The Ballade of a Strange Town - Page 2

. . . .

We arrived back at the cross-roads sodden and dripping, and,
finding the train waiting, climbed into it with some relief.
The officer on this train could speak nothing but Flemish,
but he understood the name Mechlin, and indicated that when we came
to Mechlin Station he would put us down, which, after the right
interval of time, he did.

We got down, under a steady downpour, evidently on the edge of Mechlin,
though the features could not easily be recognised through the grey
screen of the rain. I do not generally agree with those who find rain
depressing. A shower-bath is not depressing; it is rather startling.
And if it is exciting when a man throws a pail of water over you,
why should it not also be exciting when the gods throw many pails?
But on this soaking afternoon, whether it was the dull sky-line
of the Netherlands or the fact that we were returning home without
any adventure, I really did think things a trifle dreary.
As soon as we could creep under the shelter of a street
we turned into a little café, kept by one woman. She was incredibly
old, and she spoke no French. There we drank black coffee and what
was called "cognac fine." "Cognac fine" were the only two French
words used in the establishment, and they were not true. At least,
the fineness (perhaps by its very ethereal delicacy) escaped me.
After a little my friend, who was more restless than I,
got up and went out, to see if the rain had stopped and if we
could at once stroll back to our hotel by the station.
I sat finishing my coffee in a colourless mood, and listening
to the unremitting rain.

. . . . .

Suddenly the door burst open, and my friend appeared, transfigured
and frantic.

"Get up!" he cried, waving his hands wildly. "Get up! We're in the
wrong town! We're not in Mechlin at all. Mechlin is ten miles,
twenty miles off--God knows what! We're somewhere near Antwerp."

"What!" I cried, leaping from my seat, and sending the furniture flying.
"Then all is well, after all! Poetry only hid her face
for an instant behind a cloud. Positively for a moment I
was feeling depressed because we were in the right town.
But if we are in the wrong town--why, we have our adventure after all!
If we are in the wrong town, we are in the right place."

I rushed out into the rain, and my friend followed me somewhat
more grimly. We discovered we were in a town called Lierre,
which seemed to consist chiefly of bankrupt pastry cooks,
who sold lemonade.

"This is the peak of our whole poetic progress!" I cried
enthusiastically. "We must do something, something sacramental
and commemorative! We cannot