We are conducted to the second floor of the hotel by a steep and narrow stairway, which requires much ingenuity in the ascent, as the steps are constructed at such a peculiar angle that it is difficult to balance one’s self upon them. We reach the top as gracefully as possible under the circumstances, and find two pleasant communicating rooms overlooking the main street. Rooms, beds and all our surroundings are wonderfully clean, and filled with an atmosphere of the past, which is very charming. The rates charged here are seven dollars a week for each person, and this includes meals and attendance: the latter simply a pleasant fiction, with no meaning whatever.
The sheets upon our beds are of homespun linen of good quality, but emitting such an odor of antiquity, that there is no doubt whatever in our minds that they are heirlooms of many generations, and we wish that this genuine, ancient and unpleasant smell could be scattered abroad, or adulterated in some way, even to the extent of a pair of modern sheets, for concentrated age is more attractive in sights than in odors.
Our hotel bears the date 1697 upon a fancifully carved tablet above the middle window, but the Stadhuis Tower is still older, dating back to 1592. The proprietor, his wife and daughter are pleasant, hospitable people, who make our stay with them, both comfortable and enjoyable. Before supper we stroll about the town, which consists of a main or central avenue, with small narrow streets diverging from it. As we walk along, a little crowd, composed chiefly of children, follows us closely. These young people stare at us, and laugh as though we are a freshly imported menagerie. On our return, we sit in front of the hotel where some chairs and small tables are placed for the convenience of those who wish to rest and sip their glass of beer or genuine Holland gin in the open. The favorite beverages in Holland are beer, porter and gin, the latter of an excellent quality, and genuinely “old.”
We are soon surrounded by a group of children, who watch our motions and by words and gestures freely express their wonder and amusement at the odd-looking stranger people. They seem greatly surprised that we do not understand their language: not even such simple phrases as “Goeden avond,” (Good-evening), or “Ja,” (Yes), and “Nee,” (No). When I make them understand that in English yes and no are the same as their ja and nee, they laugh immoderately, and repeat in their own broad accents, yes and no, as if greatly amused.
After supper, which consists of cold fish, coffee, cheese, boiled potatoes and tea with a private nip of the real ancient Holland gin, we walk out again without a guide, to do some shopping. We have a funny experience, as we are compelled to resort to pantomime in making the various purchases. Entering a “general” store in search of candles, we at first ask for them in English: the good-natured shopwoman smiles and shakes her head. I repeat the word “candles,” at the same time going through the motion of striking a match on the counter, and holding it up to the end of my forefinger. This strange proceeding attracts the attention of a young man and woman, who draw near the counter, followed by several other members of the family, but I cannot make them comprehend. We then try the French language, but this also proves a failure, so we are obliged to depart without our candles, although I am confident they have them somewhere in the store.
Scene after scene of this kind is gone through with in the different shops, and now our curious actions have attracted a large crowd of people who follow close at our heels, wondering what we will do next, and thinking, no doubt, that we are a very good kind of free show. Such strange beings rarely visit their isolated town, and they are certainly enjoying their opportunity to its full extent. When we stop to look into a shop-window, they stop too, and follow our example like very shadows. The expression of wonder and merriment depicted on the countenances of both young and old is a fine study for an artist.
As we saunter leisurely along, we espy a clothing store, which we enter, and find half-a-dozen men lounging about with long clay pipes in their mouths, and their hands in the pockets of their baggy trousers. Their faces wear a peaceful, contented expression, which changes to a look of surprise as we approach them, and they scan our attire, as something wholly different from anything to which they are accustomed. The gaping throng outside besieges the doorway. As the men still gaze curiously at us, I draw near the one who appears to be the proprietor of the establishment, and in pantomime, aided by English, interspersed with a little French, ask for a Marken suit of clothes. The man laughs and looks perplexed; his companions also shake their heads in token that they do not understand. With serious countenances and widely-opened eyes, they follow the motions of my lips and hands. Uttering slowly the words: “Marken suit,” I point to my own trousers, coat and vest. Their eyes follow my hands, first to my trousers, then to my coat and vest. It is a difficult position; but what a treat to watch their puzzled countenances, now smiling, now with a look of actual pain in their efforts to understand.
| “De Hooflstraat, Monnikendam.” (See page 190.) |