Loe raamatut: «The Further Adventures of O'Neill in Holland», lehekülg 5

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CHAPTER XII
A STUDY IN CHARACTER

Next morning we were up at dawn to be in time for the first express. We cycled to the station; but a row of market-boats, that had reached the one and only canal-bridge on our route, kept us waiting till they filed past; and we missed our train.

“Choost kon!” exclaimed a porter cheerfully, as he took our cycles. “Day-train choost away – von – two – meenit – ako!”

“Never mind”, I rejoined. “There are plenty of day-trains left. It’s early yet.”

As he looked doubtful, I added in the vernacular: “Wij zijn in goeje tijd voor den bommel; nie-waar? Zes vier en veertig.”

“Net, mijnheer”, he replied, grinning appreciation of my Dutch, as he led the way to the loket.

AN UNWELCOME INTERRUPTION

There were no difficulties there. You merely had to say. “Twee enkele reis, Arnhem. Tweede klasse. Gewone biljetten,” and there you were. And these ‘gewone biljetten’ made the forwarding of the cycles simplicity itself.

Duly provided with the forthcoming fiets-papiertjes we ensconced ourselves in a non-smoker, and – to while away the time – rehearsed our Traveller’s Dialogue. That is the system I had made out long since, but now partly forgotten. Terence had benefited by my tuition, and could now keep the ball rolling, with more or less relevant remarks, whilst I enumerated the parts of a train, and talked about tickets and towns.

So smoothly did our conversation run that we were tempted to repeat it with variations; and we were just in the middle of as fine an elocutionary practice as ever you heard, when there was a scramble on the platform; and in there bounded into our compartment – just as the train began to move off – three tourists, hot and breathless!

THE LINGUIST AND THE SATELLITE

They were Englishmen, – London shopkeepers in a small way, I guessed, from their talk. Two of them, father and son, seemed a bit hectoring and dictatorial; the third was an admiring satellite. For very shame’s sake Terence and I didn’t like to drop our Dialogue as if we were culprits; so we lowered our voices, and went through it to the bitter end.

Our new companions listened for a moment, and the truculent father said, “Neouw, there y’are, Tom! wot’s hall that tork abeout? You kneouw the lingo.”

Master Tom – he was about nineteen – posed, apparently, as a linguist. He knew the language all right, he said. “It was kind of debased German. He had picked it up from a boy at school. It was the sime to ’im as Hinglish.”

“Wottaw thiy siyin, Tom?” said the father.

“Oh,” muttered Tom, “abeout the kaind ’v dai it is, an’, hall thet rot. But no use listenin’ to them. They tork such a bad patois, an’ hungrimmentikil.”

The satellite looked impressed. “D’ye tork ’t ’s wull ’s French an’ Juh’man?” he asked.

“Hall the sime to me”, said Tom. “The sime ’z Hinglish.”

The satellite’s awe deepened. Presently, however, he spied the cattle in the fields as we sped along. He pointed them out to Tom. “Fine ceouws, miy wu’d!”

THE BACKSLIDER

“Humph! better in Bu’kshire!” replied the linguist.

In a minute or two he broke out again: “Lot ’v ceouws in a field here, Tom!”

“Faugh!” said Tom; “faw mo’ ’n Essex!”

But the man of humility had an eye for landscape, and couldn’t be repressed.

“Ho, crikkie”, he exclaimed, “look at that meadow an’ canal. Ain’t it stunnin’?”

But the father came to his son’s rescue in defence of Old England. “Yeou jist go deouwn Nawf’k wiy! Faw better th’n this wretched ’ole!”

The satellite evidently felt reproved for his lack of patriotism, for he subsided immediately. But he couldn’t help himself. You might see by the way he looked out of the window that he was in ecstasies over the glowing panorama before him, in spite of Norfolk and Essex and the contempt of his fellow-travellers.

Meantime Terence, fuming and in disgust, had buried himself in the columns of Tit-Bits. The truculent one recognised the familiar weekly, and drawing his son’s attention to both reader and paper he announced quite audibly; “’E can read Hinglish. ’E looks hintelligent.”

DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH?

Advancing half way across the carriage, he cleared his throat, and addressed Terence at the top of his voice.

“Do you – a hem! – a hem! – do you —speak Hinglish?”

One could have heard the last two words in the next compartment.

Terence looked up; and I saw by the twinkle in his eye what he was going to do.

“Hein?” he interrogated with a nasal whoop like a subdued trumpet. He had learnt this at school from his French teacher and was a profiscient at rendering it accurately. It gave an unconventional flavour to his manner – which was just what he wished.

“Hein?” he trumpeted again, with an air of amiable curiosity.

“I hawskt – do you – hem! —speak—Hinglish?”

“Ze Engels Langwitch? Yes: I shpeak him – von leetle bit. You alzóo?”

“Hi ’m ’n Englishman,” said the truculent one proudly, a trifle taken aback.

HE MEANS THE EAST END

“Zoo?” replied Terence. “Ach zoo. Ja. Jawohl. Zoo gaat ’t. Beauti-ful – lang-witch! Beauti – ful!” he enunciated with painful distinctness and many twitches of his face.

All this fell in with the tourists’ preconceived ideas of foreign utterance. They exchanged glances.

“You kin mike yors’ff hunderstood, hall raight,” interposed the linguist. “Were you ever in London.”

“Oh, yes,” answered my cousin slowly, counting off upon his fingers. “Alzoo – von – two – tree – time – Mooch peoples – in Londe.”

“Did you like London?” queried Truculence Senior.

“Londe? – No! No – boddy like Londe. – Fery ugly! Mooch smoke – alzoo fogk. – Men see nozzing. Mooch poor peoples – No boots.”

“Not like London!! Why London’s the gritest city in the wu’ld.”

“I pity me mooch – for London peoples.”

“Let’m aleoun, gov’ner,” said the linguist, furious. “It’s the Heast End ’e’s got in ’is ’ed.”

“But the Heouses ’v Pawl’mint – and the Tride?” reasoned the father, reluctant to abandon the controversy.

“Houses Parliament? – nozzing!” said Terence recklessly. “Trade? – alzoo nozzing! American man hef all ze trade. Fery clever. Alzoo German man. Fery clever.”

WAKE UP, JOHN BULL

That was a clincher. Terence had amply avenged their contempt of the scenery they were passing through.

“Let the bloomin’ ass aleoun”, cried Truculence junior. “’E deoun’t kneouw wot ’e’s torkin’ abeout.”

But the shot had gone home. The papers had been full of “Wake up, John Bull!” of late, and he felt uncomfortable. Yet though we relapsed into silence, it wasn’t for long. For soon the senior member of the trio got very exasperated with a local railway-guide that he had been consulting. “Bit of a muddle that!” he cried contemptuously, flinging the booklet on the seat. “Cawn’t mike ’ed or tile of it!”

He turned to my cousin: “Can you tell me ’ow far it is to Gooday – or Goodee?”

Terence replied briskly in appalling English: “Goodee – I know-not. Zat iss nozzing. Good-day, zat is Goejen-dag!”

“Look ’ere,” said the tourist; “’Ere you aw!” pointing to the name of the place on his Cook’s ticket.

GOUDA HISTORICAL

“Oh,” said Terence, getting so foreign as to be scarcely intelligible. “Zat-iss – Gouda. Beaut-ti-ful city!” And he rolled his eyes in apparent awe at the magnificence of that unpretentious market-town. “Ex-qui-seet!”

“Ow far is it?” queried his interlocutor. “Ow long, in the trine – to Gouda?”

“Alzoo,” returned my cousin, purposely misunderstanding him. “Yes; ferry long. Long times. Ferry old ceety. Much years. Tree – four – century! Historique!”

“Yes, yes,” said the impatient traveller. “But – wen – d’we – arrive? get there – you kneouw – ?”

“You vil arrivé,” pronounced Terence in the same baby-English, “haff – of – ze – klok.”

“Hawf ’n eour; that wot ’e’s drivin’ et,” grumbled the Linguist.

They kept on asking questions and criticising us to our faces, when they talked together. Our dress, our appearance, our complexions were all adjudged to be woefully foreign; and they got so patronising that I had to put in an odd word, in real English, to Terence, now and again, just to prevent them going too far. Imperceptibly conversation became general; and as I forced Terence out of his assumed ignorance of English, the surprise of the tourists deepened into dismay, for they noticed we were talking more and more quickly, and idiomatically as well.

FOREIGNERS DON’T GET THE HANG OF IT

“Hi siy!” whispered the satellite, “they’re learnin’ Hinglish from hus! I’m blest hif thiy weount soon be nearly ’s good ’s we are!”

“Never you fear,” said young Conceit. “Furriners never git the ’ang of it.”

“Never,” corroborated Truculence.

But the open criticising of our appearance was at an end.

Our companions looked anything but conciliatory when a crowd of rustics poured into the carriage at one of the stations. It was some sort of market at Gouda; and the bommel was crammed now. Finally the guard scurried along, and half hoisted, half pushed a peasant woman with her three children into the compartment.

It was odd to see Truculence rise and help the little ones in; and odder still to see the children smile up into that formidable face, when they took their seats.

A CONFIDENT YOUNGSTER

I noticed the twinkle in his eye, however, as he watched the bairnies trying to scramble to the window. He was evidently much interested in a bright little boy of seven with dreamy eyes, who was bent on amusing himself; and I could see that he wanted badly to shake hands with him and his tot of a sister, and ask them their names. He evidently regretted his inability to speak Dutch; but he made up for his silence by reaching the boy the window-strap, with a nod of comradeship. The little fellow took it eagerly and, after playing with it a moment or two, slid off his seat and actually climbed up beside Truculence (the scorner of everything non-British) and pushing Truculence to one side, looked out of Truculence’s window.

So surprisingly passive was my severe compatriot at all this that I hazarded a guess, and said: “You have a boy of five at home?”

He stopped short clearing the pane for his tiny companion, and sat stock-still. It might have been a statue that was beside me so little did he move. Not a sound in answer to my question!

Quickly I glanced at him.

Oh, I could have bitten off my tongue when I saw that man’s face! It was drawn and white, and not at all like the scornful censor’s of a few minutes before.

AN ENGLISH UNCLE FOR CLAAS

He continued staring out of the window a moment; then he turned and said quietly: “I ’ad – a little fair haired fellow – a year ago… ’E was six… An’ the born image of thet kiddie there.”

Here he stroked the kiddie’s head, which was now glued to the glass in an eager endeavour to see a passing train.

“’E used to be that fond of machinery, too,” he continued, opening a city bag and bringing out a diminutive flying-machine, a “twee-dekker” that he had evidently bought in the Hague. “I got it, ’cos it minded me of the things my boy used to pliy with. But I’ve nobody to give it to.

May I as well give it to this kid. Tell ’is mother ’e’s to keep it. Tell ’er that I’m ’s hold uncle from Hingland.”

I did my best. Claas grasped the situation at once, as far as the twee-dekker was concerned. The mother was slower. Consternation and politeness took away her speech for an instant, but she soon recovered and put Claas through his drill.

“Oh mijnheer, hij is zoo bij de hand!”

DRAM-DRINKING AT EIGHT?

Then she overwhelmed us all with family reminiscences, which none of us understood a word of, but which could not be stopped. It was a relief to get to Gouda; and the tension of our feelings was pleasantly relaxed by observing the profound disgust that mantled the Londoner’s brow, when after helping the children on to the platform, he was accosted by a vendor of local dainties, who loudly insisted on selling Goudsche Sprits to the company. “’Ere’s a Johnny wants the kiddies an’all of us to liquor up – on neat spirits – before hight o’clock in the mo’nin’! Shime, I call it.”

WUIF ES, OOM!

Claas had to say ’Good-bye’ to his new uncle, and we watched proceedings from our window. The Linguist ignored the adieu completely; but the Satellite manfully backed up the father, and shook hands all round. A knot of porters gathered to seize the luggage of the big Englishman, who stood, masterful and bored, in the midst of the hubbub. His jaw and chin were those of Rhadamanthus; but his eyes were soft as they rested on the boyish figure descending the stairs with his baby-sister. Claas was waving a small hand to his new uncle who had given him the Twee-dekker; but his new uncle was not waving anything to him. So Claas stopped short, and cried at the top of his voice: “Wuif es oom! wui – uif es, nouw! Je moet wuife!”

“Wot’s ’e up to, the young rescal?” he asked me.

“I believe he wants you to make a sign of goodbye. It’s always done here,” I replied.

Well, he produced, from some place or other, a brilliant jubilee handkerchief – he was a dressy man and had plenty of coloured things – and shook it with both hands to his tiny friend. And the last I saw of him, as the train steamed on towards Utrecht, was, his waving of this silk banner to the little boy on the steps; the stern lips were relaxed into a smile; the defiant face was quite wistful as he repeated: “The young rescal!”

Here the Goudsche sprits seller, in his tour up and down the platform, approached the burly Londoner again, and seeing him now in an unexpectedly melting mood, at once proffered his delicacies with noisy persistence.

“Goudsche sprits! Goudsche sprits! Sir,” he bawled in the Englishman’s face, holding out a packet.

HIS BARK IS WORSE THAN HIS BITE

Truculence was quite glad of the interruption. He blew his nose violently on his marvellous handkerchief, and turned upon the local merchant with a glare of indignation.

“Get along! How dare you? D’ye take me for a drunkard?”

“Formidable customer that!” whispered Terence at my elbow. “Still I think his bark is worse than his bite.”

“Not a doubt of it,” I replied. “And there are more of his kind.”

CHAPTER XIII
BELET!

We got on famously at Utrecht and at the Arnhem station. In less time than it takes to tell it we were mounted on our cycles with our bags in front of us, and ready for the road.

“This is fine!” exclaimed Terence. And indeed it was. Charmed by the ease with which we had got along so safely, I felt a trifle elated over our linguistic victories, and had already begun to dream of fresh fields to conquer, when we drew near van Leeuwen’s villa on the Velperweg – a lovely spot.

We dismounted to make sure we were right, and then walked briskly up the avenue.

The door was opened by a timid-looking servant, who said: “Er is belet.”

WELKE MIJNHEER?

It was the first time I had met the expression; yet it sounded oddly familiar. Ah, of course. For the last ten days I had been studying biljetten out of the railway-guide. There was apparently a slight provincialism in her way of the rendering the liquid in the middle of the word, but this didn’t matter. There was a ticket, then. Puzzling, very.

“Ja?” I said tentatively.

“Er is belet,” she repeated. The intonation was decisive; but as her manner was expectant, I took it for a question, had we tickets? Queer, certainly. Yes; I assured her we had, – “gewone biljetten, retour, – geldig voor éen dag.”

She shifted her ground and said, “Mijnheer heeft belet.”

Now you know how hard it is to be sure what person servants are talking about when they say Mijnheer. Did she mean me or her master? “Welke Mijnheer?” I asked. “Ben ik mijnheer, of is Mijnheer mijnheer?”

Raising her voice she announced deliberately, but with increasing irritation: “Mijnheer van Leeuwen – heeft – belet.”

“Aha”, I whispered to Terence, “It’s my big letter she’s talking about. Well, I’m glad it came in time”.

AN AANSLAGBILJET

“Uitstekend!” I hastened to say. “Dat biljet is van mij. Dus mijnheer verwacht mij, niet waar?”

She nervously closed the door a bit. “Ik heb al gezaid – vanmorgen heeft mijnheer expres belet gegeven.”

“Mag ik het hebben, dan”, I enquired politely; “Mijn brief – dat geschreven biljet?”

“Hé?” she said, visibly relieved, opening the door widely as she spoke. “Neem mij niet kwalijk, Mijnheer. Ik wist niet dat u van de belasting was. Komt u om het beschrijvingsbiljet?”

She retreated a step, timidly, into the hall, and glanced at an elderly butler, who in silence had been standing at a discreet distance listening to our colloquy. The butler moved forward, and in an apologetic tone murmured, “Mijnheer, het beschrijvingsbiljet is nog niet klaar. Of komt u met een aanslagbiljet?”

As I had a newspaper in my hand full of talk about a ‘moordaanslag’ I repudiated the latter idea indignantly. “Geen denken aan!” I said.

The butler came out and stood on the steps, enquiring “Is U soms een schatter.”

Schatter? (Schat, a treasure; schatter, a treasurer. I reasoned.) “Wel nee: geen schatter ben ik, alleen Eerlijk Secretaris van de Studenten-Club”.

A MYSTERIOUS OBSTACLE

In the hall a loopmeisje and a seamstress stood transfixed with curiosity. How could I get this mad interview terminated?

The deferential butler began to grow suspicious.

“Komt U niet van de belasting?”

“Ik weet het niet,” I replied.

That was enough.

“Mijnheer geeft belet altijd ‘s morgens,” he said, adding, evidently with reference to my eerlijk secretaris. “Wij zijn allemaal eerlijk hier!”

We appeared to be dismissed!

“Terence,” I said quickly; “Look if b-e-l-e-t is in the dictionary. They always hark back to that.”

In a minute he gave a mild shout: “It’s here; it means hindrance. Ah, I see. Van Leeuwen is hindered seeing us. Hadn’t we better go?”

“De belet is niet erg, hoop ik?” I said to the servant; “ik hoop dat Mijnheer spoedig beter zal worden, als het een ziekte is.”

Now at last we had mastered the mysteries of belet? No such thing!

WIJ KRIJGEN BELET

Turning to go, I thought I might as well enquire when van Leeuwen could be seen. “Wanneer kan ik soms Mijnheer zien?” Her reply confounded me: “Vandaag of morgen, maar U moet belet vragen.”

Vragen! surely not ask for an obstacle. “U bedoelt weigeren, niet waar?” I suggested.

“Nee: belet vragen, anders zal mijnheer u niet ontvangen.”

“Oh Terence!” I exclaimed. “This is too awful! He has this obstacle; he has given it to us; now we must ask it again. And I don’t even know what it is!”

“Take care, Jack. Don’t ask anything else, or you’ll get us into a worse mess.”

“One moment,” I said, appealing to the stolid butler. “Moet ik verzoeken om weggestuurd te worden? Of wat?”

“Ja Mijnheer, ik verzoek jullie maar weg te gaan. Alstublieft!”

The solemn man looked like an archbishop. He cleared his throat and added courteously: “Maar, als U Mijnheer van Leeuwen wil spreken, moet U belet laten vragen. Anders krijgt U belet als U komt.”

“Schei uit!” I cried in dismay. “Terence, let us fly! for my brain won’t stand it.”

IS MIJNHEER GEENGAGEERD?

“No, no!” he interposed hastily. “Don’t be silly or hysterical, now. Look here. I’ve been working the thing out in my head and think I can see some sense in it. Perhaps it’s all very simple. Van Leeuwen may be only occupied for the moment, and so can see us if we wait. Just ask if they mean that he’s merely engaged. He mayn’t be sick at all. There’s the word for engaged.”

And he reached me the dictionary with this thumb opposite: geengageerd, verpanden, verloofd.

Yes, I thought. There was wisdom in his calm suggestion, though really I was sick making these curious enquiries. But it seemed plain sailing now. So with an ingratiating smile I just asked in a matter of fact sort of way: “Mijnheer is soms geengageerd? Is het wel?”

“Verloofd?” I added taking the next word, as there was no manner of response forthcoming to the first question.

“Verpanden?” whispered Terence with his eye on the dictionary.

The company – there were some six of them now clustering round the butler for protection – retreated hastily into the recesses of the big hall, and left that majestic man to shut the door. This he did without delay, saying, somewhat nervously, “Maak dat jullie weg gaat!”