THE QUEST OF MIJNHEER HIERNAAST.
MIJNHEER HIERNAAST.--A WELL-KNOWN MAN.--THE OPENBARE
MACHT.--WOUJEME?--VÓÓR DEN HEKHOUDER.--MAAR--WAAR WOONT HIJ?--BREATHE
NOT HIS NAME.--EASY WHEN YOU KNOW IT.
On settling down in my rooms, I was reminded of my social duties by
seeing a card from young Van der Leeuwen whom I had known at Trinity,
where he had studied a year.
Van der Leeuwen had called upon me more than once and had invited me to
his home. Up to this time I had not seen him since I came to the Hague.
To-day he had scribbled on a visiting card 'Leaving town soon for
Arnhem.' This showed me that his friendly visit should be returned as
soon as possible: so early next afternoon I journeyed across the city
to see him.
I found however that the house was shut up. The blinds were down and
the whole place hermetically sealed, so to speak.
On the door there was a singular notice, freshly pasted, which at once
arrested my attention and which I copied into my notebook.
"_Afwezig._
_Brieven en boodschappen
te bezorgen bij
Mijnheer Hiernaast._"
Unhappily I had left my faithful companion, the dictionary, at home. I
was thus obliged to fall back upon my stock of Dutch learning and guess
what I did not know.
'Boodschappen' and 'bezorgen' were new words to me, but I seemed to
gather the general sense of the placard. If anybody wanted to see my
friend van der Leeuwen, or communicate with him, he appeared to be
invited to do so through the medium of a gentleman called "Hiernaast."
The curious thing was--no address was given to indicate whereabouts Mr.
Hiernaast lived.
Now this was very puzzling; for just that morning I had been shown how
particular you must be in Holland about addresses. As I had not given
word to the authorities when I moved from the hotel to my lodgings, I
had been summoned to the "Bevolkingsregisterbureau," and had to display
my "Geboorteacte."
Innumerable details had been asked of me about my name and initials
and about my parents' names and initials,--some of which I could not
satisfactorily write out.
The functionaries at the office, too, had appeared unnecessarily
amused when I told them that I lodged in Ferdinand Bolstraat above
a tinsmith's. On thinking it over afterwards I admit that perhaps I
had mixed the word tinsmith with lightning conductor. I was naturally
anxious to avoid the latter scientific term as much as possible; and my
over anxiety probably defeated itself.
At all events I was told at the Bureau that it was quite a serious
offence--a sort of mild treason--to move from my hotel to lodgings
without giving full information about the whole matter to the civic
dignitaries.
Now, as everybody was so particular about addresses, I knew that van
der Leeuwen had more respect for the laws of his country than to be
guilty of intentional carelessness; and I was sure he would not try
to defy the state by pasting upon his door anything of the nature of
mockery. The notice _did_ look like this: "Out of town. If you want to
see me, go to Jericho;" but my friend would hardly have meant _that_.
I concluded therefore that Mr. Hiernaast's address was known to
everybody that read the notice, and that Mr. Hiernaast was some
prominent person like the Burgomaster or the Town-clerk.
Perhaps he would be an official who kindly looked after people's
letters when they were out of town. If so, a policeman would know all
about him. There was one passing at the moment, so I determined to
accost him and get what information I could.
Now Enderby and others had instructed me about policemen. You must
never say "Mijnheer" to a policeman; he doesn't like it, for he thinks
you are making game of him. That's where I had made the mistake before,
in the Hague wood. I learnt that his proper title is '_politieagent_'
or '_agent_'; the newspapers call him '_openbare macht_'. If he comes
from Amsterdam he will answer readily to _klabak_ or _smeeris_, though
he may prefer a more dignified title. He is known to the mob as a
'_diender_', but this is rather vulgar.
Naturally I wished to avoid the vulgar word and use a respectful term;
so stopping him I said, "Openbare Macht, verschoon mij,--zult gij mij
toestaan om U beleefd te verzoeken,--waar woont mijnheer Hiernaast?"
I guessed what he would do, and he did it. He stared at me for about
half a minute and then said, "Wah blief!"
"Oh," I responded, "duizendmaal vergiffenis, dat ik op...." And then I
stopped _just in time_, for it was on my tongue to finish the polite
sentence as I had repeated it so often from the conversation book--"dat
ik op Uwen teen getrapt heb."
It was well I didn't, for it didn't fit in at all accurately with the
situation. So I said, "Kijk nou is!"
"Mag ik zoo vrij zijn, Klabak?" I murmured courteously, showing him my
copy of the placard on the door, "Mijnheer Hiernaast--ziet u--_waar_
woont _hij_?"
Well, he couldn't have been more astonished if had reached him a
lighted bombshell.
Instead of meeting me with that ready sympathy I had been reckoning
upon, he was quite stiff. I however persisted courteously with my
question, "Ja, Openbare! wat zegt U, Smeeris? Woont mijnheer Hiernaast
in deze straat?"
Well, he wasn't a bit polite; or if he was, he must have been
singularly deficient in charm of manner, for he stared quite insolently
at me and grumbled, "Woujeme voor de gek houe?"
Woujeme, gekhoue? Didn't I know some of those words?
On considering this utterance of his I seemed to recognise "_woujeme_"
as an old friend. Wasn't that the introductory particle that was not in
the dictionary and which resembled the Latin 'nonne'? Then 'gek' was
remarkably like 'hek', which I knew to be 'gate'.
The landlady had always been talking about the 'hek' being open,--a
state of affairs which she strongly objected to, because dogs were in
the habit of strolling in and looking rudely at her through the kitchen
window.
Now I knew that it would be the easiest thing in life for 'gek' to be
mistaken for 'hek'.
London policemen often drop h's in one place and put them in at
another. Why shouldn't a Hague policeman do something similar? You
could hardly expect a policeman to speak the language with absolute
accuracy.
So 'gek houwe' would probably be a common provincialism for 'hek
houden'. And I could easily guess, on the analogy of 'stalhouwer', what
hekhouwer' would mean. It would be, no doubt, a 'man that made and sold
gates'. '_Vóór den gekhouwe(r)_' would then be, as nearly as possible,
the idiom for 'in front of the gate factory.'
There was no gate factory in sight, so I continued pleasantly
making further enquiries of the policeman: "Voor den gekhouwer?--ja
zeker! asjeblieft! Maar--zoudt gy zoo goed willen zijn--mij mede te
deelen,--waar _woont_ die gekhouder? Woont hij _in deze straat_? De
gekkefabriek--waar is dat?"
I really pitied him, he looked so overwhelmed. Then he did something
wonderful that stayed all further parley. He turned his head away,
spread out both white-gloved hands, raised his shoulders slowly till
they were well up over his ears, then slowly let them down again to
their normal and natural position,--and all this without glancing at me.
It was an awe-inspiring spectacle,--apparently some kind of military
drill to repel idle questions. I could only utter "'t Geeft niets--'t
hindert niet--het komt er niet op aan! Doe geen moeite, Smeeris!" But
he turned upon his heel and walked away without even saying 'Vaarwel'!
Alas, I had failed again! I had displeased the Openbare Macht and had
not got a hint as to the address of the official receiver of letters.
All this was more than usually mysterious, so I tried to extract some
information from the landlady that evening.
"Waar woont Mijnheer Hiernaast?" I said to her casually after dinner.
"Hiernáást, mijnheer," she replied with strong emphasis on the _naast_.
"Oh I don't mind putting the accent on the final," I murmured to
myself. "Goed. Best.--Dan, waar _woont_ Mijnheer Hiernáást?"
"Hiernáást," she repeated, pointing through the wall!
Had the good woman lost her senses? Or was she trying to make fun of
me? In either case I did not quite care to prolong the conversation.
"Lamaar", I interjected, "het heeft niets te beduiden--schei er
uit,--zanik nou niet". And I must say that effectually stopped her.
The mystery was solved that same evening by Enderby, who dropped in
about half past ten.
We talked over a number of things and, as Enderby was quite himself
again after our little tiff at the 'Uitspanning', I just said, "Do you
happen to know of the _Hiernaasts_ in the Hague?"
"People called Hiernaast", I explained, as he seemed not to catch
my meaning. "They appear to be rather well-known. The father I think
is a Government Official--a member of the Tweede-Kamer, I imagine,
or something of that sort. I'm told he lives opposite a large
gate-factory. The queer thing about the family is that, if you ask
about them, everybody gives you a silly answer.
"Is he not in society, or what? Is his name like the word for
lightning? May I not refer to him?"
"O'Neill", exclaimed Enderby, rising suddenly off his seat, "you are
surely not quite well!"
"What is it?" he said, "were you out long in the sun? That _appelmoes_
must have gone to your head! Tell me all that happened to you."
I told him the whole day's adventures; and then I learnt that Mijnheer
Hiernaast is--not necessarily an Official of the Government or a member
of the Tweede Kamer; indeed that he is no particular person at all;
but--_just the gentleman who lives next door to you, wherever you
happen to be_.
Well; that's easy enough, when you know it. But when you don't, what
are you to do?