It is our last day in the hotel at Scheveningen,and I will try to recall in their pathetic order the events of the final week.
Nothing has been stranger throughout than the fluctuation of the guests.
At times they have dwindled to so small a number that one must reckon chiefly upon their quality for consolation;at other times they swelled to such a tide as to overflow the table,long or short,at dinner,and eddy round a second board beside it.There have been nights when I have walked down the long corridor to my seaward room through a harking solitude of empty chambers;there have been mornings when I have come out to breakfast past door-mats cheerful with boots of both sexes,and door-post hooks where dangling coats and trousers peopled the place with a lively if a somewhat flaccid semblance of human presence.The worst was that,when some one went,we lost a friend,and when some one came we only won a stranger.
Among the first to go were the kindly English folk whose acquaintance we made across the table the first night,and who took with them so large a share of our facile affections that we quite forgot the ancestral enmities,and grieved for them as much as if they had been Americans.
There have been,in fact,no Americans here but ourselves,and we have done what we could with the Germans who spoke English.The nicest of these were a charming family from F--,father and mother,and son and daughter,with whom we had a pleasant week of dinners.At the very first we disagreed with the parents so amicably about Ibsen and Sudermann that I was almost sorry to have the son take our modern side of the controversy and declare himself an admirer of those authors with us.
Our frank literary difference established a kindness between us that was strengthened by our community of English,and when they went they left us to the sympathy of another German family with whom we had mainly our humanity in common.They spoke no English,and I only a German which they must have understood with their hearts rather than their heads,since it consisted chiefly of good-will.But in the air of their sweet natures it flourished surprisingly,and sufficed each day for praise of the weather after it began to be fine,and at parting for some fond regrets,not unmixed with philosophical reflections,sadly perplexed in the genders and the order of the verbs:with me the verb will seldom wait,as it should in German,to the end.Both of these families,very different in social tradition,I fancied,were one in the amiability which makes the alien forgive so much militarism to the German nation,and hope for its final escape from the drill-sergeant.When they went,we were left for some meals to our own American tongue,with a brief interval of that English painter and his wife with whom we spoke,our language as nearly like English as we could.Then followed a desperate lunch and dinner where an unbroken forest of German,and a still more impenetrable morass of Dutch,hemmed us in.But last night it was our joy to be addressed in our own speech by a lady who spoke it as admirably as our dear friends from F--.She was Dutch,and when she found we were Americans she praised our historian Motley,and told us how his portrait is gratefully honored with a place in the Queen's palace,The House in the Woods,near Scheveningen.
