NAAST DE PALING.
But the day was hot, and I was glad at last about eleven o’clock to come to a good-sized tea-gardenover the entrance to which stood in conspicuous letters, “Uitspanning.” Here was cool shade under broad trees; and here were innumerable little tables at which a number of people were seated, laughing and chattering and lunching pleasantly, while little children, some of them not more than three years old, kept running about and playing games. And all these tiny tots, too, were talking Dutch, happily and unconcerned, tossing about in childish glee and with incredible ease,onbepaalde wijzen, verleden deelwoordenandvoorzetsels, not to speak ofhetandhenandhunandje.
On entering this popular resort and looking round I was addressed by a breathless waiter laden with plates. “Waar wou mynheer zitten?”
The shade was deepest under a noble elm, where at this instant I spied an unoccupied seat close to the wooden paling that skirted the enclosure. I didn’t know what ‘paling’ was, but I chanced it, as there was no time for the dictionary. “Naast de paling,” I said, “als ’t U blieft.”
The impatient waiter nearly dropped his tray, but recovering himself he vanished, and I took the seat myself. Another kellner appeared,—a slow grave man in whose district was situated the attractivenook I had been fortunate enough to secure. The day was broiling hot, as I told you, and I thought I couldn’t do better than begin with a little lemon-squash.
LIEMOEN-MOES.
I could have wished to study up my part a little; but as the slow dignitary was already waiting, I asked for a “limoen en een glas water.” Having greeted my remark twice with “blief?” he drew himself up and enquired if I wanted ‘liemonade.’
“Geen kwestie van,” I said, hauling out of my pocket the little fat dictionary, that faithful companion of my wanderings. “Wacht even!” I hurriedly turned up “squash”; for on the analogy ofmeloenI assumed that ‘lemoen’ was all right for lemon. The verb squash wasmoezen; the nounmoes. This latter I chose, preferring the beverage ready-made, if possible.
“Ja, kellner”—I said, “nu weet ik het al. Breng mij limoenmoes.”
He raised his eyebrows and said: “Bedoelt mijnheer soms appelmoes?”
Apple squash? That seemed rather a good idea. It sounded like cider or apple-lemonade.
“Ja, best,” I said; “breng mij een glas appelmoes, maar niet te sterk.”
A MYSTERIOUS BEVERAGE.
When he was gone to draw some of this mysterious beverage, who should turn up but Enderby? He had been motoring; and was coming back from Amsterdam when some pinion had given way, and he had to stop at theUitspanningfor repairs. He came up to me and sat down saying: “Well, O’Neill, you’re a long way from home; how did you get here? What are you taking this hot weather?”
“Indeed,” said I, “I don’t exactly know. It’s apple-squash, or rather a sort of apple lemonade,—cider, I believe.”
“Ah,” said he with surprise, “you talked English, I suppose?”
“Not at all,—not a word. I never speak English now. It was all Dutch.”
“Then I tell you, youhavemade progress with the language! For here have I been in Holland for fifteen years, and I never even heard of apple lemonade yet. To tell you the truth, I should not know how to ask for it. My boy, I congratulate you on your linguistic enterprise!”
The waiter reappeared just then, and Enderby interposed, “Mynheer heeft iets besteld, nietwaar? Wat is dat voor een drankje? Geen limonade?”
MELOEN MET APPELMOES.
“Nee, menheer”, said the waiter in a complainingtone, “volstrekt niet, mynheer is wat vreemd, ziet u; want,” and here his voice sank to a horrified whisper, “menheer eet meloen met appelmoes!”
Enderby looked at me in speechless astonishment; while the waiter murmured, perhaps as a further suggestion of guilt on my part: “We hebbe geen paling!”
Matters had got so involved that I could not explain anything to him; except to say that I had started with the intention of cooling my thirst with lemon squash.
He was inclined to be huffy once more. “There you are at it again! Look here now; do take some care about what you say. I’ll get that drink for you this time; and, for any sake if you want ‘kwast’ again, don’t sayappelmoes. Indeed I strongly advise you to stick to English, or you will get into worse trouble yet.”
Enderby went off in high dudgeon, and I took a long ramble under the trees. It was not long till I shook off the effects of my grammatical skirmishes and began to enjoy the day to the full.
In point of fact I made several sketches, and returning in a couple of hours had luncheon successfully. That was comparatively easy. I had merelyto say, “Koffie!—Kaas!”—and the meal was ready.
DRIVE ME TO THE HAGUE.
Being by this time a trifle tired, I conceived the idea of driving back to the Hague, for it seemed too far to walk. In this design I was encouraged by the presence of a considerable number of vehicles with horses, standing about.
On examining my dictionary to get the Dutch idiom for ‘drive home’ I discovered three curious translations for drive: ‘rijden’, ‘drijven’ (used, I was informed, of ice) and ‘jagen.’
Now seeing that ‘rijden’, meant ‘to ride’, and ‘jagen,’ to ‘hunt,’ and the other word was restricted to icebergs, there really appeared to be a lack of the precise term I needed.
Obliged thus to circumscribe my meaning, I rapped on my green table and enquired, “Kellner, kan ik een paard hebben?”
The waiter mumbled inarticulately, coughed apologetically, and vanished like a shadow.
Presently he came back with a red-faced man who seemed to be the proprietor of theUitspanning. What I wanted to say was, “Have you a horse disengaged to drive me to the Hague!” but owing to the defective character of the Dutch vocabularythis could not be said directly, and I was obliged to go round the point.
A DREADFUL INTERVIEW.
I went round it thus: “Mag ik beleefd vragen, Mynheer, heeft U paarden beschikbaar om my te dragen?”
This sounded diplomatic and neat, and was certainly clear; but the apoplectic proprietor looked askance.
He paused and endeavoured to transfix me with his beady eyes and read my inmost consciousness. This being impossible, he condescended to the gruff question: “Wou meneer een peerd koope?”
“Koopen?” I replied in astonishment, “oh niet koopen! Gunst! ashjeblieft niet.”
“Raie dan?” was his brusque reply.
“Rijen, graag,” I agreed; “gaarne rijden; maar—ik ben niet in staat het paard terug te zenden. En ... en ik heb geen ruimte in mijn kamers voor een paard.”
“Wat dan?” said he rudely, with a kind of a dull glare in his black eyes.
I was getting into deep water—there was no use blinking the fact—and here was this dreadful man growing more enraged and suspicious every moment. Perhaps after all I could makesomething of those three doubtful dictionary words. “Kan u niet,” I asked with some asperity, “kan oe niet, mijnheer, mij laten jagen naar den Haag?”
THE IRATE INN-KEEPER.
“O, hé!” exclaimed my interlocutor with a sudden access of interest and a kind of wrinkle distantly resembling a smile. “Gaat mijnheer op de jacht?”
Dear me, this istoobad, I thought, for I saw people watching me with a curious air of disapproval, and a good many more approaching. Really I regretted I had not walked to the Hague.
But I was in for it now, and with all the sternness I could command I explained sententiously, “Ik wensch een paard!—Om mij te trekken—in een rijtuig—naar den Haag, Ferdinand Bolstraat 66a.”
My horsey friend took a step nearer, his face ominously darkening and the fierce eyes flashing fire. “Wat wou menheer eigenlijk? rijtuig huren? of pérd koope!—of raie naar de stad?—of op de jacht gaan?—of onzin praote?”
I was at my wit’s end and deemed it wise to retire as soon as possible from the conversation. This I tried to do by means of that agreeable little triplet that had hitherto proved so useful to me.
“Och kom!” I said with a pleasant smile, “’tGeeft niets; het hindert niet; het komt er niet op aan.”
He was unappeased, however. So by way of friendly deprecation I added: “Laa maar! Schei er uit.—Hè! zanik nou niet!”
A HAPPY ESCAPE.
This did not appreciably mend matters, I assure you.—At every sentence I uttered his face grew more purple—and I was intensely relieved when at that moment one of the interested bye-standers ran up hurriedly, whip in hand, and touching his cap exclaimed: “Drive you to the Hague, Sir?”—It was a cabdriver who spoke English!
Oh! I could have embraced that man!
“Yes,” said I with effusion, “Yes, at once, please!—as quick as ever you can!”
I jumped up on his vehicle and, as the vendor ofpeerdenwas still hovering unpleasantly near, I ventured on one of those despised French verbs—it was the only thing I could think of—to construct an effective phrase for my exit.
VAARWEL.
“Mynheer Uitspanning!” I said waving him adieu, “ik zal U niet verder derangeeren!—Vaarwel!”
Good-bye at last! There was a faint cheer from the score or two of spectators, but no response from my late tormentor.
What a relief to get away from the intricacies of that dreadful cross-examination!
I was flurried and worn, and did not quite recover my equanimity or feel properly cooled down till I was safely ensconced in my rooms inFerdinand Bolstraat 66a.
On settling down in my rooms, I was reminded of my social duties by seeing a card from youngVan der Leeuwenwhom I had known at Trinity, where he had studied a year.
Van der Leeuwenhad 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.
MIJNHEER HIERNAAST.
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 boodschappente bezorgen bijMijnheer Hiernaast.”
“Afwezig.
Brieven en boodschappente bezorgen bijMijnheer 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 friendvan 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.Hiernaastlived.
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.”
A WELL-KNOWN MAN.
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 inFerdinand Bolstraatabove 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 theBureauthat 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 thatvan der Leeuwenhad 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 noticedidlook like this: “Out of town. If you want to see me, go to Jericho;” but my friend would hardly have meantthat.
THE OPENBARE MACHT.
I concluded therefore that Mr.Hiernaast’s address was known to everybody that read the notice, and that Mr.Hiernaastwas 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 toklabakorsmeeris, 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?”
WOUJEME?
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 stoppedjust 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—waarwoonthij?”
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?”
VÓÓR DEN HEKHOUDER.
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’, whathekhouwer’ 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.’
MAAR—WAAR WOONT HIJ?
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,—waarwoontdie gekhouder? Woont hijin 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 theOpenbare Machtand had not got a hint as to the address of the official receiver of letters.
BREATHE NOT HIS NAME.
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 thenaast.
“Oh I don’t mind putting the accent on the final,” I murmured to myself. “Goed. Best.—Dan, waarwoontMijnheer 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 theHiernaastsin the Hague?”
“People calledHiernaast”, I explained, as heseemed 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.
EASY WHEN YOU KNOW IT.
“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? Thatappelmoesmust have gone to your head! Tell me all that happened to you.”
I told him the whole day’s adventures; and then I learnt thatMijnheer Hiernaastis—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?
You will remember that the day I was at Simplex I took some sketches. Well, I bundled these up along with some really exquisite water-colours that I purchased at an art-shop, and I sent them to Ireland.
Yes, I bought these pictures without pain. The vendor of these objects of art spoke perfect English; it was a delight to hear him. So pleased was I with my purchases, that I hastened home, there and then, and adding my own artistic treasures, made a little square package of it all for my aunt Rebecca in Connemara, Killery Bay,—a place renowned for its beautiful sunsets and splendid salmon.
My aunt is artistic—she herself used to drawwhen she was young—and I knew that nothing would please her better, as a present from Holland, than a number of carefully chosen water-colours.
FILL IN THESE PAPERS.
Glowing with affectionate enthusiasm at the prospect of giving my aunt so agreeable a surprise, I made my way to the post-office and tried to send off my package.
An obliging official addressed me in English.
“Oh, then”, he said glancing at the address and weighing my bundle in his hand, “this will cost you about six guilders if it goes as a letter, but, if it is a book it will cost you two guilders and a half. But as it appears to be neither a book nor a letter, I should advise you to send it by ‘pakketpost’; the cost will be under a guilder. Please fill in these papers.” And he reached me a dark red paper and a flimsy white one both of which were dotted all over with Dutch and French hard words with spaces after them to be filled in.
I retired to a little desk and did my best,—stating that I, Jack O’Neill, aged so and so, sent one brown package of expensive water-colour pictures, some pencil-sketches and one pen-and-ink drawing, value unknown, to Miss Rebecca Fitzgerald O’Neill, (zonder beroep), Warlin CastleKillery Bay, Ireland, on the 21st of Aug., 19—. I added some other things here and there in the columns and gave this report to the official. “Not in order,” he said politely, “you must put stamps on the package, with wax.”
SEALING-WAX.
“Stamps,” he added, touching it all round, “sealed with sealing wax.”
“Oh, indeed!” I said. “Sorry to give you so much trouble. Many thanks!” And I carried my bundle to a neighbouring stationer’s.
The stationer was not at home, and his temporary assistant was a youth that did not know English; but I borrowed an Engelsch-Hollandsch WoordenBoek from him and instituted a search forwax. After some little trouble occasioned by the words ‘was’ and ‘honigraat’, I settled down comfortably on the word ‘lak’; and then the stationer’s boy and I got on quite nicely together. He helped me most willingly, and made all sorts of suggestions. We secured a candle and constructed two great seals, of red wax, as if was for the Lord Chancellor; and I returned to the Post-Office triumphant.
There was a new ‘ambtenaar’ on duty, the English-speaking one having apparently gone to luncheon.
NOT RIGHT YET.
“Mag ik beleefd verzoeken?” I said; “Zeker in orde?”
“Nee mijnheer”, he replied “volstrekt niet in orde! Er moeten vijf zegels op zijn—vijf.”
The bundle seemed safe enough to go half round the world! But he knew the rules; and I submitted accordingly, went back to the stationer and put five more seals on the packet, thus making the number seven in all.
On presenting my carefully prepared ‘pakje’ in the post-office I felt confident enough that it was right. “Nu, mijnheer, het is zeker klaar?”
The functionary was also disposed to think that all was as it ought to be and seemed at first to be satisfied.
He nodded approval; and gave me a friendly official smile; but suddenly—as he was laying the curious object aside—his eye caught the seal I had used, and his face fell. The seal was a very simple affair, having been impressed from the back of a guilder—a beautiful new specimen that I was reserving for show when I should return to Trinity.
READ IT BACKWARDS.
“Nee, mijnheer”, he said sharply. “Heelemaal niet goed! Het moet een werkelijk zegel zijn—metletters—Uw naam!” And he drew imaginary initials on the blotting-paper with his thumb.
“Neen maar!—Mijnheer!” I exclaimed.
Words failed to come to my relief. I could think of nothing to say but “Gunst!” and in the circumstances this sounded too like a curse to venture upon. Presently however I recalled something under cover of which I could retire: “Het spijt mij erg—ik ben verbaasd—dank u vriendlijk.”
I went away sincerely regretting that I had begun this business at all. Fortunately when I hunted up the stationer once more, the man himself was at home; and after infinite rummaging in remote drawers he got me a seal with the letters N. J.,—which was a trifle like Jack O’Neill, if you read it backwards.
As that was the nearest approach I could get to my initials, and as no time was to be lost, we melted down another stick of red sealing-wax, and stamped the package over with seven gigantic seals, N. J.
I put onseven, though the official only demanded five, for I had an undefined fear that something would be wrong again. Meantime the ‘get up’ of the parcel was growing more impressive and unusual.The effect of the big letters of the seal was specially fine, the red bundle now looking as if it were bound for New Jersey.
CAN I NEVER SEND OFF THIS PARCEL?
Then in fear and trembling I made for the post-office again.
My tormentor appeared to be appeased. Ah yes, at last the letters were all right.
“Uitstekend, mijnheer,” he said. And he quite beamed upon me.
“Nu de formulieren, asjeblieft.”
Oh, the papers, of course! I had quite forgotten about them by this time. Fortunately I hadn’t lost them; so I handed him both documents. He took them up, smiling benignly on the foreigner who had managed to surmount so many obstacles; but alas! his satisfaction—and mine too—were of short duration. He frowned impatiently at the brown paper. “Nee, mijnheer,” he growled; “niet goed!” And he pushed papers and package and all to me, as if he was mortally offended.
“Hé, mijnheer!” I ejaculated—“Hoe is dat? Kom toch! Wat is niet goed?”
“Geen zegel! geen zegel!” he thundered magisterially, with a contemptuous toss of the brownformulierin my direction. Like a shot he turned to aschoolboy of fourteen at my elbow, (who had meantime been studying my writings and reading them audibly to his companions)—“En U?” he enquired.
A LONG CUE.
I felt dismissed, if not disgraced! And no investigation of my belongings could throw any light on my blunder. The brown manuscript was at fault I knew; so, as the best thing possible I entered a solemn declaration, opposite the hiernevens, “een pakje met 7 zegels”, and booked the same remark on a convenient spot on the white paper. This done, I returned to the charge promptly, but with much inward apprehension. The cue of people pushing forward to buy stamps and send things away and generally to transact business, had grown to a long line nearly to the door. Humbly I took my place at the end of the file, about twenty minutes off theambtenaar. It wasn’t quite twenty minutes, but it felt longer; for every now and then theambtenaarglanced up, when he had served a customer, and his eye invariably fell on me. It was a long-drawn-out agony, that approach to theloket, under official inspection, so to speak; and I had plenty of time to register a silent bet with myself that the authorities were not done with me. They’d be sure to give me another journey to the stationer’s.
ALLEMAAL ZEGELS.
And so they did! Without deigning to look at my official guarantee about the 7zegelsthe Postal Radamanthus began with vitriolic self-restraint: “Ik—heb—U—gezegd. Er—moet—een zegel—op.”
“Oh mynheer!” I burst out in hot indignation, “HoekuntU dat zeggen? Kijk! Het is allemaal zegels!” And indeed the parcel was almost completely coated with wax.
A spasm passed over his face, and he controlled himself by a severe effort. “Ik—heb—U—al—meer maal—gezegd”—His voice rose higher and higher, and he bit off the words as if they were poison. “Hier moet de afdruk van het zegel komen.—Hierr!” And he waved a white hand over the colouredformulierand finally dropped his thumb, like a pancake, over a lozenge-shaped diagram filled with Dutch and French words. “Hier!!”
Ah yes! Just so. Now I saw what was wanted, and I departed speechlessly to the sealing-wax-shop again.
By this time I was quite domesticated there: so I took a good rest and then put on a formidable seal on the lozenge. In half an hour I was back again on the premises of Rhadamanthus, at the endof another cue, wondering if I could reach theloketbefore it would be closed for the day. You see all that marching to and fro, and arguing with officials, and cooking sealing-wax, and waiting your turn in a crowd, swallows up an immensity of time.
ART CRITICISM REJECTED.
At last I was before the little window and handed in the documents. “Ja, ja. De zegel is in orde!”
“In orde,mijnheer!” he added with a cherubic smile. “Best.” “Maar—maar wat hebben we hier?” he muttered as he perused my other remarks on the papers. He appeared somewhat nonplussed by myopmerkingenas to the contents of package, and ran his pen through all my art criticisms; then suddenly said roughly. “Heet U Rebecca O’Neill?”
This was so unexpected a query that it threw me off my guard and I answered in English.
“Do I hate her? Oh no. On the contrary, I am sincerely attached to her. But why do you ask?”
He said “Exkuseer” and called anotherambtenaar—one who talked English. This new functionary opened fire at once, “Sir, is your name Rebecca O’Neill?”
“Bless my heart”, I said; “Not at all. That’s my aunt.”
“In that case, sir, you have sent the packageto yourself, and filled in the declarations all wrongly”.
OF NO VALUE.
“Is therenoway,” I said in despair, “to send this thing off? I have been all morning labouring at it, and I can’t get rid of it. Would you mind accepting it as a gift—just a little friendly gift, you know, as a token of my appreciation of the post-office arrangements? Or would there be any objection to my leaving it here lying on your desk? It’s quite harmless; perhaps even elegant—that depends on taste—but I don’t care for it any more! It’s no further use to me. Will you have it?”
“Oh hé!you mean it is of no value?”
“No value—not the least”, I said, glad to see a chance of disposing of it.
“Then you can send it off as, well—what we call—Monster zonder waarde—monster—monster—I remember not your English word?”
“Oh,” said I, “it is all right as it is. You don’t need it translated. ‘Monster’ is quite good English—and very expressive.”
“Then,” said he; “that is it—Worthless Monster.Thatmust you write—on the package. Then will it cost you adubbeltje; and it will go off at once. No wax will be needed, and no papers. No trouble of any kind.”
MONSTER ZONDER WAARDE.
“I am delighted with your kindness,” said I to him. “You have relieved my mind.”
“Will you put the name on it now?” he enquired courteously, reaching me his own pen from behind his ear. “Please write legibly the English declaration. I shall do the Dutch for you. It must be plain.”
“If you don’t mind,” I said, “as you are so kind, might I ask you just to write both English and Dutch?”
A glance had shown me that these curious words would have to come uncomfortably near my aunt’s name; and as my aunt is rather a particular old lady with very definite notions about her own dignity, I judged it prudent that this title of distinction with which she was going to be invested should be drawn up in other handwriting than her nephew’s. She had a hawk’s eye and could detect every scratch I made with the pen.
“If it’s not too much trouble, please put the whole declaration on it yourself. You’ll find a place here”, I said, turning over the unsightly object. “There’s a little room left here, I think—just beside the address”.
He looked it all over. It was quite true. The parcel was all a mass of red wax and “N. J.’s”except round about the address, where we had kept the wax well off it for fear of infringing some other regulation.
A FLATTERING ADDRESS.
“English first!” he said, making use of the vacant space.
And in Roman letters just after my aunt’s name he boldly penned the mystic words, first in English, and then, in brackets, in Dutch. This is how it ran:
To Miss REBECCA FITZGERALD O’NEILL,Worthless Monster (zonder waarde),Warlin castle,KILLERY BAYIrelandCONNEMARA.
To Miss REBECCA FITZGERALD O’NEILL,Worthless Monster (zonder waarde),Warlin castle,KILLERY BAYIrelandCONNEMARA.
To Miss REBECCA FITZGERALD O’NEILL,
Worthless Monster (zonder waarde),
Warlin castle,
KILLERY BAY
IrelandCONNEMARA.
After that I wouldn’t touch the parcel.
I declined all further responsibility in connection with it; and, leaving it with him, retired, as from a good day’s work.
As I knew my aunt, I felt sure she would appreciate the delicate compliment implied by the proximity of the postal notice to her name.
IS CHIVALRY DEAD?
This indeed proved the case, when I visited herlater in the autumn. I draw a veil over our interview; but happily my aunt is fond of a joke, and when I told her my adventures of that morning, she laughed as she had not done for years, until I flattered myself she had forgotten the queer declaration on her package.
At the end, however, she suddenly drew herself up and, raising a reproving finger, said, “Well, it wasn’tyourwriting! or I shouldn’t let you off so easily, Jack. But what kind of a functionary was that, now, who would dare, in your presence, to insult your aunt?”
“In my young days a lad of spirit would havecalled outa villain like that,—yes, or a fellow that ventured on the twentieth part of such an atrocity!”
“Jack, Jack, where’s your chivalry?”
“Calm yourself, my dear aunt,” I retorted. “Its only that you don’t catch the niceties of a translation. But you’ll pick that up soon enough if you go over with me to the Hague next year.”
“Never”, said my aunt firmly.
“You must not suppose,” said O’Neill, after I had expressed my commiseration, “that I was always unsuccessful in my conversations and business transactions. On the contrary I have sometimes surprised myself and everybody else by the (shall I say?) aptness and readiness of my utterance—not to speak of its delicacy and point.
You smile? But listen.
This was certainly the case one day when I had an interview with an elegant young man who came to me from theBevolkings Register Bureau.
That is the place where the authorities give themselves so much needless trouble about your address and initials, and where I had broken thelaw of the land by mixing up the tinsmith with the lightning-conductor.