I think the peace and sweetness of Amsterdam bear some relationship to this wonderful, soporific spirit of the endless deep. As I walked along these “grachts” and “kades” and through these “pleins”—seemingly enameled worlds in which water and trees and red brick houses swam in a soft light, exactly the light and atmosphere you find in Dutch art—I felt as though I had come out of a hard modern existence such as one finds in Germany and back into something kindly, rural, intellectual, philosophic. Spinoza was, I believe, Holland’s contribution to philosophy,—and a worthy Dutch philosopher he was—and Erasmus its great scholar. Both Rembrandt and Frans Hals have indicated in their lives the spirit of their country. I think, if you could look into the spirits and homes of thousands of simple Hollanders, you would find that same kindly, cleanly realism which you admire in their paintings. It is so placid. It was so here in Amsterdam. One gathered it from the very air. I had a feeling of peaceful, meditative delight in life and the simplicities of living all the time I was in Holland, which I take to be significant. All the while I was there I was wishing that I might remain throughout the spring and summer, and dream. In Germany I was haunted by the necessity of effort.
It was while I was in Amsterdam this first morning that the realization that my travels were fast drawing to a close dawned upon me. I had been having such a good time! That fresh, interested feeling of something new to look forward to with each morning was still enduring; but now I saw that my splendid world of adventure was all but ended. Thoreau has proved, as I recalled now with some satisfaction, that life can be lived, with great intellectual and spiritual distinction in a meager way and in small compass, but oh, the wonder of the world’s highways—the going to and fro amid the things of eminence and memory, seeing how, thus far, this wordly house of ours has been furnished by man and by nature.
All those wonderful lands and objects that I had looked forward to with such keen interest a few months before were now in their way things of the past. England, France, Italy, Germany, London, Paris, Rome, Berlin, Canterbury, Amiens, St. Peter’s, Pisa—I could not look on those any more with fresh and wondering eyes. How brief life is, I thought! How taciturn in its mood! It gives us a brief sip, some of us, once and then takes the cup away. It seemed to me, as I sat here looking out on the fresh and sweet canals of Holland, that I could idle thus forever jotting down foolish impressions, exclaiming over fleeting phases of beauty, wiping my eyes at the hails and farewells that are so precious and so sad. Holland was before me, and Belgium, and one more sip of Paris, and a few days in England, perhaps, and then I should go back to New York to write. I could see it—New York with its high buildings, its clanging cars, its rough incivility. Oh, why might I not idle abroad indefinitely?
* * * * *
The second morning of my arrival I received a telephone message from a sister of Madame A., Madame J., the wife of an eminent Dutch jurist who had something to do with the International Peace Court. Would I come to lunch this day? Her husband would be a little late, but I would not mind. Her sister had written her. She would be so glad to see me. I promptly accepted.
The house was near the Ryks Museum, with a charming view of water from the windows. I can see it now—this very pleasant Holland interior. The rooms into which I was introduced were bluish-gray in tone, the contents spare and in good taste. Flowers in abundance. Much brass and old copper. Madame J. was herself a study in steel blue and silver gray, a reserved yet temperamental woman. A better linguist than Madame A., she spoke English perfectly. She had read my book, the latest one, and had liked it, she told me. Then she folded her hands in her lap, leaned forward and looked at me. “I have been so curious to see what you looked like.”
“Well,” I replied smilingly, “take a long look. I am not as wild as early rumors would indicate, I hope. You mustn’t start with prejudices.”
She smiled engagingly. “It isn’t that. There are so many things in your book which make me curious. It is such a strange book—self-revealing, I imagine.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure.”
She merely continued to look at me and smile in a placid way, but her inspection was so sympathetic and in a way alluring that it was rather flattering than otherwise. I, in turn, studied her. Here was a woman that, I had been told, had made an ideal marriage. And she obviously displayed the quiet content that few achieve.