Excursions to Broek and the Island of Marken
A Charming Journey—Fellow-Passengers—National Costumes—The Children—A Lovely Landscape—Holstein Cattle—Windmills—Irrigation—Farmers—A Typical Dutch Village—Washing-Day—The Red, White and Blue—Suppose a Bull Should Appear—A Brilliant Picture—Drawing the Canal Boat—Honesty and Cleanliness—A Thrifty and Industrious People—Farming and Cheese-making—As Evening Falls—Scenes for an Artist—Dead Cities of Holland—Monnikendam—Behind the Age—City Lamps—Houses and People—The Island of Marken—An Isolated Wonderland—First Impressions—Rare Holidays—The Family Doctor—Absence of the Men—The Fishing—Healthy and Industrious population—The Women of Marken—Pretty Girls—They Will not be Taken—A Valuable Experience—Photographs.
Beautiful trip is that to Broek. We take the small steamer that lies in the river a short distance from our hotel, the Amstel, and after a sail of three-quarters of an hour, are landed at an insignificant station on the opposite shore. Here a little car with bare wooden seats running lengthwise, and a queer looking engine waits for passengers from the boat. And now we ride through a picturesque farming country, passing numerous small stations. This road terminates at Edam, but we do not go that far. Our fellow-passengers are most interesting. Many of the women wear their gold heirlooms with the finely embroidered caps which are so quaint and becoming, and all wear the customary wooden shoes.
The men have rugged brown faces, and sinewy arms: some of them wear the heavy wooden shoes, others slippers, while a number are barefooted. How they all stare at us, and it is just as impossible for us to withdraw our eyes from them. We are novel sights to each other. I wonder what they think of our appearance. Their faces are impassive, but ours must surely express wonder, admiration and a strong desire on the part of one at least, to capture these studies in color and figure that surround us on every side.
The children, with their rosy cheeks and round healthy forms, seem merry and happy, although none of them are sociable or talkative with us. They look at us in amazement. This is a delightful ride over a smooth velvety road, with rich pasture land on either side. Now we pass great dikes which hold back the waters from these fertile fields; and now short canals with their little boats, on which perhaps the Dutch vrow in her snowy cap and gold head-dress is seated beside her husband who smokes his pipe with a meditative air. The flat landscape is varied by innumerable herds of cattle, principally of Holstein breed, with the great white bands encircling the bodies, which reminds me of the story of the Yankee who used this band for a foundation upon which to paint his sign: “The finest milk and cream in the world within. Price two cents per quart.”
“The flat landscape is varied by herds of cattle.” (See page 153.)
Hundreds of windmills may be seen with their long wings gracefully moving at the touch of a gentle breeze, in perfect harmony with the surrounding landscape. These mills have been used for many centuries in Holland, which is their mother country, and serve for draining the land, or for manufacturing purposes. They are placed upon a substantial foundation of brick or stone, and their enormous sails describe a circle of over a hundred feet in diameter: some run saws that cut through logs of great thickness, while others are huge grain mills. The smaller windmills are made of wood like those seen in some portions of our own country. The system of irrigation by means of windmills is very complete in Holland, thus it is that we see everywhere such beautiful fertile fields. Many of the farms in this locality employ three or four, and even more windmills for this purpose.
We see many farmers, with their wives and children, working in the fields, and they all stop for an instant as our train passes, to shout a merry greeting. Here a milkmaid in her snowy cap passes along the road. Flocks of sheep stand in the shadow of the trees, and armies of quacking ducks emerge from a marshy pool and spread themselves across the green.
The average speed of our antediluvian express is from five to seven miles an hour, but it is perfectly satisfactory to these deliberate people; and as to ourselves, we are enjoying everything too much to wish it shortened by one minute. We arrive, however, at Broek, which is celebrated as one of the cleanest towns in the world. It contains about sixteen hundred inhabitants, and its narrow streets are paved with yellow bricks which are kept scrupulously clean. The small frame houses have tiled roofs, and with their flower gardens, present an orderly appearance. The whole atmosphere of the place is one of primitive simplicity. Some of the buildings are painted white, some green, and others of a variety of hues. They all wear an indescribable air of repose: and it is said that the front doors are not opened from the beginning to the end of the year, except on the occasion of a wedding or a funeral. The gardens are veritable curiosities, with their old-fashioned flower-beds, and box-bushes cut into various fantastic shapes, and all so diminutive that one feels as though he has fallen upon an animated edition of the Noah’s Ark of his childish days.
“Most of the houses have a canal at the back.” (See page 157.)
Most of the houses have a canal or small stream at the back, and close by, upon a washing-day, the garments of the family may be seen flying in the breeze, displaying to the stranger the prevailing colors of the community, which are red, white and blue. Red predominates, however, since red flannel is universally worn by the middle and lower classes in Holland. I think of the fine bull which we saw but a short time ago, grazing so peacefully in the meadow, and wonder what effect this exposure of tantalizing color would have upon his equanimity. Should he be let loose among the back gardens of Broek upon a washing-day, the order of this immaculate village would certainly receive a shock. For once in the history of the place, things would be topsy-turvy, and the excitement would doubtless surpass anything previously seen in this peaceful town.
What beautiful and picturesque combinations are here! The varying shades of green and blue, mingled with harmonious tints of yellow, produce a scene for the impressionist, while the effect is enhanced by the streams and canals which wind in and out with many a turn and twist, apparently for the sole purpose of adding to the attraction of this quaint and unique locality.
Occasionally we see a canal boat of larger size drawn by a buxom Dutch maiden and her brother; or not infrequently it is the old man and his wife, and sometimes the entire family all strenuously tugging the stout rope which is securely fastened to the bow of the boat, while the dilapidated old craft, laden with merchandise or produce creaks slowly on its way, breaking the placid surface of the water with a soft musical plash.
Honesty and truthfulness are unmistakably impressed upon the faces of all whom we meet in this section. The people hereabouts do not possess the shrewd business capacity of our Wall Street brokers, but they are mild and pleasant, with a wholesome appearance of health and good appetite. They are individually as clean and orderly as is their village. Water is as cheap here as in America, but in this place there seems to be an extravagance in the use of it which far exceeds that of the same class in our country.
There are no beggars or idlers here. The people are so thrifty and industrious that no portion of the day is wasted. Every one seems to have an appointed task, even the small children, whom we see feeding the ducks and pigs. All are engaged in some useful occupation.
Farming and cheese-making are the principal industries, although other branches of business, such as stock-raising, fishing, boat-making, and the manufacture of wooden shoes, are carried on to some extent.
Our visit to the village naturally attracts some attention, as foreigners are rarely seen in these out of the way corners.
As evening steals upon us, the scene grows indescribably lovely, for the sun in his descent illumines the whole landscape with vivid gleams of many colors. The blue stream which finds its outlet in the larger river, changes its sombre hue to one of dazzling gold, which throws out rich reflections of clouds and foliage. A fairy-like transformation seems to have taken place in the streets and houses; and, as we leave the village and the shades of night fall about us, my thoughts are with the artist, the photographer, the impressionist, who would feel the most exquisite delight in such an opportunity; for he who could do justice to this landscape either with brush or camera, would produce a picture worthy of place among the noblest works of art.
We have heard so much of the “Dead cities of Holland,” and especially of the secluded life on the island of Marken, that we determine to see for ourselves what this term really signifies. On our way thither, we pass through the old town of Monnikendam, in which we behold many strange and curious sights. People and buildings impress us with the idea that “Father Time” has forgotten this place altogether in his rounds of cutting down and making place for newcomers. The ancient and picturesque houses look as though coeval with Time himself; but in truth they are only mediæval; it is the people who have stood still. The present age has no place in their lives.
The population of the town numbers about twenty-three hundred, and this is largely made up of children, judging from the appearance of the streets. The main street is wide and attractive, but the side streets are narrow, and all are paved with hard bricks placed edgewise. At night the town is lighted by lamps balanced upon rude posts: coal is generally used for fuel, but some of the residents use gasoline, which also serves for light. The houses are primitive in construction, and the people seem odd and inquisitive, but simple and economical in dress and habit. As we expect to return in a short time, we direct our course without delay to the Island of Marken.
“The blue stream finds its outlet in the river.” (See page 159.)
A good-sized yacht lies at anchor in the Zuyder Zee, beside the banks of Monnikendam. The captain is a full-blooded “Markenite,” born and bred on the island. Having made arrangements with him, we go on board and are soon on our way to the strange city: our hearts beat more quickly, and all eyes are eagerly strained toward it, when the distant island appears in the direction of our yacht’s bow. After an hour’s sail, we come to anchor in the harbor of this secluded wonderland. As we approach the town, the view from our boat seems to justify the title which has been given to it of “the Dead City.” It lies away from everything and everybody, and save the deep sea which surrounds it, and which supplies its inhabitants with food, the island of Marken has for centuries known no association outside its own boundaries.
No news is carried to or from this isolated region. At rare intervals an islander, by temperament more adventurous or enterprising than his fellows, makes the daring undertaking of a visit to Monnikendam, or the bolder flight to Amsterdam, although there are but few instances on record of such a reckless proceeding as the last. The place has a population of about thirteen hundred souls, and one may form an idea of the health of its inhabitants from the fact that one doctor, without an assistant, is the family physician for all the people on the island, and we are told that calls upon his professional attention are not sufficiently frequent to keep the cobwebs from forming on his medicine chest.
The Dutch language is spoken here, and it is so rare to find any one who understands English, that it is necessary to bring an interpreter as well as guide in visiting this secluded spot. The inhabitants look upon us as though we have dropped from the clouds, or sprung suddenly out of the earth. It is unfortunate that we have come here on Monday, for on this day the men of the island go off in their fishing boats, and do not return till Saturday night. Only the old and crippled are left with the women and children. Sunday is the one day in the week which the men may spend with their wives and sweethearts. Fishing is the sole means of subsistence here. The native inhabitants are industrious and economical, but of a low type of intellect, rarely if ever displaying interest in literary attainments. Health and good appetites seem to be their chief characteristics, and a more law-abiding, innocent and virtuous people it would be difficult to find. The women are large, muscular and well shaped, and appear fully able to protect and care for their households in the absence of the men.
“All persuasions accomplish naught.” (See page 168.)
I am quite anxious to capture, by camera, not by force of arms, some of these rare types of strength and beauty, and observing two pretty young girls standing in the doorway of one of the houses, both perfect specimens of physical health, I think this an opportunity not to be neglected. What a fine picture they present with their erect forms, their firm round arms, rosy cheeks and bright eyes! They are well proportioned, and looking at their smiling faces one can readily understand that a physician in a locality whose residents are represented by such glowing life as that which is now before me, may easily find time to be absent from his duties a year or two.
Fired with enthusiasm, I approach the girls who are talking to a couple of old women, and am about to make a “snap shot” of the group, when suddenly perceiving my intention, they fly into the house like frightened deer, to the amusement of the old women, and the grief of the writer. Determined not to be outdone, for now this picture beyond all others is the desire of my heart, I enter the house and learn that the young damsels have sought refuge in the loft, and are hiding, ostrich like, with their heads buried in a mass of clothing. All my persuasions, aided by those of the older women, accomplish nought, even the liberal offer of silver guilders is not sufficient to move these obdurate maids, and I am obliged to relinquish my desire. However, I have made a valuable discovery, and that is that it is better under some circumstances not to ask for the privilege, but to resort to strategy. I request one or more of our party to engage the proposed subject in conversation, while I retire to a suitable distance with my camera, focus the group, then fire away. This plan succeeds admirably, and my collection increases steadily and satisfactorily.
“One old woman is fascinated with the camera.” (See page 171.)
However, upon better acquaintance with the townspeople and the repeated assurances of our skipper, who speaks some English, that our purpose is an innocent one, we are allowed to photograph the whole town freely, and all its valuable possessions. Occasionally a guilder slipped quietly into the hand of one of the older women opens a new vein of good fortune, for they insist that “the gentleman shall be allowed to take the picture;” whether it be an old-fashioned interior with its quaint belongings, or a pretty maid too shy to hold her head up properly. One old woman is so fascinated with the camera that she asks me to take picture after picture of her homely wrinkled countenance. At first I do so to her extreme delight, but finally I only pretend to take her picture, and the last bewildering poses and bewitching smiles are all wasted upon an unimpressionable plate.