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diff --git a/23703.txt b/23703.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e162678 --- /dev/null +++ b/23703.txt @@ -0,0 +1,918 @@ +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. 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