When we came to Amsterdam, we determined, Pashley, Shirtliff and
I, that we would take the earliest opportunity of seeing Marken.
Wonderful place, by all accounts. Little island, only two miles from
mainland, full of absolutely unsophisticated inhabitants. Most of
them have never left Marken--no idea of the world beyond it! Everybody
contented and equal; costumes quaint; manners simple and dignified.
Sort of Arcadia, with dash of Utopia.
And here we are--actually at Marken, just landed by sailing-boat from
Monnickendam.
All is peaceful and picturesque. Scattered groups of little black
cottages with scarlet roofs, on mounds. Fishermen strolling about in
baggy black knickerbockers, woollen stockings, and wooden shoes.
Women and girls all dressed alike, in crimson bodice and embroidered
skirt; little cap with one long brown curl dangling coquettishly
in front of each ear. Small children--miniature replicas of their
elders--wander lovingly, hand in hand. A few urchins dart off at our
approach, like startled fawns, and disappear amongst the cottages.
Otherwise, our arrival attracts no attention.
The women go on with their outdoor work, cleaning their brilliant
brass and copper, washing and hanging out their bright-hued cotton and
linen garments, with no more than an occasional shy side-glance at
us from under their tow-coloured fringes. "Perfectly unconscious," as
Shirtliff observes, enthusiastically, "of how unique and picturesque
they are!"
All the more wonderful, because excursion steamers run every day
during the season from Amsterdam.
We walk up and down rough steps and along narrow, winding alleys.
Shirtliff says he "feels such a bounder, going about staring at
everything as if he was at Earl's Court." Thinks the Markeners must
hate being treated like a show. _We_ shouldn't like it ourselves!
That may be, but, as Pashley retorts, it's the Markeners' own fault.
They shouldn't be so beastly picturesque.
Fine buxom girl approaches, carrying pail. On closer view, not
precisely a girl--in fact, a matron of mature years. These long, brown
side-curls deceptive at a distance; impression, as she passes, of a
kind of Dutch "Little Toddlekins"; view of broad back and extensive
tract of fat, bare neck under small cap. She turns round and intimates
by expressive pantomime that her cottage is close by, and if we would
care to inspect the interior, we are heartily welcome. Uncommonly
friendly of her. Pashley and I are inclined to accept, but Shirtliff
dubious--we may have misunderstood her. We really can't go crowding in
like a parcel of trippers!
Little Toddlekins, however, quite keen about it; sees us hesitate,
puts down pail and beckons us on round corner with crooked forefinger,
like an elderly Siren. How different this simple, hearty hospitality
from the sort of reception foreigners would get from an English
fishwife! We can't refuse, or we shall hurt her feelings. "But
whatever we do," urges Shirtliff, "we mustn't dream of offering her
money. She'd be most tremendously insulted."
[Illustration]
Of course, we quite understand _that_. It would be simply an outrage.
We uncover, and enter, apologetically. Inside, an elderly fisherman
is sitting by the hearth mending a net; a girl is leaning in graceful,
negligent attitude against table by window. Neither of them takes the
slightest notice of us, which is embarrassing. Afraid we really _are_
intruding. However, our hostess--good old soul--has a natural tact
and kindliness that soon put us at our ease. Shows us everything.
Curtained recesses in wall, where they go to bed. "Very curious--so
comfortable!" Delft plates and painted shelves and cupboards.
"Most decorative!" Caps and bodices worn by females of the family.
"Charming; such artistic colour!" School copybooks with children's
exercises. "Capital; so neatly written!" What is she trying to make
us understand? Oh, in winter, the sea comes in above the level of the
wainscot. "Really! How very convenient!" We don't mean this, but
we are so anxious to please and be pleased, that our enthusiasm is
degenerating into drivel. Girl by the window contemplates us with
growing contempt; and no wonder. High time we went.
Little Toddlekins at the end of her tether; looks at us as if to imply
that she has done _her_ part. Next move must come from us. Pashley
consults us in an undertone. "Perhaps, after all she _does_ expect,
eh? What do _we_ think? Would half a gulden---- What?"
Personally, I think it _might_, but Shirtliff won't hear of it,
"Certainly not. On no account! At all events _he_'ll be no party to
it. He will simply thank her, shake hands, and walk out." Which he
does. I do the same. He may be right, and anyhow, if one of us is to
run the risk of offending this matron's delicacy by the offer of a
gratuity, Pashley will do it better than I.
[Illustration] Pashley overtakes us presently, looking distinctly
uncomfortable. "Did he tip her?" "Yes, he _tipped_ her." "And she
flung it after you!" cries Shirtliff, in triumph. "I knew she would!
_Now_ I hope you're satisfied!"
"If I am, it's more than _she_ was," says Pashley. "She stuck to it
all right, but she let me see it was nothing like what she'd expected
for the three of us."
Shirtliff silent but unconvinced. However, as we go on, we see a
beckoning forefinger at almost every door and window. Every Markener
anxious that we should walk into his little parlour--and pay for
the privilege. All of them, as Pashley disgustedly observes, "On the
make"; got some treasured heirloom that has been in the family without
intermission for six months, and that they would be willing to part
with, if pressed, for a consideration. We don't press them; in fact,
we are obliged at last to decline their artless invitations--to their
unconcealed disgust. Nice people, very, but can't afford to know too
many of them.
"At least the _children_ are unspoilt," says Shirtliff, as we come
upon a couple of chubby infants, walking solemnly hand in hand as
usual. He protests, when Pashley insists on presenting them with a
cent, or one-fifth of an English penny, apiece. "Why demoralise them,
why instil the love of money into their innocent minds?" Shirtliff
wants to know.
He is delighted when they exhibit no sort of emotion on being thus
enriched. It shows, he says, that, as yet, they have no conception
what money means.
The pair have toddled off towards a gathering of older children, and
Pashley, who has brought a Kodak, wonders if he can induce them to
stay as they are while he takes a snapshot. Shirtliff protests again.
Only spoil them, make them conceited and self-conscious, he maintains.
But the children have seen the Kodak, and are eager to be taken. One
of them produces a baby from neighbouring cottage, and they arrange
themselves instinctively in effective group by a fence.
Pashley delighted. "Awfully intelligent little beggars!" he says.
"They seem to know exactly what I want."
They also know exactly what _they_ want, for the moment they hear the
camera click, they make a rush at us, sternly demanding five cents a
head for their services.
Shirtliff very severe with them; not one copper shall they have from
_him;_ not a matter of pence, but principle, and they had better go
away at once. They don't; they hustle him, and some of the taller
girls nudge him viciously in the ribs with sharp elbows, as a hint
that "an immediate settlement is requested." Pashley and I do the best
we can, but we soon come to the end of our Dutch coins. However,
no doubt English pennies will---- Not a bit of it! Even the chubby
infants don't consider them legal tender here, and reject them with
open scorn.
Fancy we have compromised all claims at last. No; Marken infantry
still harassing our rear. What _more_ do they want? It appears that
we have not paid the baby, which is an important extra on these
occasions, and which they carry after us in state as an unsatisfied
creditor and a powerful appeal to our consciences. Adult Markeners
come out, and seem to be exchanging remarks (with especial reference
to Shirtliff, who is regarded as the chief culprit) on the meanness
that is capable of bilking an innocent baby.
"What I like about Marken," says Pashley, when we are safely on board
our sailing boat, to which we have effected a rather ignominious
retreat, "what I like about Marken is the beautiful simplicity and
unworldliness of the natives. Didn't that strike _you_, Shirtliff?"
We gather from Shirtliff's reply that he failed to observe these
characteristics.
* * *
AT MUNICH.--_Mr. Joddletop_ (_to travelling companion at Bierhalle_).
What they call this larger beer for I'm blessed if I know! Why, it's
thinner than the Bass I drink at home!
* * *
_Mrs. Tripper_ (_examining official notice on the walls of Boulogne_).
What's that mean, Tripper, "Pas de Calais"?
_Tripper (who is proud of his superior acquaintance with a foreign
language)._ It means--"Nothing to do with Calais," my dear. These
rival ports are dreadfully jealous of one another!
* * *
VERY MUCH ABROAD.--_Brown._ I say, Smith, you've been here before.
Tell me where I can get a first dish of _Tête de veau?_
_Smith._ _Tête de veau?_ Let's see, that's "calf's head," isn't it?
Well, I heard of a place where they ought to have it good, as they
call it the _Hôtel de Veal_.
[Illustration: _He._ "You climed ze Matterhorn? Zat was a great foot."
_She._ "Great feat, you mean, count."
_He._ "Ah! Zen you climed him more as once!"]