(BY THE "VACUUS VIATOR.")
_In the Place Verte._--"The traveller," according to _Bædeker_,
"should at once direct his steps to the Cathedral." Not going to be
bullied by _Bædeker_! Shall assert my independence by directing steps
somewhere else first. Carillon tinkling fitfully up in tower. Like an
elderly ghost with failing memory, trying to play every tune she ever
knew all at once on a cracked, old spinnet. Fancy I detect fragment
of "_The Heavens are Telling_," tripped up by the "_Old Hundredth_,"
and falling over "_Haydn's Surprise_." Ghost tries back, and just as
she seems about to arrive at something definite--suddenly gives it
up as hopeless. To Church of St. Paulus, to see the Calvary. Small
but highly intelligent Belgian Boy, who speaks English, insists on
volunteering services. (Why aren't _our_ street-boys taught French
and German in Board Schools?--make all the difference to foreigners
in London.) Boy takes me up avenue of heroic-sized scriptural statues,
introduces me to "Moïse," "Dahvit mit de 'arp," and others. Kind of
him--but I wish he would go. Offer him twopence. Boy declines with
indignation. Young Belgium evidently high-minded and sensitive. He
informs me that, in a certain church he refers to as "Sin Yack," there
are "RUBENS' peecture--moch fine," and plainly proposes to conduct
me thither. Mustn't hurt his feelings again--so accept. Boy clumps
on ahead, down alleys, and through back-streets, and round corners,
looking round severely at intervals to see that I am not giving him
the slip. Nice friendly little fellow--but despotic. Don't seem to be
much nearer; "Sin Yack" evidently a saint of retiring disposition....
At last. Boy points him out triumphantly. Thank him, with apologies
for taking him so much out of his way. Boy demands two francs. Hint,
as delicately as possible, that I consider this estimate of the value
of his time and society somewhat high. Boy peremptory. Give him fifty
centimes. Boy abusive; follows me with uncomplimentary remarks. I can
_not_ go about Antwerp all day with a hostile boy harassing my rear
like this! So undignified. However, shall find sanctuary with "Sin
Yack." Every door closed. Boy at a distance--chuckling, I am afraid.
Shall walk on--not _hurrying_, but briskly. Boy gone at last--thank
goodness!--with Parthian yelp of "Rosbif!"
[Illustration: "Rosbif!"]
_In the Cathedral._--Being shown round by Sacristan, in company with
two respectable young Britons. "You shee dot oltarbiece, gentlemens,"
says Sacristan, "paint by RUBENS, in seexteen day, for seexteen
hondert florin." Whereupon both Britons make a kind of "cluck" with
their tongues. "Dat vos von hondert florin efery day he vas paint,"
explains the Sacristan. Britons do this division sum in their heads,
check it as correct, and evidently feel increased respect for RUBENS
as capable-for an artist--of driving a good bargain. "RUBENS baint
him ven he vas seexteen," which younger Briton considers "very
_creditable_ to him, too!" They inspect the High Altar, with more
clucks, and inform one another, with the air of Protestants who are
above prejudice, that it's a marvellous piece o' _work_, though, mind
yer! Sacristan points out holes underneath choir-stalls. "De organ is
blay over dere, and de mooshique he com out hier troo de 'oles, so all
be beoples vas vender vere de schounds com from!" First Briton remarks
to me that "That's a rum start, and no mistake." I agree that it _is_
a rum start. I shall find myself clucking presently, I know! "Haf you
scheen yed de bortraits of GLATSHTONE and Lort BAGONSFELDT?" Sacristan
asks us "... 'No?' then I show you." He leads us up to the finial of
one of the stalls, which is carved in the figure of a monk. "Is not
dat de Ole Grandt Man himself?" he asks, triumphantly. Second Briton
agrees "It's a wonderful likeness, reelly." His Companion admits
"They've got old GLADSTONE there to a _t_"--but adds that "come
to _that_, it might do for _either of_ 'em." "Lort BAGONSFELDT" is
opposite, but, as Sacristan observes, would be more like "if dey only
vas gif him a leedle gurl on de vorehead." Next we are taken to the
Retro-Choir and shown the "mosh gurious and peautiful bainting in
de ole Cathedrale. Schtand yust hier, Gentelmens, _now_ you see him.
Beoples say, 'Oh, yais, _ve_ know, yust a marble-garvings--a baw
releff!' I dell you, nodings of de kindt. All so flat as a biece
of vite baper--com close op. Vat you tink? Vonderful, hey?" Britons
deeply impressed by this and other wonders, and inform Sacristan that
their own Cathedrals "ain't _in_ it." "Look at the _value_ of the
things they've _got_ 'ere, you know," they say to me, clucking, and
then depart, after asking Sacristan the nearest way to the Zoo.
_At Table d'hôte._--Fellow-countrymen to the fore; both my immediate
neighbours English, but neither shows any inclination to converse.
Rather glad of it; afternoon of Museums and Galleries instructive--but
exhausting. Usual Chatty Clergyman at end of table, talking Guide-book
intelligently; wife next him, ruminating in silence and dismally
contemplating artificial plant in a plated pot in front of her. It
_is_ a depressing object--but why look at it? Horror of two Sportsmen
opposite on being offered snipe. "Snipe _now_--Great Scott!" they
exclaim, "And ain't they _high_ too?" One helps himself to some, with
a sense that being on the Continent makes all the difference. But even
_his_ courage fails on being offered stewed apricots with it. Close
by a couple of Americans; a dry middle-aged man, and a talkative young
fellow who informs him he was at Harvard. Elder man listens to him
with a grim and wooden forbearance. "Ez fur languages," the younger
man is saying. "I'd undertake to learn any language inside of six
months. Fur enstance, I got up Trigonometry in two. You'll tell me
that _isn't_ a language, and that's so, but take _Latin_ now, I'd
learn Latin--to write _and_ speak--in a year, Italian I'd learn in a
fortnight--with constant _study_, you understand. Then there's German.
Well. I cann't _read_ German--not in their German text, I cann't, and
I don't _speak_ it with fluency, but I can ask my _way_ in it, and
order anything _I_ want, and I reckon that's about as much as a man
requires to know of any language. Will you take a glass of wine outer
my bottle? I've another coming along." Elder man declines stiffly, on
plea that he is almost a teetotaller. "Well, maybe you're wise," says
the Harvard man, "but I've discovered a thing that'll put you all
right in the morning when you've eaten or drunk more'n's good for you
overnight. I'll tell you what that thing _is_. It's just persly--plain
ordinary simple persly. You eat a bunch o' fresh persly first thing
you get up, and it don't matter _what_ you've taken, you'll feel just
as _bright_!" Elder man, who has been cutting up his chicken into very
small pieces, looks up and says solemnly, "You may consider yourself
vurry fortunate in being able to correct the errors you allude to by a
means which is at once so efficacious and so innocent." After which he
subsides into his salad. Harvard man shut up.
_In the Fumoir._--Two drearily undecided men trying to make up their
minds where to go next. Shall they stay at Antwerp for a day or
two, or go over to Brussels, or go back to Calais and stay there, or
_what_? "Calais is on their way _home_, anyhow," says one, and the
other, without attempting to deny this, thinks "there may be more to
_see_ at Brussels." "Not more than there is here," says his friend:
"all these places much about the same." "Well," says the first,
yawning, "shall we stay where we _are_?" "Just as _you_ please," says
the other. "No; but what would _you_ rather do?" ... "Me? oh, I'm
entirely in _your_ hands!" First man, who has had Green Chartreuse
with his coffee and seems snappish, annoyed at this, and says, "it's
dam nonsense going on like that." "Oh," says the second, "then you
leave it to _me_--is _that_ it?" "Haven't I been saying so all along!"
growls the other. Second Undecided Man silent for a time, evidently
forcing himself to come to a decision of some sort. At last he looks
up with relief. "_Well_," he says, very slowly, "what do _you_ think
about it?" Whereupon they begin all over again. This indecision is
catching--leave them.
_In the Street--about_ 11:30 P.M.--Back from Variety Theatre. Hotel
doors closed. Have rung several times--no result at present. Curious
impression that I shall be hauled up before a Dean or somebody for
this to-morrow and fined or gated. Wish they'd let me in--chilly out
here. _Is_ there a night-porter? If not--awkward. Carillon again from
Cathedral tower. Ghost has managed to recollect a whole tune at last,
picking it out with one finger. Seem to have heard it before--what the
Dickens _is_ it? Recognise it as the "Mandolinata in E." Remember the
VOKES Family dancing to it long ago in the Drury Lane Pantomime. Not
exactly the tune one would expect to meet in a Cathedral.... Unbolting
behind doors. Nervous feeling. Half inclined to assure Porter
penitently that this shall not occur again. Wish him good-night
instead--pleasantly. Porter grunts--_un_pleasantly. Depressing to be
grunted at the last thing at night. To bed, chastened.
* * * * *