At The Hague one may also see, whenever the family is not in residence, the collection of Baron Steengracht in one of the ample white mansions on the Vyverberg.  Most interesting of the pictures to me are Jan Steen’s family group, which, however, for all its wonderful drawing, is not in his most interesting manner; a very deft Metsu, “The Sick Child”; a horse by Albert Cuyp; a characteristic group of convivial artists by Adrian Brouwer, including Hals, Ostade, Jan Steen and the painter himself; and—­best of all—­Terburg’s wholly charming “Toilette,” an old woman combing the head of a child.

Quite recently the Mesdag Museum has been added to the public exhibitions of The Hague.  This is the house of Hendriks Willem Mesdag, the artist, which, with all its Barbizon treasures, with noble generosity he has made over to the nation in his lifetime.  Mesdag, who is himself one of the first of living Dutch painters, has been acquiring pictures for many years, and his collection, by representing in every example the taste of a single connoisseur, has thus the additional interest of unity.  Mesdag’s own paintings are mostly of the sea—­a grey sea with a few fishing boats, very true, very quiet and simple.  How many times he and James Maris painted Scheveningen’s shore probably no one could compute.  His best-known work is probably the poster advertising the Harwich and Hook-of-Holland route, in which the two ports are joined by a chain crossing a grey sea—­best known, because every one has seen this picture:  it is at all the stations; although few, I imagine, have connected with it the name and fame of the Dutch artist and patron of the arts.

In the description of the Ryks collection at Amsterdam I shall say something about the pleasure of choosing one’s own particular picture from a gallery.  It was amusing to indulge the same humour in the Mesdag Museum:  perhaps even more so than at the Ryks, for one is certain that by no means could Vermeer’s little picture of “The Reader,”—­the woman in the blue jacket—­for example, be abstracted from those well-guarded walls, whereas it is just conceivable that one could select from these crowded little Mesdag rooms something that might not be missed.  I hesitated long between a delicate Matthew Maris, the very essence of quietude, in which a girl stands by a stove, cooking; Delacroix’s wonderful study of dead horses in the desert; a perfect Diaz (No. 114), an old woman in a red shawl by a pool in a wood, with its miracle of lighting; a tender little Daumier, that rare master; a Segantini drenched in sincerity and pity; and a bridge at evening (No. 127) by Jules Dupre.  All these are small and could be slipped under the overcoat with the greatest ease!

Having made up my mind I returned to each and lost all my decision.  I decided again, and again uncertainty conquered.  And then I made a final examination, and chose No. 64—­a totally new choice—­a little lovely Corot, depicting a stream, two women, much essential greenness, and that liquid light of which Corot had the secret.