THE SURPRISES OF THE MAAS.
FAIRYLAND.--IK KRIJSCH, IK FLUIT EN IK GIL.--POLYPHEMUS AND THE
SEA-SERPENT.--CLOTHO.--GLOOM AND MYSTERY.--WHAT IS TREK?--THE SOCRATIC
DIALOGUE.--A COSY TALK.--THE CHAT.--EVIDENCES OF HUNGER.
"Well, well!" ejaculated O'Neill irritably. "What an inveterate old
gossip Enderby is, to be sure!
"Of course I got Terence back quite soon from Bonn, where he had
nothing to do; and I gave him a splendid time sight-seeing in Haarlem
and Amsterdam. I'll tell you about that, another time.
But first about my run to Rotterdam, where I went one day for a little
change I needed.
The landlady was a bit peevish and hysterical, and, of course, very
bothersome. She never quite took to the Berlitz method, as I had
improved it; and she became grandmotherly to me from the moment I made
that slip about the _zee-held_.
The whole thing was getting on her nerves, so I gave her a rest. Took a
day off, in fact; and went for a tour round the Rotterdam havens.
I had some idea of recapitulating the old ground--the first thousand
words, you know--whilst I should be steaming around the harbour. But as
soon as we pushed off from the wharf and went skimming over the sun-lit
Maas, the brilliant and animated scene wiped the new vocabulary clean
out of my mind for the time-being; and I didn't feel at all inclined to
dig it out of my notes.
The marvellous colouring of everything held me spell-bound. It was like
fairyland. Our boat was crowded, and a man on board pointed out the
sights. That was the only Dutch study I got that day; for some one
began to speak to me in English--an Amsterdammer, as it appeared, who
told me that the grachten in Amsterdam surpassed every other spectacle
the world had to show; and made me promise to go and see them as soon
as I could.
I asked him what he thought of the harbour we were in; but he wasn't so
enthusiastic.
Meantime it had grown darker, and a steady, cold, sea-fog drifted round
us. It got dismally wet, as well as gloomy; and the deck dripped with
clammy moisture. We were hardly moving, presently; and our captain kept
the steam whistle hard at work. The sight-seers were grievously
disappointed; and one fellow-victim informed me it would be a good
thing if we got near land anywhere, in time to catch the last train.
Horns kept booming around us, every few seconds; perky little tugs and
immense black hulls swept by us at arm's length, piping or bellowing,
according to their temperament and ability.
The Amsterdammer and I had gone to the prow, to try and peer a little
further into the dense curling vapour, when a siren--I think that's
what you call the thing--gave such a sudden blood-curdling yell at our
very elbow, it seemed as if we had trodden on the tail of the true and
original Sea-serpent, and that the reptile was shrieking in agony.
From that time on, we had sea-serpents every other minute--whole swarms
of them--infuriated, inquisitive or resigned--soprano, alto, tenor;--all
whining, hooting and snorting; every one trying to howl all the others
down.
Excuse my referring to it, but it was the best illustration I had yet
got of Boyton's verbs.
"Ik graauw, ik kef en ik kweel!" said one set of voices. "Ik krijsch,
ik fluit en ik gil!" answered their rivals.
But the deep boom of new-comers swept the earlier songsters out of the
field: "Ik rammel, ik ratel en ik scheur". It was a regular chorus.
"Ik gier en ik piep", squeaked the little tugs, "ik fop en ik jok".
But the first musicians--the sentimental ones--wouldn't be outdone.
They were evidently turning over their grammars very rapidly, to get
a really melancholy selection, for in another moment their lugubrious
snuffle pierced the fog like a knife: "Ik wee-ee-een; ik krijt; en ik
hui-ui-ui-l-l!"
There was one long-drawn-out sob, that rose and fell and rose again
with such appalling and expressive anguish that I could have imagined
half the Netherlands had turned into a gigantic sea-serpent, and had
bitten off its own tongue. So human, too, was its tortured wail, that
I instinctively thought of Polyphemus having his eye gouged out by
Ulysses. The hero, you remember, did it with a burning pine. One has
a horrible sympathy for Polyphemus, even though he is a monster and
mythical.
Happily our Polyphemus only gave two or three of his prize yells. Then
he seemed to settle into sleep, away down the river somewhere.
The Amsterdam-man explained to me that in his city the fog-horns were
much more musical.
This thesis was warmly contested by a Rotterdammer who had overheard
it, and who spoke of the Capital with a distinct want of reverence.
The argument soon deviated into Dutch, and I lost hold of it; but
through a cloud of statistics and history I observed that local
patriotism on both sides stood at fever heat.
By and by, the fog thinned a little; and we crept along to a
landing-stage, where the Amsterdammer and I climbed on shore with
alacrity. We lost our way at first, and wandered about within earshot
of the siren-brood, whooping and calling and taunting one another on
the river; but my new-made friend stumbled at last on some spot he was
acquainted with; and hastily giving me some directions, went off to his
train.
After the long Polyphemus-concert on the murky river I wasn't in much
humour for Dutch, but I had to speak it at every corner to ask my way.
In an open thoroughfare--there were some people about, but not
many--near an archway, I came upon Clotho.
Perhaps the Greek Mythology was running in my head: but there she sat.
Old beyond words, but hale; wrapped up marvellously with head and jaws
swathed in dim flannel, she gazed, without moving, on a table in front
of her, spread with dried eels and other occult delicacies. As I
approached, to enquire for the 'kortste weg naar de electrische tram',
she didn't move a muscle. Something about her made me pause upon my
step, and refrain from speech.
No movement.
But wait! One thickly muffled hand went out to some obscure eatable,
slowly grasped it, dipped it in a sort of cup, then, still more slowly,
brought it to her lips.
Yes. She was alive; for she munched, calmly and dispassionately.
The sight impressed me. It was like Fate; or an ancient priestess
performing mysterious rites. Clotho would look like this, if Clotho
would munch instead of spin.
Meantime the inevitable butcher's boy had joined me. Two of them,
indeed, stood at my side, curious to know what interested the
+vreemdeling+.
The old lady never winced under the scrutiny, but put forth her hand
again for another shell.
There was a book-stall near, but nobody at it, as far as I could see.
The whole street sounded hollow; and everything dripped. It made me
shiver to look at the stone-pillars, oozy and moist, with condensed
sea-fog trickling down. The glaring street-lamps hardly lit up the
scene; but they showed the damp. Polyphemus gave a distant whoop, as if
it were his last: and the Spectre munched. She hadn't once looked up.
It all felt like a dream--except for the butchers' boys.
"Wat doet ze--die oude mejuffrouw?" I enquired.
"Ze zit te eten," was the prompt reply.
"Waarom zit ze te eten daar?" I asked.
"Om dat ze trek heeft!"
A snigger went round the company. Evidently that reply was of the
nature of wit; and they expected something sparkling from me in return.
+But+ I couldn't sparkle.
"+Trek+" was unknown to me. Strange, how you can be bowled over by
a simple word, if you've never heard it. Trekken--trok--getrokken,
was familiar. That meant 'to pull,' 'draw,' or 'wander'.
"Trekschuit"--"trekpot"--"trekvogel"; I had them all labelled on my
desk in the Hague. But "trek" itself, what was that exactly? Provided
of course, the youth were grammatical,--which I very much doubted.
"Zij heeft getrokken," however, when I tried it, only raised new
difficulties. +What+ then did she pull, and +why+?
'Trekvogel' was an alluring idea to follow up, in a town where Jan
Olieslagers' fame was universal: but common sense forbade my pursuing
that line far.
The defects of my home-made Berlitz became painfully evident. It's
humiliating, when you have your 2000 new nouns at your fingers' ends,
and hundreds of old ones; and yet can't understand the first thing a
+knecht+ says.
But the bystanders were growing impatient; so--to withdraw gracefully--I
enquired, "wat is _trek_?"
It was probably the best retort I could have made. "Ja, wat is het?" he
soliloquised, evidently puzzled, "Ik weet het niet. Maar ik heb altijd
trek."
"Ik ook", said a smaller boy; "in een boterham."
Tongues were loosened on all sides. "Nee; in een lekker stuk worst,"
I heard one say.
"Nee; niet waar"; interrupted a brawny fellow with a brick-red face;
"Zuurkool en spek."
I nipped the unprofitable discussion in the bud by demanding, as I
moved away: "Maar wat _is_ trek?"
"Dat weet je wel," said the first fellow, the wit. "Als je te veel eet."
"Nee, heelemaal niet," jeered a late-comer. "Kan je begrijpen! Maar als
je +niets+ eet, +dan+ heb je trek!"
The crowd cheered at this. He had evidently the majority with him. High
words followed; and the controversy became general, as the protagonists
in this psychological debate found backers, and swarmed away towards
the centre of town.
I was left alone, and Clotho looked up.
She dipped a periwinkle in one of the weird cups, and held it towards
me.
"Heeft Mijnheer trek?" Would I join in the repast!
"Ik? Duizendmaal verschooning!" I said, as I quickened my pace in rapid
retreat.
My confusion increased as I reflected that I had probably been urging
my late interlocutors to "define appetite"--a thing even Aristotle could
hardly do. Naturally the populace broke into parties--Aristotelians and
Platonists (let us say), or into Hoekschen en Kabeljauwschen.
In any case my confidence was shaken in my improved, home-made Berlitz.
It might be splendid for travelling; but in ordinary life it didn't
seem to cover the ground.
On arriving at my lodgings I was met at the door by the landlady's son.
He was beaming. Lately he had been working up his English, and truly
had made giant strides.
"Koot eeffening, Sir," he said; "Koot eeffening! Ai hef an little chat."
"+I wish to have a chat+", he _seemed_ to mean.
It was an odd request for a trifling practice in English; but I like to
encourage merit, so I assured him of my willingness to have a friendly
talk.
"Oh, yes. All right," I said. "But won't you come up stairs? We have a
few minutes before supper."
"But--Ai hef +here+ an naiz little chat!"
"Ah, just so. Did you perhaps have a talk with some one in English when
I was away?"
"No, sir; but ai _hef_ een chat."
This was bewildering; and as he seemed puzzled, too, and always stuck
to the same noun I investigated more fully.
"You talk of a _chat_!--dat is een praatje, weet je wel?"
"Nee, mijnheer, heus: het is waar. Geen praatje."
We were half-way up the stairs now. "Come on", I said.
"Vayt", he replied, diving into some recess. "Ai vil let see you."
In an instant he was back with something under his coat. This he
produced with the delighted exclamation: "ze little chat!"
It was a bedraggled kitten that he had discovered wandering about in
the fog and mewing piteously. "Vil you hef him? Anders, zegt moe, hij
kan niet blijven."
"I'll talk to your mother about the kitten," I answered.
"Kitten,--that's what we call it--not chat. Maar hoor eens, jongen,
heeft het poesje trek?"
"O mijnheer, verbazend!" was the ecstatic reply; and in another three
minutes he had a saucer of milk under the foundling's nose, and was
watching kitty's lapping operations with a joy as keen as that of kitty
herself.
I had got what I wanted without any philosophic argument. There was the
proof.
_Trek_ is _appetite_.