"Take me to the Rembrandts," I said.
I cannot describe this incident. I hated the beast because I had been
so weak as to accept his services. The beauty of Rembrandt and Franz
Hals was lost on me; all I could see was the dirty face of that guide.
Rembrandt's _Night Watch_ made me forget the creature for a moment, but
when he began to describe it I fled in horror. We finished up in the
modern section, and as I looked at van Gogh and Cézanne and Whistler's
_Effie Deans_ his squeaky voice kept up a running commentary. I rushed
from the building after a ten minutes' tour, paid the worm his three
guilden . . . and then went back and enjoyed the gallery. But I nearly
committed murder in the Rijks Museum that day. If ever I am hanged it
will be for murdering an official guide. This particular specimen
spoiled my visit to Amsterdam. I could not get away from the thought
of my weakness, and I fled the city.
In the train going back to Amersfoort a genial Dutchman made a remark
to me. I resolved that I should pretend to be a fellow-countryman.
"Ja!" I said, and the answer seemed to satisfy him. He went on to say
other things, and when his facial expression seemed to demand an
affirmative I said "Ja!"
After a time he frowned as he said a sentence.
"Nay!" said I.
That did it. He became white with anger, and swore at me all the way
to Amersfoort. He had a fine command of language, too, and I was
extremely sorry that I could not understand it.
On the Saturday I set off on my return journey to Rotterdam, doing a
tour in American fashion of Leiden on the way. It was like going home,
for I liked Rotterdam. I think it was the gay paint on the barges that
attracted me so much.
On the Sunday morning the Austrian kiddies arrived, and my sight-seeing
ended.