The Further Adventures of O'Neill in Holland

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!”

EEN SPOEDIGE RESTAURATIE

There was nothing left for us to do but to beat a dignified retreat.

I made it as dignified as possible by, expressing our best wishes for van Leeuwen’s speedy recovery.

“Komplimenten aan Mijnheer, hoor; een spoedige restauratie!”

We cycled off.

CHAPTER XIV

THE DAY-TRAIN

We had a delightful spin along the Velperweg.

Dismounting three or four times to admire choice ‘bits’ of scenery, we were enticed on and on, and followed a side way that rose over a gentle slope. From the ridge of this acclivity we could watch the cloud shadows, violet and purple, sweeping over wide moors, and by their subtle contrasts bringing out the soft shimmering of the distant sunlight. On the horizon we made out the river and some hill-tops marked on our maps. Terence was confident he saw Nijmegen; but pushing on to get a still finer view, we came to grief in crossing a heather “brae”. At least I did. The front wheel was wrenched to one side; and we had to foot it all the way to Velp. There having left both machines at a cycle-mender’s, we started for a long tramp.

LOST IN THE WOOD

That was a grand mistake, for we went too far. There were other ranges of wooded hills to be climbed, and the air was exhilarating. The time passed quickly, so it was late in the afternoon before we knew. Feeling more or less famished, we ventured on a short cut through the “Onzalige Bosch”; but soon were hopelessly lost. It was a task to get on the main road.

Indeed we took several wrong turnings apparently, for they seemed – it was hard to get our proper orientation – to bring us back to the same neighbourhood always. But at last we came to a line of wooded hills, and discovered a cart track that led us to a real high-way. This high-way was a magnificent affair with high over-arching trees; and on it, to our great relief, there were tram-rails!

STOPT DE TRAM OP EEN WENK?

Help was near at hand. We put our best foot foremost, so to speak, and hurried forward looking in the dusk for a halte. Perhaps we may have passed some halten, but we didn’t notice any; and as we were fagged out, I was glad to come upon a group of workmen who, I imagined, could tell me about the tram. The question I wanted to get solved was simple. Did the tram stop merely at the official halten, or would the driver pull up anywhere he got a passenger? If the bye-laws of this particular tramway allowed the tram to stop and pick up pedestrians anywhere all along the line, we were quite safe; we should just sit down on the roadside and rest. We shouldn’t walk another step.

The men were shovelling away at fallen leaves, so I accosted them in my friendliest Dutch and said: “Stop de tram overal?” As this was greeted with the customary “blief?” I tried to be more explicit. “Stop de tram op een wenk of een uitroepteeken? Of stopt hij alleen op de halten?”

This puzzled them all exceedingly; and one elderly man mopped his brow with his handkerchief and said, “Ik mot es eve prakiseere.”

PRAKISEERE

With that he stabbed his spade into the sod at his foot and leaned on the top of it with both arms, his eye fixed the while on me. I didn’t care for the performance, as his stare was discomfitingly steady; but I allowed him for a while to prakiseere undisturbed.

Indeed I couldn’t even guess what he was trying to do. It looked like an exercise in philosophic meditation or an attempt to hypnotise me on the spot, and as he seemed in no hurry to give me the information I desired, there was nothing for it but ask one of the other road menders.

Selecting the most intelligent looking of them. I said “Kijk es, baas; houdt de tram op, op een wuiving van een zakdoek? Of als men teekent met een paraplu?”

This second functionary shook his head sadly, and leaned on his spade in turn, gazing at me as if I had horns. There was a third man – close at hand – quite a young fellow, halfway across the road where he was standing as if petrified by my previous conversation. However he wasn’t “prakiseering,” so I stepped across to him with the slowly enunciated query: “Vertel me nou es: wat voor signaal moet ik maken, als ik wensch op genomen te worden?”

He was the promptest of the group, for he replied glibly: “Ik weet het niet. Je mot eve by de Politie gaan vragen.” But not a word about the tram.

MY DUTCH BREAKS DOWN

I gave it up. No information could possibly be extracted from these roadmen. My Dutch had quite broken down, and in disgust, I surrendered the leading of the expedition wholly to Terence.

Terence has a theory that he can make his meaning clear by means of careful and scientific gesticulation. Now he took his innings, while I watched the proceedings from a comfortable seat by the roadside.

“They’re quite clever at it,” he shouted to me. “The tram will be here in two somethings – I believe two hours – so we may as well move on: it’ll be no use to us, to wait.”

“All right,” I said; “your way of it!” And off we started, tired as we were. We weren’t ten minutes on the road till the tram was heard puffing behind us; and catching sight of a kind of double line in front of us we bounded towards this spot in hopes there might be a halte there. There was: and the tram waited half an hour at it, and then went back again the way it had come. We had to walk. Well, at all events we reached Velp at dark. My cycle was nicely mended, so after getting some refreshments in an excellent logement and taking a prolonged and well earned rest, we mounted our bikes and rode straight to Arnhem.

THE TRAIN THAT NEVER STOPS

So disgusted was I with my ill-success in Dutch that I tackled the porters in English. An obliging wit-jas asked me if I would have the day-train. “Rather not,” I told him. “There will surely be another train to-night. It’s only nine.”

The first was a bommel, he said, and would do for the fietsen; but he recommended us to wait for the day-train.

“What! And stay here all night?” I asked.

“No,” he explained. “Day-trein will be here soon.”

“How is that?” said I. “How in the wide world can a Day-train go at night? or is it because it started from Germany by day-light? You surely don’t reckon here by Amerikaansche tijd for the sake of the tourists?”

“You not understand,” he explained. “We call it day-trein becos’ you pay more – .”

“Well!” I interrupted; “that would be a Pay-train, then! Not Day.”

“No, no,” he said excitedly. “Zis trein go kwik! – not stop —anywheres!”

“But if it doesn’t stop, how can we get in?” I asked. “Of moet ik belet vragen voor deze Dag-trein? Geeft de trein belet? You’ll need a special kind of ticket, too – perhaps an aanslagsbiljet?”

“No, no; only little bewijsje – kwik trein – bring Restoration – becos’ – .”

“What? The Restoration! It turns day into night, and brings back Charles II! Go on, please, I can believe anything now!”

MET HANGENDE POOTJES – RE INFECTA

“Hallo! is this where you are?” sounded gratefully on our ears. It was van Leeuwen, who had been expecting us all day, after he had heard about our call, from the indignant butler. He had given up all hope of seeing us, but we passed him by in the dark, talking and laughing. He had followed hot-speed to the station – in time to explain the mysteries of the D-trein. My spirits rose. The world was still ruled by reason. Of course we went back with our rescuer. That was the original plan, and I had a grammar to send with him to the Hague.

As he waited, talking to Terence, I recalled the cycles. The wit-jas demurred: “De fietsen zijn al weg.”

“Neen, niet waar,” I told him. “Onmogelijk, hoor! Geen trein is weg. Daar zijn de papiertjes ervan. Pak ze: breng de fietsen mee. Ik weiger je verontschuldigingen. Doe wat ik zeg, ik bid U. En niet terug komen met hangende pootjes!”

CHAPTER XV

SUPPER AT A BOERDERIJ

That night, after Terence had retired, I had a confidential talk with van Leeuwen; and I begged of him, as a great favour, to take the Grammar to Kathleen, and – if he had time – give her a little coaching in Dutch. He said he would – to oblige me; and I was pleased to notice that he started, taking Boyton with him, by the earliest possible train. This was the six twenty – a notorious bommel which brought him into the Hague only seventeen minutes earlier than if he had waited for a decent breakfast.

Enderby got to Arnhem about noon, and took us ‘in tow’ for our cycling tour. We had a glorious week of it in Gelderland under his direction; but there were no adventures worth speaking of. In ten days we were back at the Residentie, as ‘brown as berries and as gay as larks’. It is Terence’s phrase, and I give it for what it’s worth.

But at all events van Leeuwen was gay enough now. His pedagogic labours seemed to suit him, and Kathleen was quite herself again. To hear her laugh now was to imagine that you were back in Kilkenny in the days before the suffragette question was mooted.

IN THE SHADE OF THE PRIEELTJE

We were all delighted. Except perhaps Enderby. That youth didn’t appear more than half pleased at the turn things had taken; but he had the grace to keep out of the way and consoled himself with motoring. One day – I had only sat down to luncheon – he carried me off for a great run to the islands south of Rotterdam. But the machine broke down twice before we reached Dordrecht, and we had to content ourselves with housing its fragments in a shed, and walking to a boerderij where my friend was well known. Here, indeed, we were expected to supper; but we arrived hours before we were due, and minus an automobile. This necessitated explanations, which Enderby seemed gracefully enough to make to the family party in the garden. In a shady prieeltje there, they regaled us with “liemonade”; and I occasioned some consternation by rising twice to offer my seat to the mother and daughter respectively, who came in after I had sat down. They wouldn’t take the chair I vacated for them, and appeared to resent my civility. Enderby, too, made me uncomfortable by touching my foot and saying, sotto voce, “Take care what you’re about, O’Neill”.

Baas Willemse was very sympathetic about the mishap to our motor, and strongly recommended the services of a gifted blacksmith of his acquaintance.

Indeed, before we knew, he had a pony harnessed in a sort of hooded tax-cart, in which he insisted in driving Enderby to this wonderful mechanic, to have the damaged car put to rights. And off they started.

AN UNPREPARED GUEST

It was only then that I realized the situation. Here was I – without dictionary or phrase-book – left to play the part of intelligent guest, unaided and unprepared. And that was the first time in my life I was ‘spending the evening’ in a non-English-speaking home. How would I get through it? I did hope that the local Vulcan would be quick.

At first it wasn’t so bad. What with remarks about “het prachtige weer” and “het ongeluk”, and what with playing with the children, I got along quite smoothly for a while.

I even discoursed a little about the beauty of the afternoon-sunlight and “het schilderachtige van het zomerlandschap”.

COWS’ OVERCOATS

All this was taken in such good part that I went further afield; and noticing a large number of cattle with odd coverings on their backs, I ventured on a comparison which I fancied might interest the company. “In Groot-Brittanje hebben de koeien niet zoo dikwijls overjassen. Mag ik beleefd vragen: gebeurt dat hier van wege de gezelligheid, of van wege de gezondheid, of voor het mooi?”

They were all pleased at this, and gave me a lot of talk about cows – which didn’t make me much the wiser.

By violent efforts I recalled some of my old choice phrases, and passed myself somehow. But alas! supper came; and then my real troubles began.

We all adjourned to a binnen-kamer, where an ample spread awaited us. I was given the seat of honour. It was a great pity, all agreed, that Mijnheer Enderby wasn’t back: but they thought I might be hungry. Well, I was – and with reason. Nothing to eat since breakfast!

“Thee of chocolaat, Mijnheer?”

“Thee, alstublieft”, I said. – And I got it.

“Krentebroodjes?”

THANK YOU

“Dank U,” I answered pleasantly, and reached for one in a leisurely manner. You don’t like to parade your hunger, you know. Well, I hadn’t been prompt enough. A plateful from which I was about to help myself, was removed. The action surprised me, and I looked for a moment at the mother, who had withdrawn the dainties so unexpectedly. She looked at me, slightly ruffled. But no krentebroodjes!

“Wil mijnheer een broodje met vleesch?”

“Oh dank U wel,” I said, endeavouring to be quicker. That time I nearly had a slice. But the agile youth, Jaap, who was in charge of the plate, whipped it away too.

No broodjes met vleesch for me! It was very queer.

“Soms een ei?” said the dignified grandmother, in a white cap with gold ornaments. She presided, and did a great deal of the talking; and I could make out that she was the widow of a fisherman or shipowner in a small way, and had once visited Hull. In virtue of having spent a week there, some forty years before, she was regarded evidently by all the rest as an authority on English manners and customs and language and literature.

“Soms een ei?” she pleaded. “Engelshman like egg.”

Very much, indeed, I thought, if I could only get one – call me English or Irish or whatever you like. Fain would I have had an egg off that plate, where she had just put down six or eight, freshly boiled.

Determined to get one, if politeness would assist me, I smiled and bowed and smiled again. “Oh, ik dank U duizendmaal. Ik bewijs volkomen dankbaarheid.”

ANOTHER CUP

Stunned apparently by my reply, she hesitated. To encourage her to extend these edibles a trifle nearer, I said, “Alstublieft. Dank U.” But she only sighed, and laid the plate out of reach, reproachfully.

No eggs!

“Truitje,” she whispered to her granddaughter; “presenteer de schuimpjes.”

Truitje didn’t say a word, but pushed a schaaltje of these light refreshments towards me.

I did secure two; but in a moment they were finished. You see, a schuimpje doesn’t last very long, when you are really hungry.

Then the mother complained, courteously, of my slender appetite: “Mijnheer wil niets gebruiken.”

“O ja,” I interrupted, “integendeel! Heel graag. Alstublieft.” And to show I meant it, I asked for another cup of tea. “Mag ik beleefdelijk vragen om een andere kop?” Here I reached cup and saucer towards them.

VOOR DE PRONK

That certainly created a diversion. They looked blankly at one another, till the grandmother – she was very hearty – called out with a cheerful laugh, “Hé, ja. Dat’s waar ook. De Engelsche koppen zijn groot.”

“Truitje,” she whispered in an audible aside. “Breng even een Engelsche kom. Ze staan in de kast.”

“Zie zoo. Mijnheer,” she continued to me with a pleasant smile. “Nouw, Mijnheer wil zeker nog wat thee hebben? Nouw, niet bedanken, hoor.”

“Oh ja,” I replied joyfully, “Schiet op – Als’tublieft – dank U. Dank U – heelemaal!”

Holding the tea-pot poised in her hand, she looked at me appealingly, but in doubt. “Wat? heus?” she said.

What was I to do?

I looked at her quite as appealingly, and replied. “Ja, heus! Wel zeker.”

That was decisive. No tea!

The cup, however, was planted down in front of me, upside down. “Het is voor de pronk, zeker,” said the grandmother. “Engelsche gewoonte – zeer net.”

But conversation flagged. The silence was painful. You could have heard a pin drop. My discreet attempt to ask for something had failed, and I didn’t see exactly how I was to improve upon it.

THINGS ARE DEAR IN HOLLAND

The mother meantime surveyed my empty plate and empty cup with distinct disapproval, and put out a feeler: “Mijnheer houdt niet van Hollandsche kost?”

‘Hollandsch kost’, what things cost in Holland – Dutch prices, in other words? Well, they are rather high sometimes. The remark seemed somewhat irrelevant, but it was talk, and therefore welcome. Anything to break that oppressive silence. Eagerly embracing the opportunity of saying something, I responded with cordiality: “Hollandsche kost? Neen. Ik houd niet erg ervan. Dat kan U begrijpen. Ze zijn veels te hoog!”

This well-meant pleasantry was received with such evident disfavour that I hastened to explain. “Ik bedoel dat vele artikelen zijn kostbaar – of kostelijk – mijns bedunkens – in Holland – maar van onberispelijke smaak.”

Hardly any response was made to this. – The merest murmur on the part of the grandmother, that was all. But they all looked at me curiously, without saying a word.

Frantically I strove to make an observation in an easy friendly way, but all my Dutch seemed to have deserted me. – At least all I judged suitable.

Fragments of conversation did float through my agonized brain, but none of them was quite what I needed.

“Ik graauw, ik kef en kweel” was out of the question.

AN INNOCENT OBSERVATION

Two proverbs suddenly flashed across my mind, and I gripped them firmly. One was: “Een vogel in de hand is meer waard dan tien in de lucht,” and the tempting parallel offered itself: “Eén broodje in de hand is meer waard dan tien op een bord.” As this aphorism, however, didn’t sound extra civil, I let it pass.

“Deugd en belooning gaan zelden te samen” was the second proverb; and on that model I managed, after due cogitation, to construct a nice harmless phrase. As it expressed what we all knew and could see before our eyes, I felt safe against contradiction, and I knew it couldn’t hurt anybody. This dictum ran: “Koek en boterham gaan dikwijls te samen.”

Perhaps it was owing to the suddenness with which I proclaimed this truth, or to some severity in my manner; but the effect produced on the company was magical.

Jaap dropped his fork with a clatter and said, “Gunst!” The mother put her hand to her chest, whispering. “Zoo’n schrik!” All looked startled and stopped eating!

HALF-ELF

To divert the scrutiny of so many eyes, I manufactured talk on the first thing that occurred to me, and, reverting to the Dutch prices, said: “Sommige artikelen in Holland zijn duur. Van morgen heb ik een plaat bezichtigd – een poes opgerold over een kannetje melk – de zee in de verte. Prachtig. Maar peper-duur. Tien gulden en een half.”

“Wat zegt mijnheer,” asked the grandmother, “van de poes en de peper en de tien gulden?”

Assuring her it was merely a ‘plaat’, but one that was ‘erg kostbaar’, I grasped at the analogy of the hours of the day, to do full justice to the expensiveness of the picture. If ten o’clock and a half works out at “half-elf-uur,” it is not hard to reckon what ten guilders-and-a-half ought to be; so I gave it with relish: “En, Juffrouw, wat denkt U? Het kost half-elf-gulden!”

Jaap looked at his watch and shook his head. Then he shook the watch, put it back in his pocket and fastened his eyes again on me.

“Nee, hoor!” exclaimed the mother, who had now begun to help a special dish; “Nee; zoo laat is het niet. Mijnheer O’Neill, neem een stukje pudding – toe dan – heel verteerbaar.”

STARVATION IN THE MIDST OF PLENTY

My plate was passed along, and was heaped up liberally. Though I waited with my thanks as long as I could, I was obliged to intervene when the plate was piled high enough for any two people. “Nouw, ik bedank!” I ejaculated, making my best bow.

But that caused the guillotine to fall once more. With a gesture of impatience Truitje put away my verteerbaar pudding on a remote side-table. Not the least chance of getting it!

I was starving in the midst of plenty!

As my hosts appeared to be as much impressed with the contrast as I was, I endeavoured to smooth things over a little, and set them more at their ease. Making the best of it, with all the careless grace I could muster I blandly assured them that it didn’t matter. “Het geeft niets – het hindert niet – het komt er niet opaan.”

But they grew huffy and distant – my phrases didn’t do much to relieve the strain – and I was feeling more depressed and famished every minute, when, to my unspeakable relief, up there came the sound of wheels on the gravel, and in a moment I heard Enderby’s voice talking Dutch loudly and confidently in the hall.

A MOHAMMEDAN

The young folks all rushed out to meet him (he is a prime favourite with them) and there was much whispering and laughing and a long confabulation before they came back.

Enderby entered, and greeted the older people merrily: but there was a quizzical frown upon his brow as he sat down near me. “What’s all this O’Neill?” he whispered. “Are you ill?”