
+All this William and I took in for three unbroken weeks, my usual
+summer allotment on the Thames. Never was there such a breesy, wholesome
+companion; stories of his life in the Veldt; of his hospital experience
+over that same ear--“The only crack I got, sor, thank God!--except bein'
+'alf starved for a week and down two months with the fever--” neither of
+which seemed to have caused him a moment's inconvenience; stories of
+the people living about him and those who came from London with a “'am
+sandwidge in a noospaper, and precious little more,” rolled out of him
+by the hour.
+
+And the poise of the man! When he lay stretched out beside me on
+the grass while I worked--an old bivouac attitude--he kept still; no
+twitching of legs or stretching of arms--lay as a big hound does, whose
+blood and breeding necessitate repose.
+
+And we were never separated. First a plunge overboard, and then a pull
+back for breakfast, and off again with the luncheon tucked under the
+seat--and so on until the sun dropped behind the hills.
+
+The only days on which this routine of work and play had to be changed
+were Sundays and holidays. Then my white umbrella would loom up as large
+as a circus tent, the usual crowd surging about its doors. As you cannot
+see London for the people, so you cannot see the river for boats on
+these days--all sorts of boats--wherries, tubs, launches, racing crafts,
+shells, punts--everything that can be poled, pulled, or wobbled, and in
+each one the invariable combination--a man, a girl, and a dog--a dog, a
+girl, and a man. This has been going on for ages, and will to the end of
+time.
+
+On these mornings William and I have our bath early--ahead of the crowd
+really, who generally arrive two hours after sunrise and keep up the
+pace until the last train leaves for Paddington. This bath is at the
+end of one of the teacup spillways, and is called the Weir. There is a
+plateau, a plunge down some twenty feet into a deep pool, and the usual
+surroundings of fresh morning air, gay tree-tops, and the splash of cool
+water sparkling in the sunlight.
+
+To-day as my boat grated on the gravel my eyes fell on a young English
+lord who was holding the centre of the stage in the sunlight. He was
+dressed from head to foot in a skin-tight suit of underwear which had
+been cut for him by a Garden-of-Eden tailor. He was just out of the
+water--a straight, well-built, ruddy-skinned fellow--every inch a man!
+What birth and station had done for him would become apparent when
+his valet began to hand him his Bond Street outfit. The next instant
+William stood beside him. Then there came a wriggle about the
+shoulders, the slip of a buckle, and he was overboard and out again
+before my lord had discarded his third towel.
+
+I fell to thinking.
+
+Naked they were equals. That was the way they came into the world and
+that's the way they would go out. And yet within the hour my lord would
+be back to his muffins and silver service, with two flunkies behind
+his chair, and William would be swabbing out a boat or poling me home
+through the pond lilies.
+
+But why?--I kept asking myself. A totally idiotic and illogical
+question, of course. Both were of an age; both would be a joy to a
+sculptor looking for modern gods with which to imitate the Greek ones.
+Both were equal in the sight of their Maker. Both had served their
+country--my lord, I learned later, being one of the first to draw a bead
+on Spion Kop close enough to be of any use--and both were honest--at
+least William was--and the lord must have been.
+
+There is no answer--never can be. And yet the picture of the two as they
+stood glistening in the sunlight continues to rise in my memory, and
+with it always comes this same query--one which will never down--Why
+should there be the difference?
+
+*****
+
+But the summer is moving on apace. There is another Inn and another
+William--or rather, there was one several hundred years ago before he
+went off crusading. It is an old resort of mine. Seven years now has
+old Leah filled my breakfast cup with a coffee that deserves a hymn of
+praise in its honor. I like it hot--boiling, blistering hot, and the
+old woman brings it on the run, her white sabots clattering across the
+flower-smothered courtyard. During all these years I have followed
+with reverent fingers not only the slopes of its roof but the loops of
+swinging clematis that crowd its balconies and gabies as well. I say
+“my” because I have known this Inn of William the Conqueror long
+enough to include it in the list of the many good ones I frequent
+over Europe--the Bellevue, for instance, at Dordrecht, over against
+Papendrecht (I shall be there in another month). And the Britannia in
+Venice, and I hope still a third in unknown Athens--unknown to me--my
+objective point this year.
+
+This particular Inn with the roof and the clematis, is at Dives, twenty
+miles from Trouville on the coast. You never saw anything like it, and
+you never will again. I hold no brief for my old friend Le Remois, the
+proprietor, but the coffee is not the only thing over which grateful
+men chant hymns. There is a kitchen, resplendent in polished brass,
+with three French chefs in attendance, and a two-century-old spit for
+roasting. There is the wine-cellar, in which cobwebs and not labels
+record the age and the vintage; there is a dining-room--three of
+them--with baronial fireplaces, sixteenth-century furniture, and linen
+and glass to match--to say nothing of tapestries, Spanish leathers,
+shrines, carved saints, ivories, and pewter--the whole a sight to turn
+bric-a-brac fiends into burglars--not a difficult thing by the way--and
+then, of course--there is the bill!
+
+“Where have you been, M. Le Rémois?” asked a charming woman.
+
+“To church, Madame.”
+
+“Did you say your prayers?”
+
+“Yes, Madame,” answered this good boni-face, with a twinkle.
+
+“What did you pray for?”
+
+“I said--'Oh, Lord!--do not make me rich, but place me _next_ to the
+rich'”--and he kept on his way rubbing his hands and chuckling. And yet
+I must say it is worth the price.
+
+I have no need of a William here--nor of anybody else. The water for my
+cups is within my reach; convenient umbrellas on movable pedestals can
+be shoved into place; a sheltered back porch hives for the night all my
+paraphernalia and unfinished sketches, and a step or two brings me to
+a table where a broiled lobster fresh from the sea and a peculiar peach
+ablaze in a peculiar sauce--the whole washed down by a pint of--(No--you
+can't have the brand--there were only seven bottles left when I paid my
+bill)--and besides I am going back--help to ease the cares that beset a
+painter's life.
+
+But even this oasis of a garden, hemmed about as if by the froth of
+Trouville and the suds of Cabourg; through which floats the gay life
+of Paris resplendent in toilets never excelled or _exceeded_
+anywhere--cannot keep me from Holland very long. And it is a pity too,
+for of late years I have been looked upon as a harmless fixture at the
+Inn--so much so that men and women pass and repass my easel, or
+look over my shoulder while I work without a break in their
+confidences--quite as if I was a deaf, dumb, and blind waiter, or
+twin-brother to old Coco the cockatoo, who has surveyed the same scene
+from his perch near the roof for the past thirty years.
+
+None of these unconscious ear-droppings am I going to
+betray--delightful, startling--_improper_, if you must have it--as some
+of them were. Not the most interesting, at all events, for I promised
+her I wouldn't--but there is no question as to the diversion obtained by
+keeping the latch-string of your ears on the outside.
+
+None of all this ever drips into my auricles in Holland. A country so
+small that they build dikes to keep the inhabitants from being spilt
+off the edge, is hardly the place for a scandal--certainly not in stolid
+Dordrecht or in that fly-speck of a Papendrecht, whose dormer windows
+peer over the edge of the dike as if in mortal fear of another
+inundation. And yet, small as it is, it is still big enough for me to
+approach it--the fly-speck, of course--by half a dozen different routes.
+I can come by boat from Rotterdam. Fop Smit owns and runs it--(no kin of
+mine, more's the pity)--or by train from Amsterdam; or by carriage from
+any number of 'dams, 'drechts, and 'bergs. Or I can tramp it on foot, or
+be wheeled in on a dog-wagon. I have tried them all, and know. Being now
+a staid old painter and past such foolishness, I take the train.
+
+Toot! Toot!--and I am out on the platform, through the door of the
+station and aboard the one-horse tram that wiggles and swings over the
+cobble-scoured streets of Dordrecht, and so on to the Bellevue.
+
+Why I stop at the Bellevue (apart from it being one of my Inns) is that
+from its windows I cannot only watch the life of the tawny-colored,
+boat-crowded Maas, but see every curl of smoke that mounts from the
+chimneys of Papendrecht strung along its opposite bank. My dear friend,
+Herr Boudier, of years gone by, has retired from its ownership, but
+his successor, Herr Teitsma, is as hearty in his welcome. Peter, my old
+boatman, too, pulled his last oar some two years back, and one “Bop”
+ takes his place. There is another “p” and an “e” tacked on to Bop, but I
+have eliminated the unnecessary and call him “Bob” for short. They
+made Bob out of what was left of Peter, but they left out all trace of
+William.
+
+This wooden-shod curiosity is anywhere from seventy to one hundred and
+fifty years old, gray, knock-kneed, bent in the back, and goes to sleep
+standing up--_and stays asleep_. He is the exact duplicate of the
+tramp in the comic opera of “Miss Hook of Holland”--except that the
+actor-sleeper occasionally topples over and has to be braced up. Bob is
+past-master of the art and goes it alone, without propping of any kind.
+He is the only man in Dordrecht, or Papendrecht, or the country round
+about, who can pull a boat and speak English. He says so, and I am
+forced not only to believe him, but to hire him. He wants it in advance,
+too--having had some experience with “painter-man,” he explains to Herr
+Teitsma.
+
+I shall, of course, miss my delightful William, but I am accustomed to
+that. And, then, again, while Bob asleep is an interesting physiological
+study, Bob awake adds to the gayety of nations, samples of which crowd
+about my easel, Holland being one of the main highways of the earth.
+
+I have known Dort and the little 'drecht across the way for some fifteen
+years, five of which have slipped by since I last opened my umbrella
+along its quaint quays. To my great joy nothing has changed. The old
+potato boat still lies close to the quay, under the overhanging elms.
+The same dear old man and his equally dear old wife still make their
+home beneath its hipped roof. I know, for it is here I lunch, the cargo
+forming the chief dish, followed by a saucer of stewed currants, a cup
+of coffee--(more hymns here)--and a loaf of bread from the baker's. The
+old Groote Kirk still towers aloft--the highest building in Holland,
+they say; the lazy, red-sailed luggers drift up and down, their decks
+gay with potted plants; swiss curtains at the cabin windows, the wife
+holding the tiller while the man trims the sail. The boys still clatter
+over the polished cobbles--an aggressive mob when school lets out--and a
+larger crop, I think, than in the years gone by, and with more noise--my
+umbrella being the target. Often a spoilt fish or half a last week's
+cabbage comes my way, whereupon Bob awakes to instant action with a
+consequent scattering, the bravest and most agile making faces from
+behind wharf spiles and corners. Peter used to build a fence of oars
+around me to keep them off, but Bob takes it out in swearing.
+
+Only once did he silence them. They were full grown, this squad, and had
+crowded the old man against a tree under which I had backed as shelter
+from a passing shower. There came a blow straight from the shoulder, a
+sprawling boy, and Bob was in the midst of them, his right sleeve rolled
+up, showing a full-rigged ship tattooed in India ink. What poured from
+him I learned afterward was an account of his many voyages to the Arctic
+and around the Horn, as the label on his arm proved--an experience
+which, he shouted, would be utilized in pounding them up into fish bait
+if they did not take to their heels. After that he always went to sleep
+with one eye open, the boys keeping awake with two--and out of my way--a
+result which interested me the more.
+
+If my Luigi was not growing restless in my beloved Venice (it is
+wonderful how large a portion of the earth I own) I would love to pass
+the rest of my summer along these gray canals, especially since Bob's
+development brings a daily surprise. Only to-day I caught sight of him
+half hidden in an angle of a wall, surrounded by a group of little tots
+who were begging him for paper pin-wheels which a vender had stopped to
+sell, an infinitesimal small coin the size of a cuff button purchasing
+a dozen or more. When I again looked up from a canvas each tot had a
+pin-wheel, and later on Bob, that much poorer in pocket, sneaked back
+and promptly went to sleep.
+
+But even Bob's future beatification cannot hold me. I yearn for the
+white, blinding light and breathless lagoons, and all that makes Venice
+the Queen City of the World.
+
+Luigi meets me _inside_ the station. It takes a _soldo_ to get in, and
+Luigi has but few of them, but he is always there. His gondola is
+moored to the landing steps outside--a black swan of a boat, all morocco
+cushions and silk fringes; the product of a thousand years of tinkering
+by the most fastidious and luxurious people of ancient or modern times,
+and still to-day the most comfortable conveyance known to man.'
+
+Hurry up, you who have never known a gondola or a Luigi! A
+vile-smelling, chuggity-chug is forcing its way up every crooked canal,
+no matter how narrow. Two Venetian shipyards are hammering away on their
+hulls or polishing their motors. Soon the cost of production will drop
+to that of a gondola. Then look out! There are eight thousand machinists
+in the Arsenal earning but five francs a day, any one of whom can learn
+to run a motor boat in a week, thus doubling their wages. Worse yet--the
+world is getting keener every hour for speedy things. I may be wrong--I
+hope and pray I am--but it seems to me that the handwriting is already
+on the wall. “This way to the Museo Civico,” it reads--“if you want
+to find a gondola of twenty-five years ago.” As for the Luigis and the
+Esperos--they will then have given up the unequal struggle.
+
+The only hope rests with the Venetians themselves. They have restored
+the scarred Library, and are rebuilding the Campanile, with a reverence
+for the things which made their past glorious that commands the respect
+of the artistic world. The gondola is as much a part of Venice as its
+sunsets, pigeons, and palaces. Let them by special license keep the
+Tragfaetti intact, with their shuttles of gondolas crossing bade and
+forth--then, perhaps, the catastrophe may be deferred for a few decades.
+
+*****
+
+As it was in Dort and Papendrecht so it is in Venice. Except these
+beastly, vile-smelling boats there is nothing new, thank God. Everything
+else is faded, weather-worn, and old, everything filled with sensuous
+beauty--sky, earth, lagoon, garden wall, murmuring ripples--the same
+wonderful Venice that thrills its lovers the world over.
+
+And the old painters are still here--Walter Brown, Bunce, Bompard,
+Faulkner, and the rest--successors of Ziem and Rico--men who have loved
+her all their lives. And with them a new band of devotees--Monet
+and Louis Aston Knight among them. “For a few days,” they said in
+explanation, but it was weeks before they left--only to return, I
+predict, as Jong as they can hold a brush.
+
+As for Luigi and me--we keep on our accustomed way, leading our
+accustomed lives. Seventeen years now since he bent to his oar behind my
+cushions--twenty-six in all since I began to idle about her canals. It
+is either the little canal next the Public Garden, or up the Giudecca,
+or under the bronze horses of San Marco; or it may be we are camped out
+in the Piazzetta before the Porta della Carta; or perhaps up the narrow
+canal of San Rocco, or in the Fruit Market near the Rialto while the
+boats unload their cargoes.
+
+All old subjects and yet ever new; each has been painted a thousand
+times, and in as many different lights and perspectives. And yet each
+canvas differs from its fellows as do two ripples or two morning skies.
+
+For weeks we drift about. One day Carlotta, the fishwife up the
+Fondamenta della Pallada, makes us our coffee; the next Luigi buys it
+of some smart café on the Piazza. This with a roll, a bit of Gorgonzola,
+and a bunch of grapes, or half a dozen figs, is our luncheon, to which
+is added two curls of blue smoke, one from Luigi's pipe and the other
+from my cigarette. Then we fall to work again.
+
+But this will never do! While I have been loafing with Luigi not only
+has the summer slipped away, but the cool winds of October have crept
+down from the Alps. There are fresh subjects to tackle--some I have
+never seen. Athens beckons to me. The columns of the Parthenon loom up!
+
+*****
+
+If there are half a dozen ways of getting into Papendrecht--there is
+only one of reaching Athens--that is, if you start from Venice. Trieste
+first, either by rail or boat, and then aboard one of the Austrian
+Lloyds, and so on down the Adriatic to Patras.
+
+It is October, remember--when every spear of grass from a six months'
+drought--the customary dry spell--is burnt to a crisp. It will rain
+to-morrow, or next week, they will tell you--but it doesn't--never has
+in October--and never will. Strange to say, you never miss it--neither
+in the color of the mountains flanking the Adriatic or in any of the
+ports on the way down, or in Patras itself. The green note to which I
+have been accustomed--which I have labored over all my life--is lacking,
+and a new palette takes its place--of mauve, violet, indescribable
+blues, and evanescent soap-bubble reds. The slopes of the hills are
+mother-of-pearl, their tops melting into cloud shadows so delicate in
+tone that you cannot distinguish where one leaves off and the other
+begins.
+
+And it is so in Patras, except for a riotous, defiant pine--green as a
+spring cabbage or a newly painted shutter--that sucks its moisture from
+nobody knows where--hasn't any, perhaps, and glories in its shame. All
+along the railroad from the harbor of Patras to the outskirts of Athens
+it is the same--bare fields, bare hills, streets and roads choked with
+dust. And so, too, when you arrive at the station and take the omnibus
+for the Grand Bretagne.
+
+By this time you are accustomed to it--in fact you rather enjoy it.
+If you have a doubt of it, step out on the balcony at the front of the
+hotel and look up!
+
+Hanging in the sky--in an air of pure ether, set in films of silver
+grays in which shimmer millions of tones, delicate as the shadings of
+a pearl, towers the Acropolis, its crest fringed by the ruins of the
+greatest temples the world possesses.
+
+I rang a bell.
+
+“Get me a carriage and send me up a guide--anybody who can speak English
+and who is big enough to carry a sketch trap.”
+
+He must have been outside, so quickly did he answer the call. He was
+two-thirds the size of William, one-half the length of Luigi, and
+one-third the age of Bob.
+
+“What is your name?”
+
+“Vlassopoulos.”
+
+“Anything else?”
+
+“Yes--Panis.”
+
+“Then we'll drop the last half. Put those traps in the carriage--and
+take me to the Parthenon.”
+
+I never left it for fourteen consecutive days--nor did I see a square
+inch of Athens other than the streets I drove through up and back on my
+way to work. Nor have I in all my experience ever had a more competent,
+obliging, and companionable guide--always excepting my beloved Luigi,
+who is not only my guide, but my protector and friend as well.
+
+It was then that I blessed the dust. Green things, wet things, soggy
+things--such as mud and dull skies--have no place in the scheme of the
+Parthenon and its contiguous temples and ruins. That wonderful tea-rose
+marble, with its stains of burnt sienna marking the flutings of endless
+broken columns, needs no varnishing of moisture to enhance its beauty.
+That will do for the façade of Burlington House with its grimy gray
+statues, or the moss-encrusted tower of the Groote Kirk, but never here.
+It was this fear, perhaps, that kept me at work, haunted as I was by the
+bogy of “Rain to-morrow. It always comes, and keeps on for a month when
+it starts in.” Blessed be the weather clerk! It never started in--not
+until I reached Brindisi on my way back to Paris; then, if I remember,
+there was some falling weather--at the rate of two inches an hour.
+
+And yet I might as well confess that my fourteen days of consecutive
+study of the Acropolis, beginning at the recently uncovered entrance
+gate and ending in the Museum behind the Parthenon, added nothing to my
+previous historical or other knowledge--meagre as it had been.
+
+Where the Venetians wrought the greatest havoc, how many and what
+columns were thrown down; how high and thick and massive they were; what
+parts of the marvellous ruin that High Robber Chief Lord Elgin stole
+and carted off to London, and still keeps the British Museum acting as
+“fence”; how wide and long and spacious was the superb chamber that held
+the statue the gods loved--none of these things interested me--do not
+now. What I saw was an epoch in stone; a chronicle telling the story
+of civilization; a glove thrown down to posterity, challenging the
+competition of the world.
+
+And with this came a feeling of reverence so profound, so awe-inspiring,
+so humbling, that I caught myself speaking to Panis in whispers--as one
+does in a temple when the service is in progress. This, as the sun sped
+its course and the purple shadows of the coming night began to creep up
+the steps and columns of the marvellous pile, its pediment bathed in the
+rose-glow of the fading day, was followed by a silence that neither of
+us cared to break. For then the wondrous temple took on the semblance
+of some old sage, the sunlight on his forehead, the shadow of the future
+about his knees.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Parthenon By Way Of Papendrecht, by
+F. Hopkinson Smith
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PARTHENON ***
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Parthenon By Way Of Papendrecht, by 
+F. Hopkinson Smith
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Parthenon By Way Of Papendrecht
+       1909
+
+Author: F. Hopkinson Smith
+
+Illustrator: F. Hopkinson Smith
+
+Release Date: December 3, 2007 [EBook #23703]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PARTHENON ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Widger
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE PARTHENON BY WAY OF PAPENDRECHT
+
+By F. Hopkinson Smith
+
+1909
+
+
+"WILYUM!....._Wilyum!_.....WILYUM!"
+
+It was mine host of the Ferry Inn at Cook-ham who was calling, and at
+the top of his voice--and a big-chested voice it was--the sound leaping
+into crescendo as the object of his search remained hidden. Then he
+turned to me:
+
+"He's somewheres 'round the boat house--you can't miss him--there's too
+much of him!"
+
+"Are ye wantin' me, sor?" came another shout as I rounded the squat
+building stuffed with boats--literally so--bottom, top, and sides.
+
+"Yes--are you the boatman?"
+
+"I am, sor--and bloody sick of me job. Do ye see that wherry shovin'
+off--the one with the lady in a sweater? Yes--that's right--just slipped
+under the bridge. Well, sor, what d'ye think the bloke did for me? Look
+at it, sor!" (Here he held out his hand, in which lay a half-penny.)
+"And me a-washin' out 'is boat, feedin' of 'is dog, and keepin' an eye
+on 'is togs and 'is ladies--and then shoves off and 'ands me this--a
+'a'penny, sor--_a 'a'penny_--from the likes o' 'im to the likes o' me!
+Damn 'im!"--and away went the coin into the river. "You'll excuse me,
+sor, but i couldn't choke it down. Is it a punt ye're lookin' for?"
+
+The landlord was right--there was a good deal of him--six feet and an
+inch, I should think; straight as an oar, his bared arms swinging free;
+waist, thighs, and back tough as a saw-log. To this was added two big
+blue eyes set in a clean-shaven face bronzed by the sun, and a double
+row of teeth that would have shamed an ear of corn. I caught, too, the
+muscles of his chest rounding out his boating shirt, and particularly
+the muscles of the neck supporting the round head crowned with closely
+cropped hair--evidently a young Englishman of that great middle class
+which the nation depends upon in an emergency. My inspection also
+settled any question I might have had as to why he was "William," and
+never "Bill," to those about him.
+
+The one thing lacking in his make-up--and which only came into view when
+he turned his head--was the upper part of one ear. This was clipped as
+close as a terrier's.
+
+Again he repeated the question--with a deprecatory smile, as if he
+already regretted his outburst.
+
+"Is it a punt ye're wantin', sor?"
+
+"Yes--and a man to pole it and look after me while I paint. I had old
+Norris for the past few years, but I hear he's gone back to gardening.
+Will you have time with your other work?"
+
+"Time! I'll chuck my job if I don't."
+
+"No,--you can do both,--Norris did. You can pole me out to where I
+want to work; bring me my lunch when you have yours, and come for me at
+night. You weren't here two years ago--were you?"
+
+"No--I was with General French. Got this clip outside Kimberly--" and he
+touched his ear. "Been all my life on the river--Maidenhead and Bourne's
+End mostly--and so when my time was up I come home and the boss here put
+me on."
+
+"A soldier! I thought so. I see now why you got mad. Wonder you didn't
+throw that chap into the river." I am a crank on the happiness one gets
+from the giving of tips--and a half-penny man is the rock bottom of
+meanness.
+
+His face straightened.
+
+"Well, we can't do that, sor--we can't never talk back. Got to grin and
+bear it or lose yer job. Learned that in the Hussahs. I didn't care for
+his money--maybe it was the way he did it that set me goin'--as if I
+was--Well--let it go! And it's a punt ye want?--Yes, sor--come and pick
+it out."
+
+After that it was plain sailing--or punting. The picture of that London
+cad sprawling in the water, which my approval had created in his mind,
+had done it. And it was early and late too (there were few visitors
+that month); down by the Weir below the lock as far as Cliveden; up the
+backwater to the Mill--William stretched beside me while I worked, or
+pulling back and forth when a cool bottle--beer, of course--or a kettle
+and an alcohol lamp would add to my comfort.
+
+*****
+
+Many years of tramping and boating up and down the Thames from Reading
+to Maidenhead have taught me the ins and outs of the river. I know it
+as I do my own pocket (and there is more in that statement than you
+think--especially during regatta week).
+
+First comes Sonning with its rose gardens and quaint brick bridge; and
+then Marlowe with that long stretch of silver bordered by nodding trees
+and dominated by the robber Inn--four shillings and six for a sawdust
+sandwich! Then Maidenhead, swarming with boats and city folks after
+dark (it is only a step from the landing to any number of curtained
+sitting-rooms with shaded candles--and there be gay times at Maidenhead,
+let me tell you!). And, between, best of all, lovely Cookham.
+
+Here the river, crazy with delight, seems to lose its head and goes
+meandering about, poking its nose up backwaters, creeping across
+meadows, flooding limpid shallows, mirroring oaks and willows upside
+down, surging up as if to sweep away a velvet-shorn lawn, only to pour
+itself--its united self--into an open-mouthed lock, and so on to a saner
+life in a level stretch beyond. If you want a map giving these vagaries,
+spill a cup of tea and follow its big and little puddles with their
+connecting rivulets: ten chances to one it will come out right.
+
+All this William and I took in for three unbroken weeks, my usual
+summer allotment on the Thames. Never was there such a breesy, wholesome
+companion; stories of his life in the Veldt; of his hospital experience
+over that same ear--"The only crack I got, sor, thank God!--except bein'
+'alf starved for a week and down two months with the fever--" neither of
+which seemed to have caused him a moment's inconvenience; stories of
+the people living about him and those who came from London with a "'am
+sandwidge in a noospaper, and precious little more," rolled out of him
+by the hour.
+
+And the poise of the man! When he lay stretched out beside me on
+the grass while I worked--an old bivouac attitude--he kept still; no
+twitching of legs or stretching of arms--lay as a big hound does, whose
+blood and breeding necessitate repose.
+
+And we were never separated. First a plunge overboard, and then a pull
+back for breakfast, and off again with the luncheon tucked under the
+seat--and so on until the sun dropped behind the hills.
+
+The only days on which this routine of work and play had to be changed
+were Sundays and holidays. Then my white umbrella would loom up as large
+as a circus tent, the usual crowd surging about its doors. As you cannot
+see London for the people, so you cannot see the river for boats on
+these days--all sorts of boats--wherries, tubs, launches, racing crafts,
+shells, punts--everything that can be poled, pulled, or wobbled, and in
+each one the invariable combination--a man, a girl, and a dog--a dog, a
+girl, and a man. This has been going on for ages, and will to the end of
+time.
+
+On these mornings William and I have our bath early--ahead of the crowd
+really, who generally arrive two hours after sunrise and keep up the
+pace until the last train leaves for Paddington. This bath is at the
+end of one of the teacup spillways, and is called the Weir. There is a
+plateau, a plunge down some twenty feet into a deep pool, and the usual
+surroundings of fresh morning air, gay tree-tops, and the splash of cool
+water sparkling in the sunlight.
+
+To-day as my boat grated on the gravel my eyes fell on a young English
+lord who was holding the centre of the stage in the sunlight. He was
+dressed from head to foot in a skin-tight suit of underwear which had
+been cut for him by a Garden-of-Eden tailor. He was just out of the
+water--a straight, well-built, ruddy-skinned fellow--every inch a man!
+What birth and station had done for him would become apparent when
+his valet began to hand him his Bond Street outfit. The next instant
+William stood beside him. Then there came a wriggle about the
+shoulders, the slip of a buckle, and he was overboard and out again
+before my lord had discarded his third towel.
+
+I fell to thinking.
+
+Naked they were equals. That was the way they came into the world and
+that's the way they would go out. And yet within the hour my lord would
+be back to his muffins and silver service, with two flunkies behind
+his chair, and William would be swabbing out a boat or poling me home
+through the pond lilies.
+
+But why?--I kept asking myself. A totally idiotic and illogical
+question, of course. Both were of an age; both would be a joy to a
+sculptor looking for modern gods with which to imitate the Greek ones.
+Both were equal in the sight of their Maker. Both had served their
+country--my lord, I learned later, being one of the first to draw a bead
+on Spion Kop close enough to be of any use--and both were honest--at
+least William was--and the lord must have been.
+
+There is no answer--never can be. And yet the picture of the two as they
+stood glistening in the sunlight continues to rise in my memory, and
+with it always comes this same query--one which will never down--Why
+should there be the difference?
+
+*****
+
+But the summer is moving on apace. There is another Inn and another
+William--or rather, there was one several hundred years ago before he
+went off crusading. It is an old resort of mine. Seven years now has
+old Leah filled my breakfast cup with a coffee that deserves a hymn of
+praise in its honor. I like it hot--boiling, blistering hot, and the
+old woman brings it on the run, her white sabots clattering across the
+flower-smothered courtyard. During all these years I have followed
+with reverent fingers not only the slopes of its roof but the loops of
+swinging clematis that crowd its balconies and gabies as well. I say
+"my" because I have known this Inn of William the Conqueror long
+enough to include it in the list of the many good ones I frequent
+over Europe--the Bellevue, for instance, at Dordrecht, over against
+Papendrecht (I shall be there in another month). And the Britannia in
+Venice, and I hope still a third in unknown Athens--unknown to me--my
+objective point this year.
+
+This particular Inn with the roof and the clematis, is at Dives, twenty
+miles from Trouville on the coast. You never saw anything like it, and
+you never will again. I hold no brief for my old friend Le Remois, the
+proprietor, but the coffee is not the only thing over which grateful
+men chant hymns. There is a kitchen, resplendent in polished brass,
+with three French chefs in attendance, and a two-century-old spit for
+roasting. There is the wine-cellar, in which cobwebs and not labels
+record the age and the vintage; there is a dining-room--three of
+them--with baronial fireplaces, sixteenth-century furniture, and linen
+and glass to match--to say nothing of tapestries, Spanish leathers,
+shrines, carved saints, ivories, and pewter--the whole a sight to turn
+bric-a-brac fiends into burglars--not a difficult thing by the way--and
+then, of course--there is the bill!
+
+"Where have you been, M. Le R�mois?" asked a charming woman.
+
+"To church, Madame."
+
+"Did you say your prayers?"
+
+"Yes, Madame," answered this good boni-face, with a twinkle.
+
+"What did you pray for?"
+
+"I said--'Oh, Lord!--do not make me rich, but place me _next_ to the
+rich'"--and he kept on his way rubbing his hands and chuckling. And yet
+I must say it is worth the price.
+
+I have no need of a William here--nor of anybody else. The water for my
+cups is within my reach; convenient umbrellas on movable pedestals can
+be shoved into place; a sheltered back porch hives for the night all my
+paraphernalia and unfinished sketches, and a step or two brings me to
+a table where a broiled lobster fresh from the sea and a peculiar peach
+ablaze in a peculiar sauce--the whole washed down by a pint of--(No--you
+can't have the brand--there were only seven bottles left when I paid my
+bill)--and besides I am going back--help to ease the cares that beset a
+painter's life.
+
+But even this oasis of a garden, hemmed about as if by the froth of
+Trouville and the suds of Cabourg; through which floats the gay life
+of Paris resplendent in toilets never excelled or _exceeded_
+anywhere--cannot keep me from Holland very long. And it is a pity too,
+for of late years I have been looked upon as a harmless fixture at the
+Inn--so much so that men and women pass and repass my easel, or
+look over my shoulder while I work without a break in their
+confidences--quite as if I was a deaf, dumb, and blind waiter, or
+twin-brother to old Coco the cockatoo, who has surveyed the same scene
+from his perch near the roof for the past thirty years.
+
+None of these unconscious ear-droppings am I going to
+betray--delightful, startling--_improper_, if you must have it--as some
+of them were. Not the most interesting, at all events, for I promised
+her I wouldn't--but there is no question as to the diversion obtained by
+keeping the latch-string of your ears on the outside.
+
+None of all this ever drips into my auricles in Holland. A country so
+small that they build dikes to keep the inhabitants from being spilt
+off the edge, is hardly the place for a scandal--certainly not in stolid
+Dordrecht or in that fly-speck of a Papendrecht, whose dormer windows
+peer over the edge of the dike as if in mortal fear of another
+inundation. And yet, small as it is, it is still big enough for me to
+approach it--the fly-speck, of course--by half a dozen different routes.
+I can come by boat from Rotterdam. Fop Smit owns and runs it--(no kin of
+mine, more's the pity)--or by train from Amsterdam; or by carriage from
+any number of 'dams, 'drechts, and 'bergs. Or I can tramp it on foot, or
+be wheeled in on a dog-wagon. I have tried them all, and know. Being now
+a staid old painter and past such foolishness, I take the train.
+
+Toot! Toot!--and I am out on the platform, through the door of the
+station and aboard the one-horse tram that wiggles and swings over the
+cobble-scoured streets of Dordrecht, and so on to the Bellevue.
+
+Why I stop at the Bellevue (apart from it being one of my Inns) is that
+from its windows I cannot only watch the life of the tawny-colored,
+boat-crowded Maas, but see every curl of smoke that mounts from the
+chimneys of Papendrecht strung along its opposite bank. My dear friend,
+Herr Boudier, of years gone by, has retired from its ownership, but
+his successor, Herr Teitsma, is as hearty in his welcome. Peter, my old
+boatman, too, pulled his last oar some two years back, and one "Bop"
+takes his place. There is another "p" and an "e" tacked on to Bop, but I
+have eliminated the unnecessary and call him "Bob" for short. They
+made Bob out of what was left of Peter, but they left out all trace of
+William.
+
+This wooden-shod curiosity is anywhere from seventy to one hundred and
+fifty years old, gray, knock-kneed, bent in the back, and goes to sleep
+standing up--_and stays asleep_. He is the exact duplicate of the
+tramp in the comic opera of "Miss Hook of Holland"--except that the
+actor-sleeper occasionally topples over and has to be braced up. Bob is
+past-master of the art and goes it alone, without propping of any kind.
+He is the only man in Dordrecht, or Papendrecht, or the country round
+about, who can pull a boat and speak English. He says so, and I am
+forced not only to believe him, but to hire him. He wants it in advance,
+too--having had some experience with "painter-man," he explains to Herr
+Teitsma.
+
+I shall, of course, miss my delightful William, but I am accustomed to
+that. And, then, again, while Bob asleep is an interesting physiological
+study, Bob awake adds to the gayety of nations, samples of which crowd
+about my easel, Holland being one of the main highways of the earth.
+
+I have known Dort and the little 'drecht across the way for some fifteen
+years, five of which have slipped by since I last opened my umbrella
+along its quaint quays. To my great joy nothing has changed. The old
+potato boat still lies close to the quay, under the overhanging elms.
+The same dear old man and his equally dear old wife still make their
+home beneath its hipped roof. I know, for it is here I lunch, the cargo
+forming the chief dish, followed by a saucer of stewed currants, a cup
+of coffee--(more hymns here)--and a loaf of bread from the baker's. The
+old Groote Kirk still towers aloft--the highest building in Holland,
+they say; the lazy, red-sailed luggers drift up and down, their decks
+gay with potted plants; swiss curtains at the cabin windows, the wife
+holding the tiller while the man trims the sail. The boys still clatter
+over the polished cobbles--an aggressive mob when school lets out--and a
+larger crop, I think, than in the years gone by, and with more noise--my
+umbrella being the target. Often a spoilt fish or half a last week's
+cabbage comes my way, whereupon Bob awakes to instant action with a
+consequent scattering, the bravest and most agile making faces from
+behind wharf spiles and corners. Peter used to build a fence of oars
+around me to keep them off, but Bob takes it out in swearing.
+
+Only once did he silence them. They were full grown, this squad, and had
+crowded the old man against a tree under which I had backed as shelter
+from a passing shower. There came a blow straight from the shoulder, a
+sprawling boy, and Bob was in the midst of them, his right sleeve rolled
+up, showing a full-rigged ship tattooed in India ink. What poured from
+him I learned afterward was an account of his many voyages to the Arctic
+and around the Horn, as the label on his arm proved--an experience
+which, he shouted, would be utilized in pounding them up into fish bait
+if they did not take to their heels. After that he always went to sleep
+with one eye open, the boys keeping awake with two--and out of my way--a
+result which interested me the more.
+
+If my Luigi was not growing restless in my beloved Venice (it is
+wonderful how large a portion of the earth I own) I would love to pass
+the rest of my summer along these gray canals, especially since Bob's
+development brings a daily surprise. Only to-day I caught sight of him
+half hidden in an angle of a wall, surrounded by a group of little tots
+who were begging him for paper pin-wheels which a vender had stopped to
+sell, an infinitesimal small coin the size of a cuff button purchasing
+a dozen or more. When I again looked up from a canvas each tot had a
+pin-wheel, and later on Bob, that much poorer in pocket, sneaked back
+and promptly went to sleep.
+
+But even Bob's future beatification cannot hold me. I yearn for the
+white, blinding light and breathless lagoons, and all that makes Venice
+the Queen City of the World.
+
+Luigi meets me _inside_ the station. It takes a _soldo_ to get in, and
+Luigi has but few of them, but he is always there. His gondola is
+moored to the landing steps outside--a black swan of a boat, all morocco
+cushions and silk fringes; the product of a thousand years of tinkering
+by the most fastidious and luxurious people of ancient or modern times,
+and still to-day the most comfortable conveyance known to man.'
+
+Hurry up, you who have never known a gondola or a Luigi! A
+vile-smelling, chuggity-chug is forcing its way up every crooked canal,
+no matter how narrow. Two Venetian shipyards are hammering away on their
+hulls or polishing their motors. Soon the cost of production will drop
+to that of a gondola. Then look out! There are eight thousand machinists
+in the Arsenal earning but five francs a day, any one of whom can learn
+to run a motor boat in a week, thus doubling their wages. Worse yet--the
+world is getting keener every hour for speedy things. I may be wrong--I
+hope and pray I am--but it seems to me that the handwriting is already
+on the wall. "This way to the Museo Civico," it reads--"if you want
+to find a gondola of twenty-five years ago." As for the Luigis and the
+Esperos--they will then have given up the unequal struggle.
+
+The only hope rests with the Venetians themselves. They have restored
+the scarred Library, and are rebuilding the Campanile, with a reverence
+for the things which made their past glorious that commands the respect
+of the artistic world. The gondola is as much a part of Venice as its
+sunsets, pigeons, and palaces. Let them by special license keep the
+Tragfaetti intact, with their shuttles of gondolas crossing bade and
+forth--then, perhaps, the catastrophe may be deferred for a few decades.
+
+*****
+
+As it was in Dort and Papendrecht so it is in Venice. Except these
+beastly, vile-smelling boats there is nothing new, thank God. Everything
+else is faded, weather-worn, and old, everything filled with sensuous
+beauty--sky, earth, lagoon, garden wall, murmuring ripples--the same
+wonderful Venice that thrills its lovers the world over.
+
+And the old painters are still here--Walter Brown, Bunce, Bompard,
+Faulkner, and the rest--successors of Ziem and Rico--men who have loved
+her all their lives. And with them a new band of devotees--Monet
+and Louis Aston Knight among them. "For a few days," they said in
+explanation, but it was weeks before they left--only to return, I
+predict, as Jong as they can hold a brush.
+
+As for Luigi and me--we keep on our accustomed way, leading our
+accustomed lives. Seventeen years now since he bent to his oar behind my
+cushions--twenty-six in all since I began to idle about her canals. It
+is either the little canal next the Public Garden, or up the Giudecca,
+or under the bronze horses of San Marco; or it may be we are camped out
+in the Piazzetta before the Porta della Carta; or perhaps up the narrow
+canal of San Rocco, or in the Fruit Market near the Rialto while the
+boats unload their cargoes.
+
+All old subjects and yet ever new; each has been painted a thousand
+times, and in as many different lights and perspectives. And yet each
+canvas differs from its fellows as do two ripples or two morning skies.
+
+For weeks we drift about. One day Carlotta, the fishwife up the
+Fondamenta della Pallada, makes us our coffee; the next Luigi buys it
+of some smart caf� on the Piazza. This with a roll, a bit of Gorgonzola,
+and a bunch of grapes, or half a dozen figs, is our luncheon, to which
+is added two curls of blue smoke, one from Luigi's pipe and the other
+from my cigarette. Then we fall to work again.
+
+But this will never do! While I have been loafing with Luigi not only
+has the summer slipped away, but the cool winds of October have crept
+down from the Alps. There are fresh subjects to tackle--some I have
+never seen. Athens beckons to me. The columns of the Parthenon loom up!
+
+*****
+
+If there are half a dozen ways of getting into Papendrecht--there is
+only one of reaching Athens--that is, if you start from Venice. Trieste
+first, either by rail or boat, and then aboard one of the Austrian
+Lloyds, and so on down the Adriatic to Patras.
+
+It is October, remember--when every spear of grass from a six months'
+drought--the customary dry spell--is burnt to a crisp. It will rain
+to-morrow, or next week, they will tell you--but it doesn't--never has
+in October--and never will. Strange to say, you never miss it--neither
+in the color of the mountains flanking the Adriatic or in any of the
+ports on the way down, or in Patras itself. The green note to which I
+have been accustomed--which I have labored over all my life--is lacking,
+and a new palette takes its place--of mauve, violet, indescribable
+blues, and evanescent soap-bubble reds. The slopes of the hills are
+mother-of-pearl, their tops melting into cloud shadows so delicate in
+tone that you cannot distinguish where one leaves off and the other
+begins.
+
+And it is so in Patras, except for a riotous, defiant pine--green as a
+spring cabbage or a newly painted shutter--that sucks its moisture from
+nobody knows where--hasn't any, perhaps, and glories in its shame. All
+along the railroad from the harbor of Patras to the outskirts of Athens
+it is the same--bare fields, bare hills, streets and roads choked with
+dust. And so, too, when you arrive at the station and take the omnibus
+for the Grand Bretagne.
+
+By this time you are accustomed to it--in fact you rather enjoy it.
+If you have a doubt of it, step out on the balcony at the front of the
+hotel and look up!
+
+Hanging in the sky--in an air of pure ether, set in films of silver
+grays in which shimmer millions of tones, delicate as the shadings of
+a pearl, towers the Acropolis, its crest fringed by the ruins of the
+greatest temples the world possesses.
+
+I rang a bell.
+
+"Get me a carriage and send me up a guide--anybody who can speak English
+and who is big enough to carry a sketch trap."
+
+He must have been outside, so quickly did he answer the call. He was
+two-thirds the size of William, one-half the length of Luigi, and
+one-third the age of Bob.
+
+"What is your name?"
+
+"Vlassopoulos."
+
+"Anything else?"
+
+"Yes--Panis."
+
+"Then we'll drop the last half. Put those traps in the carriage--and
+take me to the Parthenon."
+
+I never left it for fourteen consecutive days--nor did I see a square
+inch of Athens other than the streets I drove through up and back on my
+way to work. Nor have I in all my experience ever had a more competent,
+obliging, and companionable guide--always excepting my beloved Luigi,
+who is not only my guide, but my protector and friend as well.
+
+It was then that I blessed the dust. Green things, wet things, soggy
+things--such as mud and dull skies--have no place in the scheme of the
+Parthenon and its contiguous temples and ruins. That wonderful tea-rose
+marble, with its stains of burnt sienna marking the flutings of endless
+broken columns, needs no varnishing of moisture to enhance its beauty.
+That will do for the fa�ade of Burlington House with its grimy gray
+statues, or the moss-encrusted tower of the Groote Kirk, but never here.
+It was this fear, perhaps, that kept me at work, haunted as I was by the
+bogy of "Rain to-morrow. It always comes, and keeps on for a month when
+it starts in." Blessed be the weather clerk! It never started in--not
+until I reached Brindisi on my way back to Paris; then, if I remember,
+there was some falling weather--at the rate of two inches an hour.
+
+And yet I might as well confess that my fourteen days of consecutive
+study of the Acropolis, beginning at the recently uncovered entrance
+gate and ending in the Museum behind the Parthenon, added nothing to my
+previous historical or other knowledge--meagre as it had been.
+
+Where the Venetians wrought the greatest havoc, how many and what
+columns were thrown down; how high and thick and massive they were; what
+parts of the marvellous ruin that High Robber Chief Lord Elgin stole
+and carted off to London, and still keeps the British Museum acting as
+"fence"; how wide and long and spacious was the superb chamber that held
+the statue the gods loved--none of these things interested me--do not
+now. What I saw was an epoch in stone; a chronicle telling the story
+of civilization; a glove thrown down to posterity, challenging the
+competition of the world.
+
+And with this came a feeling of reverence so profound, so awe-inspiring,
+so humbling, that I caught myself speaking to Panis in whispers--as one
+does in a temple when the service is in progress. This, as the sun sped
+its course and the purple shadows of the coming night began to creep up
+the steps and columns of the marvellous pile, its pediment bathed in the
+rose-glow of the fading day, was followed by a silence that neither of
+us cared to break. For then the wondrous temple took on the semblance
+of some old sage, the sunlight on his forehead, the shadow of the future
+about his knees.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Parthenon By Way Of Papendrecht, by 
+F. Hopkinson Smith
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+<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
+
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+   "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" >
+
+<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en">
+  <head>
+    <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" />
+    <title>
+      The Parthenon by Way of Papendrecht, by F. Hopkinson Smith
+    </title>
+    <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve">
+
+    body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify}
+    P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; }
+    H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; }
+    hr  { width: 50%; text-align: center;}
+    .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; }
+    blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;}
+    .mynote    {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;}
+    .toc       { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;}
+    .toc2      { margin-left: 20%;}
+    div.fig    { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; }
+    div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; }
+    .figleft   {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;}
+    .figright  {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;}
+    .pagenum   {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal;
+               margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%;
+               text-align: right;}
+    pre        { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;}
+
+</style>
+  </head>
+  <body>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Parthenon By Way Of Papendrecht, by
+F. Hopkinson Smith
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Parthenon By Way Of Papendrecht
+       1909
+
+Author: F. Hopkinson Smith
+
+Illustrator: F. Hopkinson Smith
+
+Release Date: December 3, 2007 [EBook #23703]
+Last Updated: March 8, 2018
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PARTHENON ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Widger
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+    <div style="height: 8em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h1>
+      THE PARTHENON BY WAY OF PAPENDRECHT
+    </h1>
+    <h2>
+      By F. Hopkinson Smith <br /> 1909
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      <br />
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;WILYUM!.....<i>Wilyum!</i>.....WILYUM!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      It was mine host of the Ferry Inn at Cook-ham who was calling, and at the
+      top of his voice&mdash;and a big-chested voice it was&mdash;the sound
+      leaping into crescendo as the object of his search remained hidden. Then
+      he turned to me:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;He's somewheres 'round the boat house&mdash;you can't miss him&mdash;there's
+      too much of him!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Are ye wantin' me, sor?&rdquo; came another shout as I rounded the squat
+      building stuffed with boats&mdash;literally so&mdash;bottom, top, and
+      sides.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;are you the boatman?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am, sor&mdash;and bloody sick of me job. Do ye see that wherry shovin'
+      off&mdash;the one with the lady in a sweater? Yes&mdash;that's right&mdash;just
+      slipped under the bridge. Well, sor, what d'ye think the bloke did for me?
+      Look at it, sor!&rdquo; (Here he held out his hand, in which lay a half-penny.)
+      &ldquo;And me a-washin' out 'is boat, feedin' of 'is dog, and keepin' an eye on
+      'is togs and 'is ladies&mdash;and then shoves off and 'ands me this&mdash;a
+      'a'penny, sor&mdash;<i>a 'a'penny</i>&mdash;from the likes o' 'im to the
+      likes o' me! Damn 'im!&rdquo;&mdash;and away went the coin into the river.
+      &ldquo;You'll excuse me, sor, but i couldn't choke it down. Is it a punt ye're
+      lookin' for?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The landlord was right&mdash;there was a good deal of him&mdash;six feet
+      and an inch, I should think; straight as an oar, his bared arms swinging
+      free; waist, thighs, and back tough as a saw-log. To this was added two
+      big blue eyes set in a clean-shaven face bronzed by the sun, and a double
+      row of teeth that would have shamed an ear of corn. I caught, too, the
+      muscles of his chest rounding out his boating shirt, and particularly the
+      muscles of the neck supporting the round head crowned with closely cropped
+      hair&mdash;evidently a young Englishman of that great middle class which
+      the nation depends upon in an emergency. My inspection also settled any
+      question I might have had as to why he was &ldquo;William,&rdquo; and never &ldquo;Bill,&rdquo; to
+      those about him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The one thing lacking in his make-up&mdash;and which only came into view
+      when he turned his head&mdash;was the upper part of one ear. This was
+      clipped as close as a terrier's.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Again he repeated the question&mdash;with a deprecatory smile, as if he
+      already regretted his outburst.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Is it a punt ye're wantin', sor?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;and a man to pole it and look after me while I paint. I had old
+      Norris for the past few years, but I hear he's gone back to gardening.
+      Will you have time with your other work?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Time! I'll chuck my job if I don't.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No,&mdash;you can do both,&mdash;Norris did. You can pole me out to where
+      I want to work; bring me my lunch when you have yours, and come for me at
+      night. You weren't here two years ago&mdash;were you?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No&mdash;I was with General French. Got this clip outside Kimberly&mdash;&rdquo;
+       and he touched his ear. &ldquo;Been all my life on the river&mdash;Maidenhead
+      and Bourne's End mostly&mdash;and so when my time was up I come home and
+      the boss here put me on.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;A soldier! I thought so. I see now why you got mad. Wonder you didn't
+      throw that chap into the river.&rdquo; I am a crank on the happiness one gets
+      from the giving of tips&mdash;and a half-penny man is the rock bottom of
+      meanness.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      His face straightened.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Well, we can't do that, sor&mdash;we can't never talk back. Got to grin
+      and bear it or lose yer job. Learned that in the Hussahs. I didn't care
+      for his money&mdash;maybe it was the way he did it that set me goin'&mdash;as
+      if I was&mdash;Well&mdash;let it go! And it's a punt ye want?&mdash;Yes,
+      sor&mdash;come and pick it out.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      After that it was plain sailing&mdash;or punting. The picture of that
+      London cad sprawling in the water, which my approval had created in his
+      mind, had done it. And it was early and late too (there were few visitors
+      that month); down by the Weir below the lock as far as Cliveden; up the
+      backwater to the Mill&mdash;William stretched beside me while I worked, or
+      pulling back and forth when a cool bottle&mdash;beer, of course&mdash;or a
+      kettle and an alcohol lamp would add to my comfort.
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      Many years of tramping and boating up and down the Thames from Reading to
+      Maidenhead have taught me the ins and outs of the river. I know it as I do
+      my own pocket (and there is more in that statement than you think&mdash;especially
+      during regatta week).
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      First comes Sonning with its rose gardens and quaint brick bridge; and
+      then Marlowe with that long stretch of silver bordered by nodding trees
+      and dominated by the robber Inn&mdash;four shillings and six for a sawdust
+      sandwich! Then Maidenhead, swarming with boats and city folks after dark
+      (it is only a step from the landing to any number of curtained
+      sitting-rooms with shaded candles&mdash;and there be gay times at
+      Maidenhead, let me tell you!). And, between, best of all, lovely Cookham.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <br />
+    </p>
+    <div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
+      <img alt="thames-at-cookham (48K)" src="images/thames-at-cookham.jpg"
+       width="100%" /><br />
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <br />
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Here the river, crazy with delight, seems to lose its head and goes
+      meandering about, poking its nose up backwaters, creeping across meadows,
+      flooding limpid shallows, mirroring oaks and willows upside down, surging
+      up as if to sweep away a velvet-shorn lawn, only to pour itself&mdash;its
+      united self&mdash;into an open-mouthed lock, and so on to a saner life in
+      a level stretch beyond. If you want a map giving these vagaries, spill a
+      cup of tea and follow its big and little puddles with their connecting
+      rivulets: ten chances to one it will come out right.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      All this William and I took in for three unbroken weeks, my usual summer
+      allotment on the Thames. Never was there such a breesy, wholesome
+      companion; stories of his life in the Veldt; of his hospital experience
+      over that same ear&mdash;&ldquo;The only crack I got, sor, thank God!&mdash;except
+      bein' 'alf starved for a week and down two months with the fever&mdash;&rdquo;
+       neither of which seemed to have caused him a moment's inconvenience;
+      stories of the people living about him and those who came from London with
+      a &ldquo;'am sandwidge in a noospaper, and precious little more,&rdquo; rolled out of
+      him by the hour.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And the poise of the man! When he lay stretched out beside me on the grass
+      while I worked&mdash;an old bivouac attitude&mdash;he kept still; no
+      twitching of legs or stretching of arms&mdash;lay as a big hound does,
+      whose blood and breeding necessitate repose.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And we were never separated. First a plunge overboard, and then a pull
+      back for breakfast, and off again with the luncheon tucked under the seat&mdash;and
+      so on until the sun dropped behind the hills.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The only days on which this routine of work and play had to be changed
+      were Sundays and holidays. Then my white umbrella would loom up as large
+      as a circus tent, the usual crowd surging about its doors. As you cannot
+      see London for the people, so you cannot see the river for boats on these
+      days&mdash;all sorts of boats&mdash;wherries, tubs, launches, racing
+      crafts, shells, punts&mdash;everything that can be poled, pulled, or
+      wobbled, and in each one the invariable combination&mdash;a man, a girl,
+      and a dog&mdash;a dog, a girl, and a man. This has been going on for ages,
+      and will to the end of time.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      On these mornings William and I have our bath early&mdash;ahead of the
+      crowd really, who generally arrive two hours after sunrise and keep up the
+      pace until the last train leaves for Paddington. This bath is at the end
+      of one of the teacup spillways, and is called the Weir. There is a
+      plateau, a plunge down some twenty feet into a deep pool, and the usual
+      surroundings of fresh morning air, gay tree-tops, and the splash of cool
+      water sparkling in the sunlight.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      To-day as my boat grated on the gravel my eyes fell on a young English
+      lord who was holding the centre of the stage in the sunlight. He was
+      dressed from head to foot in a skin-tight suit of underwear which had been
+      cut for him by a Garden-of-Eden tailor. He was just out of the water&mdash;a
+      straight, well-built, ruddy-skinned fellow&mdash;every inch a man! What
+      birth and station had done for him would become apparent when his valet
+      began to hand him his Bond Street outfit. The next instant William stood
+      beside him. Then there came a wriggle about the shoulders, the slip of a
+      buckle, and he was overboard and out again before my lord had discarded
+      his third towel.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I fell to thinking.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Naked they were equals. That was the way they came into the world and
+      that's the way they would go out. And yet within the hour my lord would be
+      back to his muffins and silver service, with two flunkies behind his
+      chair, and William would be swabbing out a boat or poling me home through
+      the pond lilies.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But why?&mdash;I kept asking myself. A totally idiotic and illogical
+      question, of course. Both were of an age; both would be a joy to a
+      sculptor looking for modern gods with which to imitate the Greek ones.
+      Both were equal in the sight of their Maker. Both had served their country&mdash;my
+      lord, I learned later, being one of the first to draw a bead on Spion Kop
+      close enough to be of any use&mdash;and both were honest&mdash;at least
+      William was&mdash;and the lord must have been.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      There is no answer&mdash;never can be. And yet the picture of the two as
+      they stood glistening in the sunlight continues to rise in my memory, and
+      with it always comes this same query&mdash;one which will never down&mdash;Why
+      should there be the difference?
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      But the summer is moving on apace. There is another Inn and another
+      William&mdash;or rather, there was one several hundred years ago before he
+      went off crusading. It is an old resort of mine. Seven years now has old
+      Leah filled my breakfast cup with a coffee that deserves a hymn of praise
+      in its honor. I like it hot&mdash;boiling, blistering hot, and the old
+      woman brings it on the run, her white sabots clattering across the
+      flower-smothered courtyard. During all these years I have followed with
+      reverent fingers not only the slopes of its roof but the loops of swinging
+      clematis that crowd its balconies and gabies as well. I say &ldquo;my&rdquo; because I
+      have known this Inn of William the Conqueror long enough to include it in
+      the list of the many good ones I frequent over Europe&mdash;the Bellevue,
+      for instance, at Dordrecht, over against Papendrecht (I shall be there in
+      another month). And the Britannia in Venice, and I hope still a third in
+      unknown Athens&mdash;unknown to me&mdash;my objective point this year.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      This particular Inn with the roof and the clematis, is at Dives, twenty
+      miles from Trouville on the coast. You never saw anything like it, and you
+      never will again. I hold no brief for my old friend Le Remois, the
+      proprietor, but the coffee is not the only thing over which grateful men
+      chant hymns. There is a kitchen, resplendent in polished brass, with three
+      French chefs in attendance, and a two-century-old spit for roasting. There
+      is the wine-cellar, in which cobwebs and not labels record the age and the
+      vintage; there is a dining-room&mdash;three of them&mdash;with baronial
+      fireplaces, sixteenth-century furniture, and linen and glass to match&mdash;to
+      say nothing of tapestries, Spanish leathers, shrines, carved saints,
+      ivories, and pewter&mdash;the whole a sight to turn bric-a-brac fiends
+      into burglars&mdash;not a difficult thing by the way&mdash;and then, of
+      course&mdash;there is the bill!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Where have you been, M. Le Rémois?&rdquo; asked a charming woman.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;To church, Madame.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Did you say your prayers?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, Madame,&rdquo; answered this good boni-face, with a twinkle.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What did you pray for?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I said&mdash;'Oh, Lord!&mdash;do not make me rich, but place me <i>next</i>
+      to the rich'&rdquo;&mdash;and he kept on his way rubbing his hands and
+      chuckling. And yet I must say it is worth the price.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I have no need of a William here&mdash;nor of anybody else. The water for
+      my cups is within my reach; convenient umbrellas on movable pedestals can
+      be shoved into place; a sheltered back porch hives for the night all my
+      paraphernalia and unfinished sketches, and a step or two brings me to a
+      table where a broiled lobster fresh from the sea and a peculiar peach
+      ablaze in a peculiar sauce&mdash;the whole washed down by a pint of&mdash;(No&mdash;you
+      can't have the brand&mdash;there were only seven bottles left when I paid
+      my bill)&mdash;and besides I am going back&mdash;help to ease the cares
+      that beset a painter's life.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But even this oasis of a garden, hemmed about as if by the froth of
+      Trouville and the suds of Cabourg; through which floats the gay life of
+      Paris resplendent in toilets never excelled or <i>exceeded</i> anywhere&mdash;cannot
+      keep me from Holland very long. And it is a pity too, for of late years I
+      have been looked upon as a harmless fixture at the Inn&mdash;so much so
+      that men and women pass and repass my easel, or look over my shoulder
+      while I work without a break in their confidences&mdash;quite as if I was
+      a deaf, dumb, and blind waiter, or twin-brother to old Coco the cockatoo,
+      who has surveyed the same scene from his perch near the roof for the past
+      thirty years.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      None of these unconscious ear-droppings am I going to betray&mdash;delightful,
+      startling&mdash;<i>improper</i>, if you must have it&mdash;as some of them
+      were. Not the most interesting, at all events, for I promised her I
+      wouldn't&mdash;but there is no question as to the diversion obtained by
+      keeping the latch-string of your ears on the outside.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      None of all this ever drips into my auricles in Holland. A country so
+      small that they build dikes to keep the inhabitants from being spilt off
+      the edge, is hardly the place for a scandal&mdash;certainly not in stolid
+      Dordrecht or in that fly-speck of a Papendrecht, whose dormer windows peer
+      over the edge of the dike as if in mortal fear of another inundation. And
+      yet, small as it is, it is still big enough for me to approach it&mdash;the
+      fly-speck, of course&mdash;by half a dozen different routes. I can come by
+      boat from Rotterdam. Fop Smit owns and runs it&mdash;(no kin of mine,
+      more's the pity)&mdash;or by train from Amsterdam; or by carriage from any
+      number of 'dams, 'drechts, and 'bergs. Or I can tramp it on foot, or be
+      wheeled in on a dog-wagon. I have tried them all, and know. Being now a
+      staid old painter and past such foolishness, I take the train.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Toot! Toot!&mdash;and I am out on the platform, through the door of the
+      station and aboard the one-horse tram that wiggles and swings over the
+      cobble-scoured streets of Dordrecht, and so on to the Bellevue.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Why I stop at the Bellevue (apart from it being one of my Inns) is that
+      from its windows I cannot only watch the life of the tawny-colored,
+      boat-crowded Maas, but see every curl of smoke that mounts from the
+      chimneys of Papendrecht strung along its opposite bank. My dear friend,
+      Herr Boudier, of years gone by, has retired from its ownership, but his
+      successor, Herr Teitsma, is as hearty in his welcome. Peter, my old
+      boatman, too, pulled his last oar some two years back, and one &ldquo;Bop&rdquo; takes
+      his place. There is another &ldquo;p&rdquo; and an &ldquo;e&rdquo; tacked on to Bop, but I have
+      eliminated the unnecessary and call him &ldquo;Bob&rdquo; for short. They made Bob out
+      of what was left of Peter, but they left out all trace of William.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      This wooden-shod curiosity is anywhere from seventy to one hundred and
+      fifty years old, gray, knock-kneed, bent in the back, and goes to sleep
+      standing up&mdash;<i>and stays asleep</i>. He is the exact duplicate of
+      the tramp in the comic opera of &ldquo;Miss Hook of Holland&rdquo;&mdash;except that
+      the actor-sleeper occasionally topples over and has to be braced up. Bob
+      is past-master of the art and goes it alone, without propping of any kind.
+      He is the only man in Dordrecht, or Papendrecht, or the country round
+      about, who can pull a boat and speak English. He says so, and I am forced
+      not only to believe him, but to hire him. He wants it in advance, too&mdash;having
+      had some experience with &ldquo;painter-man,&rdquo; he explains to Herr Teitsma.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I shall, of course, miss my delightful William, but I am accustomed to
+      that. And, then, again, while Bob asleep is an interesting physiological
+      study, Bob awake adds to the gayety of nations, samples of which crowd
+      about my easel, Holland being one of the main highways of the earth.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I have known Dort and the little 'drecht across the way for some fifteen
+      years, five of which have slipped by since I last opened my umbrella along
+      its quaint quays. To my great joy nothing has changed. The old potato boat
+      still lies close to the quay, under the overhanging elms. The same dear
+      old man and his equally dear old wife still make their home beneath its
+      hipped roof. I know, for it is here I lunch, the cargo forming the chief
+      dish, followed by a saucer of stewed currants, a cup of coffee&mdash;(more
+      hymns here)&mdash;and a loaf of bread from the baker's. The old Groote
+      Kirk still towers aloft&mdash;the highest building in Holland, they say;
+      the lazy, red-sailed luggers drift up and down, their decks gay with
+      potted plants; swiss curtains at the cabin windows, the wife holding the
+      tiller while the man trims the sail. The boys still clatter over the
+      polished cobbles&mdash;an aggressive mob when school lets out&mdash;and a
+      larger crop, I think, than in the years gone by, and with more noise&mdash;my
+      umbrella being the target. Often a spoilt fish or half a last week's
+      cabbage comes my way, whereupon Bob awakes to instant action with a
+      consequent scattering, the bravest and most agile making faces from behind
+      wharf spiles and corners. Peter used to build a fence of oars around me to
+      keep them off, but Bob takes it out in swearing.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Only once did he silence them. They were full grown, this squad, and had
+      crowded the old man against a tree under which I had backed as shelter
+      from a passing shower. There came a blow straight from the shoulder, a
+      sprawling boy, and Bob was in the midst of them, his right sleeve rolled
+      up, showing a full-rigged ship tattooed in India ink. What poured from him
+      I learned afterward was an account of his many voyages to the Arctic and
+      around the Horn, as the label on his arm proved&mdash;an experience which,
+      he shouted, would be utilized in pounding them up into fish bait if they
+      did not take to their heels. After that he always went to sleep with one
+      eye open, the boys keeping awake with two&mdash;and out of my way&mdash;a
+      result which interested me the more.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      If my Luigi was not growing restless in my beloved Venice (it is wonderful
+      how large a portion of the earth I own) I would love to pass the rest of
+      my summer along these gray canals, especially since Bob's development
+      brings a daily surprise. Only to-day I caught sight of him half hidden in
+      an angle of a wall, surrounded by a group of little tots who were begging
+      him for paper pin-wheels which a vender had stopped to sell, an
+      infinitesimal small coin the size of a cuff button purchasing a dozen or
+      more. When I again looked up from a canvas each tot had a pin-wheel, and
+      later on Bob, that much poorer in pocket, sneaked back and promptly went
+      to sleep.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But even Bob's future beatification cannot hold me. I yearn for the white,
+      blinding light and breathless lagoons, and all that makes Venice the Queen
+      City of the World.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Luigi meets me <i>inside</i> the station. It takes a <i>soldo</i> to get
+      in, and Luigi has but few of them, but he is always there. His gondola is
+      moored to the landing steps outside&mdash;a black swan of a boat, all
+      morocco cushions and silk fringes; the product of a thousand years of
+      tinkering by the most fastidious and luxurious people of ancient or modern
+      times, and still to-day the most comfortable conveyance known to man.'
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Hurry up, you who have never known a gondola or a Luigi! A vile-smelling,
+      chuggity-chug is forcing its way up every crooked canal, no matter how
+      narrow. Two Venetian shipyards are hammering away on their hulls or
+      polishing their motors. Soon the cost of production will drop to that of a
+      gondola. Then look out! There are eight thousand machinists in the Arsenal
+      earning but five francs a day, any one of whom can learn to run a motor
+      boat in a week, thus doubling their wages. Worse yet&mdash;the world is
+      getting keener every hour for speedy things. I may be wrong&mdash;I hope
+      and pray I am&mdash;but it seems to me that the handwriting is already on
+      the wall. &ldquo;This way to the Museo Civico,&rdquo; it reads&mdash;&ldquo;if you want to
+      find a gondola of twenty-five years ago.&rdquo; As for the Luigis and the
+      Esperos&mdash;they will then have given up the unequal struggle.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The only hope rests with the Venetians themselves. They have restored the
+      scarred Library, and are rebuilding the Campanile, with a reverence for
+      the things which made their past glorious that commands the respect of the
+      artistic world. The gondola is as much a part of Venice as its sunsets,
+      pigeons, and palaces. Let them by special license keep the Tragfaetti
+      intact, with their shuttles of gondolas crossing bade and forth&mdash;then,
+      perhaps, the catastrophe may be deferred for a few decades.
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      As it was in Dort and Papendrecht so it is in Venice. Except these
+      beastly, vile-smelling boats there is nothing new, thank God. Everything
+      else is faded, weather-worn, and old, everything filled with sensuous
+      beauty&mdash;sky, earth, lagoon, garden wall, murmuring ripples&mdash;the
+      same wonderful Venice that thrills its lovers the world over.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And the old painters are still here&mdash;Walter Brown, Bunce, Bompard,
+      Faulkner, and the rest&mdash;successors of Ziem and Rico&mdash;men who
+      have loved her all their lives. And with them a new band of devotees&mdash;Monet
+      and Louis Aston Knight among them. &ldquo;For a few days,&rdquo; they said in
+      explanation, but it was weeks before they left&mdash;only to return, I
+      predict, as Jong as they can hold a brush.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      As for Luigi and me&mdash;we keep on our accustomed way, leading our
+      accustomed lives. Seventeen years now since he bent to his oar behind my
+      cushions&mdash;twenty-six in all since I began to idle about her canals.
+      It is either the little canal next the Public Garden, or up the Giudecca,
+      or under the bronze horses of San Marco; or it may be we are camped out in
+      the Piazzetta before the Porta della Carta; or perhaps up the narrow canal
+      of San Rocco, or in the Fruit Market near the Rialto while the boats
+      unload their cargoes.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      All old subjects and yet ever new; each has been painted a thousand times,
+      and in as many different lights and perspectives. And yet each canvas
+      differs from its fellows as do two ripples or two morning skies.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      For weeks we drift about. One day Carlotta, the fishwife up the Fondamenta
+      della Pallada, makes us our coffee; the next Luigi buys it of some smart
+      café on the Piazza. This with a roll, a bit of Gorgonzola, and a bunch of
+      grapes, or half a dozen figs, is our luncheon, to which is added two curls
+      of blue smoke, one from Luigi's pipe and the other from my cigarette. Then
+      we fall to work again.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But this will never do! While I have been loafing with Luigi not only has
+      the summer slipped away, but the cool winds of October have crept down
+      from the Alps. There are fresh subjects to tackle&mdash;some I have never
+      seen. Athens beckons to me. The columns of the Parthenon loom up!
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      If there are half a dozen ways of getting into Papendrecht&mdash;there is
+      only one of reaching Athens&mdash;that is, if you start from Venice.
+      Trieste first, either by rail or boat, and then aboard one of the Austrian
+      Lloyds, and so on down the Adriatic to Patras.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It is October, remember&mdash;when every spear of grass from a six months'
+      drought&mdash;the customary dry spell&mdash;is burnt to a crisp. It will
+      rain to-morrow, or next week, they will tell you&mdash;but it doesn't&mdash;never
+      has in October&mdash;and never will. Strange to say, you never miss it&mdash;neither
+      in the color of the mountains flanking the Adriatic or in any of the ports
+      on the way down, or in Patras itself. The green note to which I have been
+      accustomed&mdash;which I have labored over all my life&mdash;is lacking,
+      and a new palette takes its place&mdash;of mauve, violet, indescribable
+      blues, and evanescent soap-bubble reds. The slopes of the hills are
+      mother-of-pearl, their tops melting into cloud shadows so delicate in tone
+      that you cannot distinguish where one leaves off and the other begins.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And it is so in Patras, except for a riotous, defiant pine&mdash;green as
+      a spring cabbage or a newly painted shutter&mdash;that sucks its moisture
+      from nobody knows where&mdash;hasn't any, perhaps, and glories in its
+      shame. All along the railroad from the harbor of Patras to the outskirts
+      of Athens it is the same&mdash;bare fields, bare hills, streets and roads
+      choked with dust. And so, too, when you arrive at the station and take the
+      omnibus for the Grand Bretagne.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      By this time you are accustomed to it&mdash;in fact you rather enjoy it.
+      If you have a doubt of it, step out on the balcony at the front of the
+      hotel and look up!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Hanging in the sky&mdash;in an air of pure ether, set in films of silver
+      grays in which shimmer millions of tones, delicate as the shadings of a
+      pearl, towers the Acropolis, its crest fringed by the ruins of the
+      greatest temples the world possesses.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I rang a bell.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Get me a carriage and send me up a guide&mdash;anybody who can speak
+      English and who is big enough to carry a sketch trap.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He must have been outside, so quickly did he answer the call. He was
+      two-thirds the size of William, one-half the length of Luigi, and
+      one-third the age of Bob.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What is your name?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Vlassopoulos.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Anything else?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;Panis.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Then we'll drop the last half. Put those traps in the carriage&mdash;and
+      take me to the Parthenon.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      I never left it for fourteen consecutive days&mdash;nor did I see a square
+      inch of Athens other than the streets I drove through up and back on my
+      way to work. Nor have I in all my experience ever had a more competent,
+      obliging, and companionable guide&mdash;always excepting my beloved Luigi,
+      who is not only my guide, but my protector and friend as well.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It was then that I blessed the dust. Green things, wet things, soggy
+      things&mdash;such as mud and dull skies&mdash;have no place in the scheme
+      of the Parthenon and its contiguous temples and ruins. That wonderful
+      tea-rose marble, with its stains of burnt sienna marking the flutings of
+      endless broken columns, needs no varnishing of moisture to enhance its
+      beauty. That will do for the façade of Burlington House with its grimy
+      gray statues, or the moss-encrusted tower of the Groote Kirk, but never
+      here. It was this fear, perhaps, that kept me at work, haunted as I was by
+      the bogy of &ldquo;Rain to-morrow. It always comes, and keeps on for a month
+      when it starts in.&rdquo; Blessed be the weather clerk! It never started in&mdash;not
+      until I reached Brindisi on my way back to Paris; then, if I remember,
+      there was some falling weather&mdash;at the rate of two inches an hour.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And yet I might as well confess that my fourteen days of consecutive study
+      of the Acropolis, beginning at the recently uncovered entrance gate and
+      ending in the Museum behind the Parthenon, added nothing to my previous
+      historical or other knowledge&mdash;meagre as it had been.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Where the Venetians wrought the greatest havoc, how many and what columns
+      were thrown down; how high and thick and massive they were; what parts of
+      the marvellous ruin that High Robber Chief Lord Elgin stole and carted off
+      to London, and still keeps the British Museum acting as &ldquo;fence&rdquo;; how wide
+      and long and spacious was the superb chamber that held the statue the gods
+      loved&mdash;none of these things interested me&mdash;do not now. What I
+      saw was an epoch in stone; a chronicle telling the story of civilization;
+      a glove thrown down to posterity, challenging the competition of the
+      world.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And with this came a feeling of reverence so profound, so awe-inspiring,
+      so humbling, that I caught myself speaking to Panis in whispers&mdash;as
+      one does in a temple when the service is in progress. This, as the sun
+      sped its course and the purple shadows of the coming night began to creep
+      up the steps and columns of the marvellous pile, its pediment bathed in
+      the rose-glow of the fading day, was followed by a silence that neither of
+      us cared to break. For then the wondrous temple took on the semblance of
+      some old sage, the sunlight on his forehead, the shadow of the future
+      about his knees.
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 6em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Parthenon By Way Of Papendrecht, by
+F. Hopkinson Smith
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+</pre>
+  </body>
+</html>
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Parthenon By Way Of Papendrecht, by
+F. Hopkinson Smith
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Parthenon By Way Of Papendrecht
+       1909
+
+Author: F. Hopkinson Smith
+
+Illustrator: F. Hopkinson Smith
+
+Release Date: December 3, 2007 [EBook #23703]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PARTHENON ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Widger
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE PARTHENON BY WAY OF PAPENDRECHT
+
+By F. Hopkinson Smith
+
+1909
+
+
+"WILYUM!....._Wilyum!_.....WILYUM!"
+
+It was mine host of the Ferry Inn at Cook-ham who was calling, and at
+the top of his voice--and a big-chested voice it was--the sound leaping
+into crescendo as the object of his search remained hidden. Then he
+turned to me:
+
+"He's somewheres 'round the boat house--you can't miss him--there's too
+much of him!"
+
+"Are ye wantin' me, sor?" came another shout as I rounded the squat
+building stuffed with boats--literally so--bottom, top, and sides.
+
+"Yes--are you the boatman?"
+
+"I am, sor--and bloody sick of me job. Do ye see that wherry shovin'
+off--the one with the lady in a sweater? Yes--that's right--just slipped
+under the bridge. Well, sor, what d'ye think the bloke did for me? Look
+at it, sor!" (Here he held out his hand, in which lay a half-penny.)
+"And me a-washin' out 'is boat, feedin' of 'is dog, and keepin' an eye
+on 'is togs and 'is ladies--and then shoves off and 'ands me this--a
+'a'penny, sor--_a 'a'penny_--from the likes o' 'im to the likes o' me!
+Damn 'im!"--and away went the coin into the river. "You'll excuse me,
+sor, but i couldn't choke it down. Is it a punt ye're lookin' for?"
+
+The landlord was right--there was a good deal of him--six feet and an
+inch, I should think; straight as an oar, his bared arms swinging free;
+waist, thighs, and back tough as a saw-log. To this was added two big
+blue eyes set in a clean-shaven face bronzed by the sun, and a double
+row of teeth that would have shamed an ear of corn. I caught, too, the
+muscles of his chest rounding out his boating shirt, and particularly
+the muscles of the neck supporting the round head crowned with closely
+cropped hair--evidently a young Englishman of that great middle class
+which the nation depends upon in an emergency. My inspection also
+settled any question I might have had as to why he was "William," and
+never "Bill," to those about him.
+
+The one thing lacking in his make-up--and which only came into view when
+he turned his head--was the upper part of one ear. This was clipped as
+close as a terrier's.
+
+Again he repeated the question--with a deprecatory smile, as if he
+already regretted his outburst.
+
+"Is it a punt ye're wantin', sor?"
+
+"Yes--and a man to pole it and look after me while I paint. I had old
+Norris for the past few years, but I hear he's gone back to gardening.
+Will you have time with your other work?"
+
+"Time! I'll chuck my job if I don't."
+
+"No,--you can do both,--Norris did. You can pole me out to where I
+want to work; bring me my lunch when you have yours, and come for me at
+night. You weren't here two years ago--were you?"
+
+"No--I was with General French. Got this clip outside Kimberly--" and he
+touched his ear. "Been all my life on the river--Maidenhead and Bourne's
+End mostly--and so when my time was up I come home and the boss here put
+me on."
+
+"A soldier! I thought so. I see now why you got mad. Wonder you didn't
+throw that chap into the river." I am a crank on the happiness one gets
+from the giving of tips--and a half-penny man is the rock bottom of
+meanness.
+
+His face straightened.
+
+"Well, we can't do that, sor--we can't never talk back. Got to grin and
+bear it or lose yer job. Learned that in the Hussahs. I didn't care for
+his money--maybe it was the way he did it that set me goin'--as if I
+was--Well--let it go! And it's a punt ye want?--Yes, sor--come and pick
+it out."
+
+After that it was plain sailing--or punting. The picture of that London
+cad sprawling in the water, which my approval had created in his mind,
+had done it. And it was early and late too (there were few visitors
+that month); down by the Weir below the lock as far as Cliveden; up the
+backwater to the Mill--William stretched beside me while I worked, or
+pulling back and forth when a cool bottle--beer, of course--or a kettle
+and an alcohol lamp would add to my comfort.
+
+*****
+
+Many years of tramping and boating up and down the Thames from Reading
+to Maidenhead have taught me the ins and outs of the river. I know it
+as I do my own pocket (and there is more in that statement than you
+think--especially during regatta week).
+
+First comes Sonning with its rose gardens and quaint brick bridge; and
+then Marlowe with that long stretch of silver bordered by nodding trees
+and dominated by the robber Inn--four shillings and six for a sawdust
+sandwich! Then Maidenhead, swarming with boats and city folks after
+dark (it is only a step from the landing to any number of curtained
+sitting-rooms with shaded candles--and there be gay times at Maidenhead,
+let me tell you!). And, between, best of all, lovely Cookham.
+
+Here the river, crazy with delight, seems to lose its head and goes
+meandering about, poking its nose up backwaters, creeping across
+meadows, flooding limpid shallows, mirroring oaks and willows upside
+down, surging up as if to sweep away a velvet-shorn lawn, only to pour
+itself--its united self--into an open-mouthed lock, and so on to a saner
+life in a level stretch beyond. If you want a map giving these vagaries,
+spill a cup of tea and follow its big and little puddles with their
+connecting rivulets: ten chances to one it will come out right.
+
+All this William and I took in for three unbroken weeks, my usual
+summer allotment on the Thames. Never was there such a breesy, wholesome
+companion; stories of his life in the Veldt; of his hospital experience
+over that same ear--"The only crack I got, sor, thank God!--except bein'
+'alf starved for a week and down two months with the fever--" neither of
+which seemed to have caused him a moment's inconvenience; stories of
+the people living about him and those who came from London with a "'am
+sandwidge in a noospaper, and precious little more," rolled out of him
+by the hour.
+
+And the poise of the man! When he lay stretched out beside me on
+the grass while I worked--an old bivouac attitude--he kept still; no
+twitching of legs or stretching of arms--lay as a big hound does, whose
+blood and breeding necessitate repose.
+
+And we were never separated. First a plunge overboard, and then a pull
+back for breakfast, and off again with the luncheon tucked under the
+seat--and so on until the sun dropped behind the hills.
+
+The only days on which this routine of work and play had to be changed
+were Sundays and holidays. Then my white umbrella would loom up as large
+as a circus tent, the usual crowd surging about its doors. As you cannot
+see London for the people, so you cannot see the river for boats on
+these days--all sorts of boats--wherries, tubs, launches, racing crafts,
+shells, punts--everything that can be poled, pulled, or wobbled, and in
+each one the invariable combination--a man, a girl, and a dog--a dog, a
+girl, and a man. This has been going on for ages, and will to the end of
+time.
+
+On these mornings William and I have our bath early--ahead of the crowd
+really, who generally arrive two hours after sunrise and keep up the
+pace until the last train leaves for Paddington. This bath is at the
+end of one of the teacup spillways, and is called the Weir. There is a
+plateau, a plunge down some twenty feet into a deep pool, and the usual
+surroundings of fresh morning air, gay tree-tops, and the splash of cool
+water sparkling in the sunlight.
+
+To-day as my boat grated on the gravel my eyes fell on a young English
+lord who was holding the centre of the stage in the sunlight. He was
+dressed from head to foot in a skin-tight suit of underwear which had
+been cut for him by a Garden-of-Eden tailor. He was just out of the
+water--a straight, well-built, ruddy-skinned fellow--every inch a man!
+What birth and station had done for him would become apparent when
+his valet began to hand him his Bond Street outfit. The next instant
+William stood beside him. Then there came a wriggle about the
+shoulders, the slip of a buckle, and he was overboard and out again
+before my lord had discarded his third towel.
+
+I fell to thinking.
+
+Naked they were equals. That was the way they came into the world and
+that's the way they would go out. And yet within the hour my lord would
+be back to his muffins and silver service, with two flunkies behind
+his chair, and William would be swabbing out a boat or poling me home
+through the pond lilies.
+
+But why?--I kept asking myself. A totally idiotic and illogical
+question, of course. Both were of an age; both would be a joy to a
+sculptor looking for modern gods with which to imitate the Greek ones.
+Both were equal in the sight of their Maker. Both had served their
+country--my lord, I learned later, being one of the first to draw a bead
+on Spion Kop close enough to be of any use--and both were honest--at
+least William was--and the lord must have been.
+
+There is no answer--never can be. And yet the picture of the two as they
+stood glistening in the sunlight continues to rise in my memory, and
+with it always comes this same query--one which will never down--Why
+should there be the difference?
+
+*****
+
+But the summer is moving on apace. There is another Inn and another
+William--or rather, there was one several hundred years ago before he
+went off crusading. It is an old resort of mine. Seven years now has
+old Leah filled my breakfast cup with a coffee that deserves a hymn of
+praise in its honor. I like it hot--boiling, blistering hot, and the
+old woman brings it on the run, her white sabots clattering across the
+flower-smothered courtyard. During all these years I have followed
+with reverent fingers not only the slopes of its roof but the loops of
+swinging clematis that crowd its balconies and gabies as well. I say
+"my" because I have known this Inn of William the Conqueror long
+enough to include it in the list of the many good ones I frequent
+over Europe--the Bellevue, for instance, at Dordrecht, over against
+Papendrecht (I shall be there in another month). And the Britannia in
+Venice, and I hope still a third in unknown Athens--unknown to me--my
+objective point this year.
+
+This particular Inn with the roof and the clematis, is at Dives, twenty
+miles from Trouville on the coast. You never saw anything like it, and
+you never will again. I hold no brief for my old friend Le Remois, the
+proprietor, but the coffee is not the only thing over which grateful
+men chant hymns. There is a kitchen, resplendent in polished brass,
+with three French chefs in attendance, and a two-century-old spit for
+roasting. There is the wine-cellar, in which cobwebs and not labels
+record the age and the vintage; there is a dining-room--three of
+them--with baronial fireplaces, sixteenth-century furniture, and linen
+and glass to match--to say nothing of tapestries, Spanish leathers,
+shrines, carved saints, ivories, and pewter--the whole a sight to turn
+bric-a-brac fiends into burglars--not a difficult thing by the way--and
+then, of course--there is the bill!
+
+"Where have you been, M. Le Remois?" asked a charming woman.
+
+"To church, Madame."
+
+"Did you say your prayers?"
+
+"Yes, Madame," answered this good boni-face, with a twinkle.
+
+"What did you pray for?"
+
+"I said--'Oh, Lord!--do not make me rich, but place me _next_ to the
+rich'"--and he kept on his way rubbing his hands and chuckling. And yet
+I must say it is worth the price.
+
+I have no need of a William here--nor of anybody else. The water for my
+cups is within my reach; convenient umbrellas on movable pedestals can
+be shoved into place; a sheltered back porch hives for the night all my
+paraphernalia and unfinished sketches, and a step or two brings me to
+a table where a broiled lobster fresh from the sea and a peculiar peach
+ablaze in a peculiar sauce--the whole washed down by a pint of--(No--you
+can't have the brand--there were only seven bottles left when I paid my
+bill)--and besides I am going back--help to ease the cares that beset a
+painter's life.
+
+But even this oasis of a garden, hemmed about as if by the froth of
+Trouville and the suds of Cabourg; through which floats the gay life
+of Paris resplendent in toilets never excelled or _exceeded_
+anywhere--cannot keep me from Holland very long. And it is a pity too,
+for of late years I have been looked upon as a harmless fixture at the
+Inn--so much so that men and women pass and repass my easel, or
+look over my shoulder while I work without a break in their
+confidences--quite as if I was a deaf, dumb, and blind waiter, or
+twin-brother to old Coco the cockatoo, who has surveyed the same scene
+from his perch near the roof for the past thirty years.
+
+None of these unconscious ear-droppings am I going to
+betray--delightful, startling--_improper_, if you must have it--as some
+of them were. Not the most interesting, at all events, for I promised
+her I wouldn't--but there is no question as to the diversion obtained by
+keeping the latch-string of your ears on the outside.
+
+None of all this ever drips into my auricles in Holland. A country so
+small that they build dikes to keep the inhabitants from being spilt
+off the edge, is hardly the place for a scandal--certainly not in stolid
+Dordrecht or in that fly-speck of a Papendrecht, whose dormer windows
+peer over the edge of the dike as if in mortal fear of another
+inundation. And yet, small as it is, it is still big enough for me to
+approach it--the fly-speck, of course--by half a dozen different routes.
+I can come by boat from Rotterdam. Fop Smit owns and runs it--(no kin of
+mine, more's the pity)--or by train from Amsterdam; or by carriage from
+any number of 'dams, 'drechts, and 'bergs. Or I can tramp it on foot, or
+be wheeled in on a dog-wagon. I have tried them all, and know. Being now
+a staid old painter and past such foolishness, I take the train.
+
+Toot! Toot!--and I am out on the platform, through the door of the
+station and aboard the one-horse tram that wiggles and swings over the
+cobble-scoured streets of Dordrecht, and so on to the Bellevue.
+
+Why I stop at the Bellevue (apart from it being one of my Inns) is that
+from its windows I cannot only watch the life of the tawny-colored,
+boat-crowded Maas, but see every curl of smoke that mounts from the
+chimneys of Papendrecht strung along its opposite bank. My dear friend,
+Herr Boudier, of years gone by, has retired from its ownership, but
+his successor, Herr Teitsma, is as hearty in his welcome. Peter, my old
+boatman, too, pulled his last oar some two years back, and one "Bop"
+takes his place. There is another "p" and an "e" tacked on to Bop, but I
+have eliminated the unnecessary and call him "Bob" for short. They
+made Bob out of what was left of Peter, but they left out all trace of
+William.
+
+This wooden-shod curiosity is anywhere from seventy to one hundred and
+fifty years old, gray, knock-kneed, bent in the back, and goes to sleep
+standing up--_and stays asleep_. He is the exact duplicate of the
+tramp in the comic opera of "Miss Hook of Holland"--except that the
+actor-sleeper occasionally topples over and has to be braced up. Bob is
+past-master of the art and goes it alone, without propping of any kind.
+He is the only man in Dordrecht, or Papendrecht, or the country round
+about, who can pull a boat and speak English. He says so, and I am
+forced not only to believe him, but to hire him. He wants it in advance,
+too--having had some experience with "painter-man," he explains to Herr
+Teitsma.
+
+I shall, of course, miss my delightful William, but I am accustomed to
+that. And, then, again, while Bob asleep is an interesting physiological
+study, Bob awake adds to the gayety of nations, samples of which crowd
+about my easel, Holland being one of the main highways of the earth.
+
+I have known Dort and the little 'drecht across the way for some fifteen
+years, five of which have slipped by since I last opened my umbrella
+along its quaint quays. To my great joy nothing has changed. The old
+potato boat still lies close to the quay, under the overhanging elms.
+The same dear old man and his equally dear old wife still make their
+home beneath its hipped roof. I know, for it is here I lunch, the cargo
+forming the chief dish, followed by a saucer of stewed currants, a cup
+of coffee--(more hymns here)--and a loaf of bread from the baker's. The
+old Groote Kirk still towers aloft--the highest building in Holland,
+they say; the lazy, red-sailed luggers drift up and down, their decks
+gay with potted plants; swiss curtains at the cabin windows, the wife
+holding the tiller while the man trims the sail. The boys still clatter
+over the polished cobbles--an aggressive mob when school lets out--and a
+larger crop, I think, than in the years gone by, and with more noise--my
+umbrella being the target. Often a spoilt fish or half a last week's
+cabbage comes my way, whereupon Bob awakes to instant action with a
+consequent scattering, the bravest and most agile making faces from
+behind wharf spiles and corners. Peter used to build a fence of oars
+around me to keep them off, but Bob takes it out in swearing.
+
+Only once did he silence them. They were full grown, this squad, and had
+crowded the old man against a tree under which I had backed as shelter
+from a passing shower. There came a blow straight from the shoulder, a
+sprawling boy, and Bob was in the midst of them, his right sleeve rolled
+up, showing a full-rigged ship tattooed in India ink. What poured from
+him I learned afterward was an account of his many voyages to the Arctic
+and around the Horn, as the label on his arm proved--an experience
+which, he shouted, would be utilized in pounding them up into fish bait
+if they did not take to their heels. After that he always went to sleep
+with one eye open, the boys keeping awake with two--and out of my way--a
+result which interested me the more.
+
+If my Luigi was not growing restless in my beloved Venice (it is
+wonderful how large a portion of the earth I own) I would love to pass
+the rest of my summer along these gray canals, especially since Bob's
+development brings a daily surprise. Only to-day I caught sight of him
+half hidden in an angle of a wall, surrounded by a group of little tots
+who were begging him for paper pin-wheels which a vender had stopped to
+sell, an infinitesimal small coin the size of a cuff button purchasing
+a dozen or more. When I again looked up from a canvas each tot had a
+pin-wheel, and later on Bob, that much poorer in pocket, sneaked back
+and promptly went to sleep.
+
+But even Bob's future beatification cannot hold me. I yearn for the
+white, blinding light and breathless lagoons, and all that makes Venice
+the Queen City of the World.
+
+Luigi meets me _inside_ the station. It takes a _soldo_ to get in, and
+Luigi has but few of them, but he is always there. His gondola is
+moored to the landing steps outside--a black swan of a boat, all morocco
+cushions and silk fringes; the product of a thousand years of tinkering
+by the most fastidious and luxurious people of ancient or modern times,
+and still to-day the most comfortable conveyance known to man.'
+
+Hurry up, you who have never known a gondola or a Luigi! A
+vile-smelling, chuggity-chug is forcing its way up every crooked canal,
+no matter how narrow. Two Venetian shipyards are hammering away on their
+hulls or polishing their motors. Soon the cost of production will drop
+to that of a gondola. Then look out! There are eight thousand machinists
+in the Arsenal earning but five francs a day, any one of whom can learn
+to run a motor boat in a week, thus doubling their wages. Worse yet--the
+world is getting keener every hour for speedy things. I may be wrong--I
+hope and pray I am--but it seems to me that the handwriting is already
+on the wall. "This way to the Museo Civico," it reads--"if you want
+to find a gondola of twenty-five years ago." As for the Luigis and the
+Esperos--they will then have given up the unequal struggle.
+
+The only hope rests with the Venetians themselves. They have restored
+the scarred Library, and are rebuilding the Campanile, with a reverence
+for the things which made their past glorious that commands the respect
+of the artistic world. The gondola is as much a part of Venice as its
+sunsets, pigeons, and palaces. Let them by special license keep the
+Tragfaetti intact, with their shuttles of gondolas crossing bade and
+forth--then, perhaps, the catastrophe may be deferred for a few decades.
+
+*****
+
+As it was in Dort and Papendrecht so it is in Venice. Except these
+beastly, vile-smelling boats there is nothing new, thank God. Everything
+else is faded, weather-worn, and old, everything filled with sensuous
+beauty--sky, earth, lagoon, garden wall, murmuring ripples--the same
+wonderful Venice that thrills its lovers the world over.
+
+And the old painters are still here--Walter Brown, Bunce, Bompard,
+Faulkner, and the rest--successors of Ziem and Rico--men who have loved
+her all their lives. And with them a new band of devotees--Monet
+and Louis Aston Knight among them. "For a few days," they said in
+explanation, but it was weeks before they left--only to return, I
+predict, as Jong as they can hold a brush.
+
+As for Luigi and me--we keep on our accustomed way, leading our
+accustomed lives. Seventeen years now since he bent to his oar behind my
+cushions--twenty-six in all since I began to idle about her canals. It
+is either the little canal next the Public Garden, or up the Giudecca,
+or under the bronze horses of San Marco; or it may be we are camped out
+in the Piazzetta before the Porta della Carta; or perhaps up the narrow
+canal of San Rocco, or in the Fruit Market near the Rialto while the
+boats unload their cargoes.
+
+All old subjects and yet ever new; each has been painted a thousand
+times, and in as many different lights and perspectives. And yet each
+canvas differs from its fellows as do two ripples or two morning skies.
+
+For weeks we drift about. One day Carlotta, the fishwife up the
+Fondamenta della Pallada, makes us our coffee; the next Luigi buys it
+of some smart cafe on the Piazza. This with a roll, a bit of Gorgonzola,
+and a bunch of grapes, or half a dozen figs, is our luncheon, to which
+is added two curls of blue smoke, one from Luigi's pipe and the other
+from my cigarette. Then we fall to work again.
+
+But this will never do! While I have been loafing with Luigi not only
+has the summer slipped away, but the cool winds of October have crept
+down from the Alps. There are fresh subjects to tackle--some I have
+never seen. Athens beckons to me. The columns of the Parthenon loom up!
+
+*****
+
+If there are half a dozen ways of getting into Papendrecht--there is
+only one of reaching Athens--that is, if you start from Venice. Trieste
+first, either by rail or boat, and then aboard one of the Austrian
+Lloyds, and so on down the Adriatic to Patras.
+
+It is October, remember--when every spear of grass from a six months'
+drought--the customary dry spell--is burnt to a crisp. It will rain
+to-morrow, or next week, they will tell you--but it doesn't--never has
+in October--and never will. Strange to say, you never miss it--neither
+in the color of the mountains flanking the Adriatic or in any of the
+ports on the way down, or in Patras itself. The green note to which I
+have been accustomed--which I have labored over all my life--is lacking,
+and a new palette takes its place--of mauve, violet, indescribable
+blues, and evanescent soap-bubble reds. The slopes of the hills are
+mother-of-pearl, their tops melting into cloud shadows so delicate in
+tone that you cannot distinguish where one leaves off and the other
+begins.
+
+And it is so in Patras, except for a riotous, defiant pine--green as a
+spring cabbage or a newly painted shutter--that sucks its moisture from
+nobody knows where--hasn't any, perhaps, and glories in its shame. All
+along the railroad from the harbor of Patras to the outskirts of Athens
+it is the same--bare fields, bare hills, streets and roads choked with
+dust. And so, too, when you arrive at the station and take the omnibus
+for the Grand Bretagne.
+
+By this time you are accustomed to it--in fact you rather enjoy it.
+If you have a doubt of it, step out on the balcony at the front of the
+hotel and look up!
+
+Hanging in the sky--in an air of pure ether, set in films of silver
+grays in which shimmer millions of tones, delicate as the shadings of
+a pearl, towers the Acropolis, its crest fringed by the ruins of the
+greatest temples the world possesses.
+
+I rang a bell.
+
+"Get me a carriage and send me up a guide--anybody who can speak English
+and who is big enough to carry a sketch trap."
+
+He must have been outside, so quickly did he answer the call. He was
+two-thirds the size of William, one-half the length of Luigi, and
+one-third the age of Bob.
+
+"What is your name?"
+
+"Vlassopoulos."
+
+"Anything else?"
+
+"Yes--Panis."
+
+"Then we'll drop the last half. Put those traps in the carriage--and
+take me to the Parthenon."
+
+I never left it for fourteen consecutive days--nor did I see a square
+inch of Athens other than the streets I drove through up and back on my
+way to work. Nor have I in all my experience ever had a more competent,
+obliging, and companionable guide--always excepting my beloved Luigi,
+who is not only my guide, but my protector and friend as well.
+
+It was then that I blessed the dust. Green things, wet things, soggy
+things--such as mud and dull skies--have no place in the scheme of the
+Parthenon and its contiguous temples and ruins. That wonderful tea-rose
+marble, with its stains of burnt sienna marking the flutings of endless
+broken columns, needs no varnishing of moisture to enhance its beauty.
+That will do for the facade of Burlington House with its grimy gray
+statues, or the moss-encrusted tower of the Groote Kirk, but never here.
+It was this fear, perhaps, that kept me at work, haunted as I was by the
+bogy of "Rain to-morrow. It always comes, and keeps on for a month when
+it starts in." Blessed be the weather clerk! It never started in--not
+until I reached Brindisi on my way back to Paris; then, if I remember,
+there was some falling weather--at the rate of two inches an hour.
+
+And yet I might as well confess that my fourteen days of consecutive
+study of the Acropolis, beginning at the recently uncovered entrance
+gate and ending in the Museum behind the Parthenon, added nothing to my
+previous historical or other knowledge--meagre as it had been.
+
+Where the Venetians wrought the greatest havoc, how many and what
+columns were thrown down; how high and thick and massive they were; what
+parts of the marvellous ruin that High Robber Chief Lord Elgin stole
+and carted off to London, and still keeps the British Museum acting as
+"fence"; how wide and long and spacious was the superb chamber that held
+the statue the gods loved--none of these things interested me--do not
+now. What I saw was an epoch in stone; a chronicle telling the story
+of civilization; a glove thrown down to posterity, challenging the
+competition of the world.
+
+And with this came a feeling of reverence so profound, so awe-inspiring,
+so humbling, that I caught myself speaking to Panis in whispers--as one
+does in a temple when the service is in progress. This, as the sun sped
+its course and the purple shadows of the coming night began to creep up
+the steps and columns of the marvellous pile, its pediment bathed in the
+rose-glow of the fading day, was followed by a silence that neither of
+us cared to break. For then the wondrous temple took on the semblance
+of some old sage, the sunlight on his forehead, the shadow of the future
+about his knees.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Parthenon By Way Of Papendrecht, by
+F. Hopkinson Smith
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+  <head>
+    <title>
+      The Parthenon by Way of Papendrecht, by F. Hopkinson Smith
+    </title>
+    <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve">
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+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Parthenon By Way Of Papendrecht, by
+F. Hopkinson Smith
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Parthenon By Way Of Papendrecht
+       1909
+
+Author: F. Hopkinson Smith
+
+Illustrator: F. Hopkinson Smith
+
+Release Date: December 3, 2007 [EBook #23703]
+Last Updated: March 8, 2018
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PARTHENON ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Widger
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+    <div style="height: 8em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h1>
+      THE PARTHENON BY WAY OF PAPENDRECHT
+    </h1>
+    <h2>
+      By F. Hopkinson Smith <br /> 1909
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      <br />
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;WILYUM!.....<i>Wilyum!</i>.....WILYUM!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      It was mine host of the Ferry Inn at Cook-ham who was calling, and at the
+      top of his voice&mdash;and a big-chested voice it was&mdash;the sound
+      leaping into crescendo as the object of his search remained hidden. Then
+      he turned to me:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;He's somewheres 'round the boat house&mdash;you can't miss him&mdash;there's
+      too much of him!&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Are ye wantin' me, sor?&rdquo; came another shout as I rounded the squat
+      building stuffed with boats&mdash;literally so&mdash;bottom, top, and
+      sides.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;are you the boatman?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I am, sor&mdash;and bloody sick of me job. Do ye see that wherry shovin'
+      off&mdash;the one with the lady in a sweater? Yes&mdash;that's right&mdash;just
+      slipped under the bridge. Well, sor, what d'ye think the bloke did for me?
+      Look at it, sor!&rdquo; (Here he held out his hand, in which lay a half-penny.)
+      &ldquo;And me a-washin' out 'is boat, feedin' of 'is dog, and keepin' an eye on
+      'is togs and 'is ladies&mdash;and then shoves off and 'ands me this&mdash;a
+      'a'penny, sor&mdash;<i>a 'a'penny</i>&mdash;from the likes o' 'im to the
+      likes o' me! Damn 'im!&rdquo;&mdash;and away went the coin into the river.
+      &ldquo;You'll excuse me, sor, but i couldn't choke it down. Is it a punt ye're
+      lookin' for?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      The landlord was right&mdash;there was a good deal of him&mdash;six feet
+      and an inch, I should think; straight as an oar, his bared arms swinging
+      free; waist, thighs, and back tough as a saw-log. To this was added two
+      big blue eyes set in a clean-shaven face bronzed by the sun, and a double
+      row of teeth that would have shamed an ear of corn. I caught, too, the
+      muscles of his chest rounding out his boating shirt, and particularly the
+      muscles of the neck supporting the round head crowned with closely cropped
+      hair&mdash;evidently a young Englishman of that great middle class which
+      the nation depends upon in an emergency. My inspection also settled any
+      question I might have had as to why he was &ldquo;William,&rdquo; and never &ldquo;Bill,&rdquo; to
+      those about him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The one thing lacking in his make-up&mdash;and which only came into view
+      when he turned his head&mdash;was the upper part of one ear. This was
+      clipped as close as a terrier's.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Again he repeated the question&mdash;with a deprecatory smile, as if he
+      already regretted his outburst.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Is it a punt ye're wantin', sor?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;and a man to pole it and look after me while I paint. I had old
+      Norris for the past few years, but I hear he's gone back to gardening.
+      Will you have time with your other work?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Time! I'll chuck my job if I don't.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No,&mdash;you can do both,&mdash;Norris did. You can pole me out to where
+      I want to work; bring me my lunch when you have yours, and come for me at
+      night. You weren't here two years ago&mdash;were you?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;No&mdash;I was with General French. Got this clip outside Kimberly&mdash;&rdquo;
+       and he touched his ear. &ldquo;Been all my life on the river&mdash;Maidenhead
+      and Bourne's End mostly&mdash;and so when my time was up I come home and
+      the boss here put me on.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;A soldier! I thought so. I see now why you got mad. Wonder you didn't
+      throw that chap into the river.&rdquo; I am a crank on the happiness one gets
+      from the giving of tips&mdash;and a half-penny man is the rock bottom of
+      meanness.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      His face straightened.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Well, we can't do that, sor&mdash;we can't never talk back. Got to grin
+      and bear it or lose yer job. Learned that in the Hussahs. I didn't care
+      for his money&mdash;maybe it was the way he did it that set me goin'&mdash;as
+      if I was&mdash;Well&mdash;let it go! And it's a punt ye want?&mdash;Yes,
+      sor&mdash;come and pick it out.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      After that it was plain sailing&mdash;or punting. The picture of that
+      London cad sprawling in the water, which my approval had created in his
+      mind, had done it. And it was early and late too (there were few visitors
+      that month); down by the Weir below the lock as far as Cliveden; up the
+      backwater to the Mill&mdash;William stretched beside me while I worked, or
+      pulling back and forth when a cool bottle&mdash;beer, of course&mdash;or a
+      kettle and an alcohol lamp would add to my comfort.
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      Many years of tramping and boating up and down the Thames from Reading to
+      Maidenhead have taught me the ins and outs of the river. I know it as I do
+      my own pocket (and there is more in that statement than you think&mdash;especially
+      during regatta week).
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      First comes Sonning with its rose gardens and quaint brick bridge; and
+      then Marlowe with that long stretch of silver bordered by nodding trees
+      and dominated by the robber Inn&mdash;four shillings and six for a sawdust
+      sandwich! Then Maidenhead, swarming with boats and city folks after dark
+      (it is only a step from the landing to any number of curtained
+      sitting-rooms with shaded candles&mdash;and there be gay times at
+      Maidenhead, let me tell you!). And, between, best of all, lovely Cookham.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <br />
+    </p>
+    <div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
+      <img alt="thames-at-cookham (48K)" src="images/thames-at-cookham.jpg"
+       width="100%" /><br />
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <br />
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Here the river, crazy with delight, seems to lose its head and goes
+      meandering about, poking its nose up backwaters, creeping across meadows,
+      flooding limpid shallows, mirroring oaks and willows upside down, surging
+      up as if to sweep away a velvet-shorn lawn, only to pour itself&mdash;its
+      united self&mdash;into an open-mouthed lock, and so on to a saner life in
+      a level stretch beyond. If you want a map giving these vagaries, spill a
+      cup of tea and follow its big and little puddles with their connecting
+      rivulets: ten chances to one it will come out right.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      All this William and I took in for three unbroken weeks, my usual summer
+      allotment on the Thames. Never was there such a breesy, wholesome
+      companion; stories of his life in the Veldt; of his hospital experience
+      over that same ear&mdash;&ldquo;The only crack I got, sor, thank God!&mdash;except
+      bein' 'alf starved for a week and down two months with the fever&mdash;&rdquo;
+       neither of which seemed to have caused him a moment's inconvenience;
+      stories of the people living about him and those who came from London with
+      a &ldquo;'am sandwidge in a noospaper, and precious little more,&rdquo; rolled out of
+      him by the hour.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And the poise of the man! When he lay stretched out beside me on the grass
+      while I worked&mdash;an old bivouac attitude&mdash;he kept still; no
+      twitching of legs or stretching of arms&mdash;lay as a big hound does,
+      whose blood and breeding necessitate repose.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And we were never separated. First a plunge overboard, and then a pull
+      back for breakfast, and off again with the luncheon tucked under the seat&mdash;and
+      so on until the sun dropped behind the hills.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The only days on which this routine of work and play had to be changed
+      were Sundays and holidays. Then my white umbrella would loom up as large
+      as a circus tent, the usual crowd surging about its doors. As you cannot
+      see London for the people, so you cannot see the river for boats on these
+      days&mdash;all sorts of boats&mdash;wherries, tubs, launches, racing
+      crafts, shells, punts&mdash;everything that can be poled, pulled, or
+      wobbled, and in each one the invariable combination&mdash;a man, a girl,
+      and a dog&mdash;a dog, a girl, and a man. This has been going on for ages,
+      and will to the end of time.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      On these mornings William and I have our bath early&mdash;ahead of the
+      crowd really, who generally arrive two hours after sunrise and keep up the
+      pace until the last train leaves for Paddington. This bath is at the end
+      of one of the teacup spillways, and is called the Weir. There is a
+      plateau, a plunge down some twenty feet into a deep pool, and the usual
+      surroundings of fresh morning air, gay tree-tops, and the splash of cool
+      water sparkling in the sunlight.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      To-day as my boat grated on the gravel my eyes fell on a young English
+      lord who was holding the centre of the stage in the sunlight. He was
+      dressed from head to foot in a skin-tight suit of underwear which had been
+      cut for him by a Garden-of-Eden tailor. He was just out of the water&mdash;a
+      straight, well-built, ruddy-skinned fellow&mdash;every inch a man! What
+      birth and station had done for him would become apparent when his valet
+      began to hand him his Bond Street outfit. The next instant William stood
+      beside him. Then there came a wriggle about the shoulders, the slip of a
+      buckle, and he was overboard and out again before my lord had discarded
+      his third towel.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I fell to thinking.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Naked they were equals. That was the way they came into the world and
+      that's the way they would go out. And yet within the hour my lord would be
+      back to his muffins and silver service, with two flunkies behind his
+      chair, and William would be swabbing out a boat or poling me home through
+      the pond lilies.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But why?&mdash;I kept asking myself. A totally idiotic and illogical
+      question, of course. Both were of an age; both would be a joy to a
+      sculptor looking for modern gods with which to imitate the Greek ones.
+      Both were equal in the sight of their Maker. Both had served their country&mdash;my
+      lord, I learned later, being one of the first to draw a bead on Spion Kop
+      close enough to be of any use&mdash;and both were honest&mdash;at least
+      William was&mdash;and the lord must have been.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      There is no answer&mdash;never can be. And yet the picture of the two as
+      they stood glistening in the sunlight continues to rise in my memory, and
+      with it always comes this same query&mdash;one which will never down&mdash;Why
+      should there be the difference?
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      But the summer is moving on apace. There is another Inn and another
+      William&mdash;or rather, there was one several hundred years ago before he
+      went off crusading. It is an old resort of mine. Seven years now has old
+      Leah filled my breakfast cup with a coffee that deserves a hymn of praise
+      in its honor. I like it hot&mdash;boiling, blistering hot, and the old
+      woman brings it on the run, her white sabots clattering across the
+      flower-smothered courtyard. During all these years I have followed with
+      reverent fingers not only the slopes of its roof but the loops of swinging
+      clematis that crowd its balconies and gabies as well. I say &ldquo;my&rdquo; because I
+      have known this Inn of William the Conqueror long enough to include it in
+      the list of the many good ones I frequent over Europe&mdash;the Bellevue,
+      for instance, at Dordrecht, over against Papendrecht (I shall be there in
+      another month). And the Britannia in Venice, and I hope still a third in
+      unknown Athens&mdash;unknown to me&mdash;my objective point this year.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      This particular Inn with the roof and the clematis, is at Dives, twenty
+      miles from Trouville on the coast. You never saw anything like it, and you
+      never will again. I hold no brief for my old friend Le Remois, the
+      proprietor, but the coffee is not the only thing over which grateful men
+      chant hymns. There is a kitchen, resplendent in polished brass, with three
+      French chefs in attendance, and a two-century-old spit for roasting. There
+      is the wine-cellar, in which cobwebs and not labels record the age and the
+      vintage; there is a dining-room&mdash;three of them&mdash;with baronial
+      fireplaces, sixteenth-century furniture, and linen and glass to match&mdash;to
+      say nothing of tapestries, Spanish leathers, shrines, carved saints,
+      ivories, and pewter&mdash;the whole a sight to turn bric-a-brac fiends
+      into burglars&mdash;not a difficult thing by the way&mdash;and then, of
+      course&mdash;there is the bill!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Where have you been, M. Le Rémois?&rdquo; asked a charming woman.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;To church, Madame.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Did you say your prayers?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes, Madame,&rdquo; answered this good boni-face, with a twinkle.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What did you pray for?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;I said&mdash;'Oh, Lord!&mdash;do not make me rich, but place me <i>next</i>
+      to the rich'&rdquo;&mdash;and he kept on his way rubbing his hands and
+      chuckling. And yet I must say it is worth the price.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I have no need of a William here&mdash;nor of anybody else. The water for
+      my cups is within my reach; convenient umbrellas on movable pedestals can
+      be shoved into place; a sheltered back porch hives for the night all my
+      paraphernalia and unfinished sketches, and a step or two brings me to a
+      table where a broiled lobster fresh from the sea and a peculiar peach
+      ablaze in a peculiar sauce&mdash;the whole washed down by a pint of&mdash;(No&mdash;you
+      can't have the brand&mdash;there were only seven bottles left when I paid
+      my bill)&mdash;and besides I am going back&mdash;help to ease the cares
+      that beset a painter's life.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But even this oasis of a garden, hemmed about as if by the froth of
+      Trouville and the suds of Cabourg; through which floats the gay life of
+      Paris resplendent in toilets never excelled or <i>exceeded</i> anywhere&mdash;cannot
+      keep me from Holland very long. And it is a pity too, for of late years I
+      have been looked upon as a harmless fixture at the Inn&mdash;so much so
+      that men and women pass and repass my easel, or look over my shoulder
+      while I work without a break in their confidences&mdash;quite as if I was
+      a deaf, dumb, and blind waiter, or twin-brother to old Coco the cockatoo,
+      who has surveyed the same scene from his perch near the roof for the past
+      thirty years.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      None of these unconscious ear-droppings am I going to betray&mdash;delightful,
+      startling&mdash;<i>improper</i>, if you must have it&mdash;as some of them
+      were. Not the most interesting, at all events, for I promised her I
+      wouldn't&mdash;but there is no question as to the diversion obtained by
+      keeping the latch-string of your ears on the outside.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      None of all this ever drips into my auricles in Holland. A country so
+      small that they build dikes to keep the inhabitants from being spilt off
+      the edge, is hardly the place for a scandal&mdash;certainly not in stolid
+      Dordrecht or in that fly-speck of a Papendrecht, whose dormer windows peer
+      over the edge of the dike as if in mortal fear of another inundation. And
+      yet, small as it is, it is still big enough for me to approach it&mdash;the
+      fly-speck, of course&mdash;by half a dozen different routes. I can come by
+      boat from Rotterdam. Fop Smit owns and runs it&mdash;(no kin of mine,
+      more's the pity)&mdash;or by train from Amsterdam; or by carriage from any
+      number of 'dams, 'drechts, and 'bergs. Or I can tramp it on foot, or be
+      wheeled in on a dog-wagon. I have tried them all, and know. Being now a
+      staid old painter and past such foolishness, I take the train.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Toot! Toot!&mdash;and I am out on the platform, through the door of the
+      station and aboard the one-horse tram that wiggles and swings over the
+      cobble-scoured streets of Dordrecht, and so on to the Bellevue.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Why I stop at the Bellevue (apart from it being one of my Inns) is that
+      from its windows I cannot only watch the life of the tawny-colored,
+      boat-crowded Maas, but see every curl of smoke that mounts from the
+      chimneys of Papendrecht strung along its opposite bank. My dear friend,
+      Herr Boudier, of years gone by, has retired from its ownership, but his
+      successor, Herr Teitsma, is as hearty in his welcome. Peter, my old
+      boatman, too, pulled his last oar some two years back, and one &ldquo;Bop&rdquo; takes
+      his place. There is another &ldquo;p&rdquo; and an &ldquo;e&rdquo; tacked on to Bop, but I have
+      eliminated the unnecessary and call him &ldquo;Bob&rdquo; for short. They made Bob out
+      of what was left of Peter, but they left out all trace of William.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      This wooden-shod curiosity is anywhere from seventy to one hundred and
+      fifty years old, gray, knock-kneed, bent in the back, and goes to sleep
+      standing up&mdash;<i>and stays asleep</i>. He is the exact duplicate of
+      the tramp in the comic opera of &ldquo;Miss Hook of Holland&rdquo;&mdash;except that
+      the actor-sleeper occasionally topples over and has to be braced up. Bob
+      is past-master of the art and goes it alone, without propping of any kind.
+      He is the only man in Dordrecht, or Papendrecht, or the country round
+      about, who can pull a boat and speak English. He says so, and I am forced
+      not only to believe him, but to hire him. He wants it in advance, too&mdash;having
+      had some experience with &ldquo;painter-man,&rdquo; he explains to Herr Teitsma.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I shall, of course, miss my delightful William, but I am accustomed to
+      that. And, then, again, while Bob asleep is an interesting physiological
+      study, Bob awake adds to the gayety of nations, samples of which crowd
+      about my easel, Holland being one of the main highways of the earth.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I have known Dort and the little 'drecht across the way for some fifteen
+      years, five of which have slipped by since I last opened my umbrella along
+      its quaint quays. To my great joy nothing has changed. The old potato boat
+      still lies close to the quay, under the overhanging elms. The same dear
+      old man and his equally dear old wife still make their home beneath its
+      hipped roof. I know, for it is here I lunch, the cargo forming the chief
+      dish, followed by a saucer of stewed currants, a cup of coffee&mdash;(more
+      hymns here)&mdash;and a loaf of bread from the baker's. The old Groote
+      Kirk still towers aloft&mdash;the highest building in Holland, they say;
+      the lazy, red-sailed luggers drift up and down, their decks gay with
+      potted plants; swiss curtains at the cabin windows, the wife holding the
+      tiller while the man trims the sail. The boys still clatter over the
+      polished cobbles&mdash;an aggressive mob when school lets out&mdash;and a
+      larger crop, I think, than in the years gone by, and with more noise&mdash;my
+      umbrella being the target. Often a spoilt fish or half a last week's
+      cabbage comes my way, whereupon Bob awakes to instant action with a
+      consequent scattering, the bravest and most agile making faces from behind
+      wharf spiles and corners. Peter used to build a fence of oars around me to
+      keep them off, but Bob takes it out in swearing.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Only once did he silence them. They were full grown, this squad, and had
+      crowded the old man against a tree under which I had backed as shelter
+      from a passing shower. There came a blow straight from the shoulder, a
+      sprawling boy, and Bob was in the midst of them, his right sleeve rolled
+      up, showing a full-rigged ship tattooed in India ink. What poured from him
+      I learned afterward was an account of his many voyages to the Arctic and
+      around the Horn, as the label on his arm proved&mdash;an experience which,
+      he shouted, would be utilized in pounding them up into fish bait if they
+      did not take to their heels. After that he always went to sleep with one
+      eye open, the boys keeping awake with two&mdash;and out of my way&mdash;a
+      result which interested me the more.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      If my Luigi was not growing restless in my beloved Venice (it is wonderful
+      how large a portion of the earth I own) I would love to pass the rest of
+      my summer along these gray canals, especially since Bob's development
+      brings a daily surprise. Only to-day I caught sight of him half hidden in
+      an angle of a wall, surrounded by a group of little tots who were begging
+      him for paper pin-wheels which a vender had stopped to sell, an
+      infinitesimal small coin the size of a cuff button purchasing a dozen or
+      more. When I again looked up from a canvas each tot had a pin-wheel, and
+      later on Bob, that much poorer in pocket, sneaked back and promptly went
+      to sleep.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But even Bob's future beatification cannot hold me. I yearn for the white,
+      blinding light and breathless lagoons, and all that makes Venice the Queen
+      City of the World.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Luigi meets me <i>inside</i> the station. It takes a <i>soldo</i> to get
+      in, and Luigi has but few of them, but he is always there. His gondola is
+      moored to the landing steps outside&mdash;a black swan of a boat, all
+      morocco cushions and silk fringes; the product of a thousand years of
+      tinkering by the most fastidious and luxurious people of ancient or modern
+      times, and still to-day the most comfortable conveyance known to man.'
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Hurry up, you who have never known a gondola or a Luigi! A vile-smelling,
+      chuggity-chug is forcing its way up every crooked canal, no matter how
+      narrow. Two Venetian shipyards are hammering away on their hulls or
+      polishing their motors. Soon the cost of production will drop to that of a
+      gondola. Then look out! There are eight thousand machinists in the Arsenal
+      earning but five francs a day, any one of whom can learn to run a motor
+      boat in a week, thus doubling their wages. Worse yet&mdash;the world is
+      getting keener every hour for speedy things. I may be wrong&mdash;I hope
+      and pray I am&mdash;but it seems to me that the handwriting is already on
+      the wall. &ldquo;This way to the Museo Civico,&rdquo; it reads&mdash;&ldquo;if you want to
+      find a gondola of twenty-five years ago.&rdquo; As for the Luigis and the
+      Esperos&mdash;they will then have given up the unequal struggle.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The only hope rests with the Venetians themselves. They have restored the
+      scarred Library, and are rebuilding the Campanile, with a reverence for
+      the things which made their past glorious that commands the respect of the
+      artistic world. The gondola is as much a part of Venice as its sunsets,
+      pigeons, and palaces. Let them by special license keep the Tragfaetti
+      intact, with their shuttles of gondolas crossing bade and forth&mdash;then,
+      perhaps, the catastrophe may be deferred for a few decades.
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      As it was in Dort and Papendrecht so it is in Venice. Except these
+      beastly, vile-smelling boats there is nothing new, thank God. Everything
+      else is faded, weather-worn, and old, everything filled with sensuous
+      beauty&mdash;sky, earth, lagoon, garden wall, murmuring ripples&mdash;the
+      same wonderful Venice that thrills its lovers the world over.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And the old painters are still here&mdash;Walter Brown, Bunce, Bompard,
+      Faulkner, and the rest&mdash;successors of Ziem and Rico&mdash;men who
+      have loved her all their lives. And with them a new band of devotees&mdash;Monet
+      and Louis Aston Knight among them. &ldquo;For a few days,&rdquo; they said in
+      explanation, but it was weeks before they left&mdash;only to return, I
+      predict, as Jong as they can hold a brush.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      As for Luigi and me&mdash;we keep on our accustomed way, leading our
+      accustomed lives. Seventeen years now since he bent to his oar behind my
+      cushions&mdash;twenty-six in all since I began to idle about her canals.
+      It is either the little canal next the Public Garden, or up the Giudecca,
+      or under the bronze horses of San Marco; or it may be we are camped out in
+      the Piazzetta before the Porta della Carta; or perhaps up the narrow canal
+      of San Rocco, or in the Fruit Market near the Rialto while the boats
+      unload their cargoes.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      All old subjects and yet ever new; each has been painted a thousand times,
+      and in as many different lights and perspectives. And yet each canvas
+      differs from its fellows as do two ripples or two morning skies.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      For weeks we drift about. One day Carlotta, the fishwife up the Fondamenta
+      della Pallada, makes us our coffee; the next Luigi buys it of some smart
+      café on the Piazza. This with a roll, a bit of Gorgonzola, and a bunch of
+      grapes, or half a dozen figs, is our luncheon, to which is added two curls
+      of blue smoke, one from Luigi's pipe and the other from my cigarette. Then
+      we fall to work again.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But this will never do! While I have been loafing with Luigi not only has
+      the summer slipped away, but the cool winds of October have crept down
+      from the Alps. There are fresh subjects to tackle&mdash;some I have never
+      seen. Athens beckons to me. The columns of the Parthenon loom up!
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      If there are half a dozen ways of getting into Papendrecht&mdash;there is
+      only one of reaching Athens&mdash;that is, if you start from Venice.
+      Trieste first, either by rail or boat, and then aboard one of the Austrian
+      Lloyds, and so on down the Adriatic to Patras.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It is October, remember&mdash;when every spear of grass from a six months'
+      drought&mdash;the customary dry spell&mdash;is burnt to a crisp. It will
+      rain to-morrow, or next week, they will tell you&mdash;but it doesn't&mdash;never
+      has in October&mdash;and never will. Strange to say, you never miss it&mdash;neither
+      in the color of the mountains flanking the Adriatic or in any of the ports
+      on the way down, or in Patras itself. The green note to which I have been
+      accustomed&mdash;which I have labored over all my life&mdash;is lacking,
+      and a new palette takes its place&mdash;of mauve, violet, indescribable
+      blues, and evanescent soap-bubble reds. The slopes of the hills are
+      mother-of-pearl, their tops melting into cloud shadows so delicate in tone
+      that you cannot distinguish where one leaves off and the other begins.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And it is so in Patras, except for a riotous, defiant pine&mdash;green as
+      a spring cabbage or a newly painted shutter&mdash;that sucks its moisture
+      from nobody knows where&mdash;hasn't any, perhaps, and glories in its
+      shame. All along the railroad from the harbor of Patras to the outskirts
+      of Athens it is the same&mdash;bare fields, bare hills, streets and roads
+      choked with dust. And so, too, when you arrive at the station and take the
+      omnibus for the Grand Bretagne.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      By this time you are accustomed to it&mdash;in fact you rather enjoy it.
+      If you have a doubt of it, step out on the balcony at the front of the
+      hotel and look up!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Hanging in the sky&mdash;in an air of pure ether, set in films of silver
+      grays in which shimmer millions of tones, delicate as the shadings of a
+      pearl, towers the Acropolis, its crest fringed by the ruins of the
+      greatest temples the world possesses.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I rang a bell.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Get me a carriage and send me up a guide&mdash;anybody who can speak
+      English and who is big enough to carry a sketch trap.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      He must have been outside, so quickly did he answer the call. He was
+      two-thirds the size of William, one-half the length of Luigi, and
+      one-third the age of Bob.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;What is your name?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Vlassopoulos.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Anything else?&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;Panis.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      &ldquo;Then we'll drop the last half. Put those traps in the carriage&mdash;and
+      take me to the Parthenon.&rdquo;
+     </p>
+    <p>
+      I never left it for fourteen consecutive days&mdash;nor did I see a square
+      inch of Athens other than the streets I drove through up and back on my
+      way to work. Nor have I in all my experience ever had a more competent,
+      obliging, and companionable guide&mdash;always excepting my beloved Luigi,
+      who is not only my guide, but my protector and friend as well.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It was then that I blessed the dust. Green things, wet things, soggy
+      things&mdash;such as mud and dull skies&mdash;have no place in the scheme
+      of the Parthenon and its contiguous temples and ruins. That wonderful
+      tea-rose marble, with its stains of burnt sienna marking the flutings of
+      endless broken columns, needs no varnishing of moisture to enhance its
+      beauty. That will do for the façade of Burlington House with its grimy
+      gray statues, or the moss-encrusted tower of the Groote Kirk, but never
+      here. It was this fear, perhaps, that kept me at work, haunted as I was by
+      the bogy of &ldquo;Rain to-morrow. It always comes, and keeps on for a month
+      when it starts in.&rdquo; Blessed be the weather clerk! It never started in&mdash;not
+      until I reached Brindisi on my way back to Paris; then, if I remember,
+      there was some falling weather&mdash;at the rate of two inches an hour.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And yet I might as well confess that my fourteen days of consecutive study
+      of the Acropolis, beginning at the recently uncovered entrance gate and
+      ending in the Museum behind the Parthenon, added nothing to my previous
+      historical or other knowledge&mdash;meagre as it had been.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Where the Venetians wrought the greatest havoc, how many and what columns
+      were thrown down; how high and thick and massive they were; what parts of
+      the marvellous ruin that High Robber Chief Lord Elgin stole and carted off
+      to London, and still keeps the British Museum acting as &ldquo;fence&rdquo;; how wide
+      and long and spacious was the superb chamber that held the statue the gods
+      loved&mdash;none of these things interested me&mdash;do not now. What I
+      saw was an epoch in stone; a chronicle telling the story of civilization;
+      a glove thrown down to posterity, challenging the competition of the
+      world.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And with this came a feeling of reverence so profound, so awe-inspiring,
+      so humbling, that I caught myself speaking to Panis in whispers&mdash;as
+      one does in a temple when the service is in progress. This, as the sun
+      sped its course and the purple shadows of the coming night began to creep
+      up the steps and columns of the marvellous pile, its pediment bathed in
+      the rose-glow of the fading day, was followed by a silence that neither of
+      us cared to break. For then the wondrous temple took on the semblance of
+      some old sage, the sunlight on his forehead, the shadow of the future
+      about his knees.
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 6em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+
+
+
+
+
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+F. Hopkinson Smith
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+</pre>
+  </body>
+</html>