CLOTHO.
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.
GLOOM AND MYSTERY.
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.