CHAPTER IV.

THE PURCHASE OF THE PENS.

THE VALUE OF DIMINUTIVES.--NEBBETJES.--POENTEKENS.--A STUMPER.--SNAVEL--NOT SWAVEL.--EEN STREEPJE DOOR.--HOENDERHOK WAS ALWAYS DOUBTFUL.--THE UMBRELLA TO THE RESCUE.

"And what", said I, "might be the particular difficulty of saying _pens_ in Dutch? You had a dictionary?"

"Dictionary indeed!" retorted O'Neill with some heat. "Commend me to a dictionary for leading you astray."

There was a penholder in the room, so what I needed was only nibs. Having already with much pain made my selection among the _have you's_, I now looked up _nib_ in the dictionary. Nib was represented by five words, three of which seemed likely enough to be right, i. e. _neb_, _punt_, and _snavel_. Accordingly I wrote these down and worked out their plurals and diminutives. The doubtful ones I kept in reserve. Why did I fancy diminutives? Oh, the grammar put me on the way of finding them, and I got quite partial to their use. It is such a comfort, you know, they are all neuter. You can put _het_ in front of one, and then it's safe for nominative or accusative, wherever it drops in the sentence.

Thus armed for the fray, and confiding in my grammar and dictionary, I sallied forth to buy those nibs.

There was no use in going to a large shop, for experience had taught me I should at once be accosted there in English; so I wandered about till I discovered a kind of small general warehouse in an obscure street. Making sure, by a careful inspection from without, that pens were among the commodities sold in this place, I muttered a polite phrase or two below my breath, cleared my throat, and entered boldly. There was a big good-natured man reading behind the counter. No one else was in the shop. The circumstances simply couldn't be more propitious for beginning the difficult art of Dutch conversation.

"Mynheer!" said the big man, putting down the newspaper and looking at me amiably over his spectacles.

"Mynheer!" I replied, "Ik wensch U goeden morgen."

In the momentary pause that I was obliged to make, to get my polite phrase properly by the end, he rose up and said in an encouraging, friendly manner, "Wat wou Mynheer?"

"Mynheer", I returned, confident in the correctness of phrase number two, "Mag ik U beleefd verzoeken mij mede te deelen, verkoopt jullie nebben--of nebs?"

He eyed me steadily for half a minute and then exclaimed:

"Blief?"

I said "Blief" too.

But I had to go over it again. He shook his head: "Nebs--Nebs? Wat bedoelt Mynheer?"

"Heeft UE nebs,--of nebben?" I said--"of nebbetjes?"

The last variations were of my own invention, thrown out as suggestions merely in order to make sure of catching the correct plural. The Grammar--Boyton, you know--had been strong on diminutives; hence I thought "nebbetjes" might make things clear. Apparently it did, for a deep voice at my elbow said, "Voor paling", and I turned round to see a red-faced sailor with rings in his ears, nodding and smiling. "Ja, ja, ik weet het wel," he said to the shopman; "Mynheer gaat visschen," adding confidentially for my benefit, "Engelsman always feesh."

Before I had made out what this friendly mariner wanted to be at, the shopman had produced a tiny fishing-rod and tackle, which he planted down before me with an air of triumph, "Als 't U blieft, Mynheer!"

"Neen--Ik bid U"--I explained, grasping for my manuscript. A glance at the document told me that the next word for nib was _punt_, plural probably "_punten_", pronunciation doubtful.

"Mynheer", I said, "zou U zoo goed willen wezen my te zeggen.... verkoopt UE poenten?"

"Wat zegt U, Mynheer?"

I explained "Zou U zoo goed willen zijn mij beleefd te zeggen en te verwittigen, verkoopt UEdele poenten of poentekens?"

I put in the "UEdele" once, you see, to propitiate the shopman, who was growing flurried, as the shop was beginning now to fill with customers. He didn't seem, however, more than half pleased at being called "UEdele"; so I determined to give him another pronoun next time--there was plenty of choice without touching on the despised "jy."

"Ik bid U verschoon my!.... Mag ik beleefd verzoeken, verkoopt gy (lieden) spitsen?" When I came to the brackets of the (lieden) I expressed them vaguely by a graceful sweep of both hands.

No; he shrugged his shoulders in good-natured perplexity; he didn't understand; and indeed my rendering of the (lieden) may have confused him.

Then in dumb show I wrote with an imaginary pen on an imaginary piece of paper, saying very distinctly, "poent!" "spits!" "poent!" A light seemed suddenly to dawn upon him; he went to a drawer and brought out crayons and pencils, and reached me a stumper,--one of those soft pointed things for rubbing in mountains and clouds, on a pencil sketch. It was such a surprise after the fishing rod that I involuntarily exclaimed, "Hallo! a stumper!" Well, as that harmless English term seemed to ruffle him somewhat, I hurried to my next word. This word by the way I had written twice, having misspelled it the first time. Now as I stooped down to make it out, my nautical friend, whose interest in me had never flagged, read it before me: "Swavel! mynheer wou swavel."

"Hoeveel?" said the shopman impatiently.

"Voor dit," I replied, putting down a five-penny piece.

He mumbled something about swavel to a message-boy, who forthwith left the shop; and I sat down to wait. It was a vast relief to cease speaking Dutch for a few minutes; and yet I felt uneasily conscious that there was a mistake somewhere. The shop was filled with pens, so that if I was really buying pens now--as I hoped I was--there was no need for the message-boy to go elsewhere.

On calmly examining my notes I detected the error. The sailor had read the word in the first rough draft instead of the corrected copy. I started up hurriedly and went to the counter through the crowd.

"Duizendmaal vergiffenis!" I said. "Verschoon my. Ik veroorzaak U veel moeite."

"Ja mynheer," he replied patiently.

"Niet zwavel hier," I said, pointing to my paper. 'I have drawn my pencil through it,' I wanted to say, but of course couldn't. Then a happy thought struck me. Say I have a line through it--streepje is the grammar word for a little line.

"Mijnheer," I explained, "niet zwavel hier; zwavel niet. Ik heb een streepje door het." Well, would you believe me, that was the most successful remark I had made as yet? I expected that he would be irritated by my mistake and apology. No such thing. He received my statement with unbounded delight. "Ja, ja," he said, "dat geloof ik ook; dat geloof ik ook."

"Wel zeker," I continued pleasantly, glad to see him take it in such good part. "Een streepje door."

With that they all turned to one another and smiled and nodded to me quite merrily, as if I had said something clever. It shows what a literary people the Dutch are, that they are pleased beyond measure when a foreigner in conversation refers to any small technicality out of the grammar. Indeed so encouraged was I by all this enthusiasm that I boldly made use of my remaining words.

"Mynheer! wilt u mij toestaan U te vragen..... verkoopt gy snavels?"

"Snavels," I repeated as he stared,--"of snaveltjes".

He gasped a moment, as if taken utterly by surprise; then ran behind the counter into a little dark room, where I could hear him make a succession of curious muffled sounds. The noise subsided, and he seemed to tell the story to somebody. A white face peered out from behind the lace curtains--and the chuckling was renewed. Now this was all very puzzling--but it was quite clear that 'snavel' was not the usual term for 'pen'.

Here the little errand-boy entered with a package which he thrust into my hand.

Sulphur!

"Heelemaal neen," I said.

I was vainly endeavouring to get him to take it back, when the shopman reappeared from his dark den as grave as a judge, and I turned to him.

There was one word left. It might be right, though I had doubted it from the first; but I would try. It was a long word, too, and from the root of the first part, it promised to have something to do with fowls. Thus I conjectured that its meaning might be 'quill pen'; but my confidence in the dictionary was by this time much shaken.

"Wilt gij my toestaan", I said, "U te vragen?" "Ja, mijnheer!" he replied expectantly.

Then I got a little confused, and no wonder. "Durf ik zoo beleefd te kunnen zijn!... om mij mede te deelen en... mij te verwittigen?" I lost myself again. It's easy to begin a Dutch conversation but hard to get out of it with honour. Like a drowning man clutching at a straw I grasped at something: "Verkoopt jullie hoenderhokken ... of hoenderhokkjes?"

He said nothing--did not even look at me--but moved his hands helplessly, as if subduing some strong emotion. I did not press this word on him, as I scarcely ever use quill pens; and it was as likely as not that the dictionary had failed me again.

I set him at his ease by a courteous phrase or two. "Het geeft niets--het hindert niet--het komt er niet op aan." Then refraining from further speech, I pointed out some nibs with my umbrella, and, having secured a box of excellent J pens, made good my retreat under cover of a friendly phrase or two: "Mijnheer! het spijt mij zeer; maar ik moet afscheid nemen. Vaarwel."

It had been rather a strain, and I was glad to get out again into the open air. On the way home I could think it all over calmly, and at leisure I deduced that most useful principle _never to use more than one word out of the dictionary for one word of English_.