Walter Pieterse: A Story of Holland
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Title: Walter Pieterse: A Story of Holland
Author: Multatuli
Translator: Hubert Evans
Release date: September 29, 2009 [eBook #30135]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WALTER PIETERSE: A STORY OF HOLLAND ***
Walter Pieterse
A Story of Holland
By
Multatuli
(Eduard Douwes Dekker)
Translated by
Hubert Evans, Ph. D.
New York
Friderici & Gareis
6 East Seventeenth Street
Copyright, 1904,
By
Friderici & Gareis
PREFACE
Most of us know that The Hague is somewhere in Holland; and we all
know that Queen Wilhelmina takes a beautiful picture; but to how many
of us has it occurred that the land of Spinoza and Rembrandt is still
running a literary shop?
How many of us have ever heard of Eduard Douwes Dekker? Very few,
I fear, except professional critics. And yet, the man who, forty
years ago, became famous as Multatuli (I have borne much), was not
only the greatest figure in the modern literature of the Netherlands,
but one of the most powerful and original writers in the literature
of the world. An English critic has called him the Heine of Holland;
Anatole France calls him the Voltaire of the Netherlands.
Eduard Douwes Dekker was born in 1820, at Amsterdam, his father being
the captain of a merchantman trading in the Dutch colonies. At the age
of eighteen Dekker sailed on his father's vessel for the East Indies,
determined to abandon the business career that had been mapped out for
him and enter the colonial service. In 1839 he received a clerkship
in the civil service at Batavia. He now remained in the employ of
the government for seventeen years, being promoted from one grade to
another until he was made Assistant Resident of Lebak in 1856.
In this important position he used his influence to better the
condition of the natives; but, to his sorrow, he soon found that he
did not have the support of his superiors. What he conceived to be
right clashed with the line of conduct he was expected to follow. In
a rash moment of "righteous indignation" he handed in his resignation;
and it was accepted.
This hasty step put an end to a brilliant political career and entailed
upon Dekker years of disappointment and hardship. Seeing that he was
pursuing the wrong method to help either the Javanese, or himself,
he immediately tried to get reinstated, but without success. In 1857
he returned to Holland and applied to the home government, hoping to
be vindicated and restored to his post. Again he was disappointed. The
government offered him another desirable position; but, as it was a
matter of principle with Dekker, he declined it.
When he saw that it was useless to importune the government further,
Dekker made his appeal to the people in "Max Havelaar" (1860). The book
was an instant success and made the name of Multatuli famous. Through
the perfidy of a supposed friend, however, Dekker failed to get very
substantial material rewards from this work. For ten years yet he
was struggling with poverty.
The Bohemian life that Dekker was now compelled to live--his family
was on the sufferance of friends--estranged him from his wife and
strengthened what some might call an unfortunate--or, at least, an
untimely--literary friendship that Dekker had formed with a certain
Miss Mimi Schepel, of The Hague. The spiritual affinity between the
two soon developed a passion that neither could resist. This estimable
lady, who afterwards became Dekker's second wife, is still living,
and has edited Dekker's letters in nine volumes. Dekker died in
February, 1887, at his home in Nieder-Ingelheim, where he had lived
for several years.
The "Woutertje Pieterse" story was first published in Dekker's
seven volume work entitled "Ideen." Here it is sandwiched in between
miscellaneous sketches, essays and treatises, being scattered all
the way from Vol. I to Vol. VII. The story falls naturally into two
parts, of which the present volume is the first part. The second part,
written in a different key, deals with "Walter's Apprenticeship."
A good deal of the flax, or silk, of his Chinaman's pigtail, to use
Dekker's form of expression, I have unraveled as being extraneous
matter. However, despite these omissions, it is quite possible that
some very sensitive person may still find objectionable allusions in
the book. If so, I must refer that one to the shade of Multatuli. From
his own admission his shoulders were evidently broad; and, no doubt,
they will be able to bear the additional strain.
Hubert Evans.
New York City,
November, 1904.
CONTENTS
† Page
Chapter I
The origin of the story: regarding poetry, incurable love,
false hair, and the hero of the story--The dangers of fame and
the advantage of the upper shelf--The Chinaman's pigtail, and
the collar of humanity 1
Chapter II
An Italian robber on the "Buitensingel" in Amsterdam--The bitter
suffering of the virtuous Amalia--Wax candles, the palisades of
morality--The cunning of the little Hallemans--The limitations
of space 9
Chapter III
The difference between a sugar bowl and a Bible--Leentje's virtues
and defects--An unfounded suspicion against Pennewip's honor 18
Chapter IV
The profound silence of Juffrouw Laps--Stoffel's sermon--Walter's
fidelity to Glorioso--The last king of Athens--Ruined stomachs
and bursted ear-drums 24
Chapter V
How one may become a great man--The cleverness of
M'sieu Millaire--Versifying and the art of classifying
everything--Hobby-horses 27
Chapter VI
Preparations for a party--The assignment of rÙles--The conflict
between wishing and being--Some tricks of fancy--The two
sawmills--Amalia and the ducks 34
Chapter VII
Poetry and wigs--The vexation and despair of the latter 42
Chapter VIII
A tea-evening, and how it began--Some gaps in the author's
knowledge--Stoffel's zoˆlogical joke--The cause of the last Punic
war--And the advantage of smoking 48
Chapter IX
Echoes of the last Punic war--The defeat of Hannibal (Laps)
by Scipio (Pennewip) 61
Chapter X
Causes of the tedious peace in Europe, showing the value
of a "tea-evening" as a study--Specimens of school-verse
concluded--Suitable for society poets and clever children 68
Chapter XI
Report on the condition of the leading characters after the
catastrophe--Walter again: a character-study 75
Chapter XII
Leentje as a comforter and questioner--Prince Walter and his
dominions 80
Chapter XIII
Convincing proofs of Walter's improvement--His first invitation--A
study in love--Paradise and Peri 87
Chapter XIV
Great changes in the Pieterse family--Walter becomes poet-laureate
at the court of Juffrouw Laps--The mountains of Asia--The bridge,
Glorioso, and love--again 102
Chapter XV
Walter's dream--A swell coachman--Juffrouw Laps's difficulties
117
Chapter XVI
Femke hunts for Walter, and finds him under peculiar
circumstances--Her adventures by the way 125
Chapter XVII
The widower's birthday--Klaasje's poem, and how a surprise may
involve further surprises 132
Chapter XVIII
Walter's recovery--The doctor's pictures--Amsterdam dramaturgy
138
Chapter XIX
Pastors, sermons, and Juffrouw Laps--Chocolate, timidity, and
love--The fire that didn't break out--Some details of religious
belief 150
Chapter XX
Our hero calls on the doctor--Some strange happenings--How Walter
delivered his present 161
Chapter XXI
Ophelia reaches her destination, and Femke becomes a
queen--Walter's first experience "proposing"--Choosing a
profession 170
Chapter XXII
Walter enters the real world--The firm Motto, Business & Co.--The
technique of the novel--And the snuff of the Romans 180
Chapter XXIII
How one may become a "prodigal" by studying the story of the
Prodigal Son 194
Chapter XXIV
Why Walter did not see Femke--The worldliness of a servant of
the church--The secret of Father Jansen's deafness in his left
ear 201
Chapter XXV
Kings and doughnuts--How the masses soar and fall--Walter's
cowardice and remorse of conscience--A good remedy for the
blues 211
Chapter XXVI
Our hero retires thinking of Princess Erika, to be aroused
by robbers and murderers, who are in collusion with Juffrouw
Laps 225
Chapter XXVII
Walter alone with a pious lady, or Juffrouw Laps on the war-path
240
Chapter XXVIII
A midnight kiss--A wonderful statue in the "Juniper Berry"--
Republicans and True Dutch hearts--A sailor with--Femke? 245
Chapter XXIX
Sunrise on the "Dam"--An exciting encounter with a water-nymph--A
letter from heaven--America, a haven for prodigal sons 260
Chapter XXX
A message from Femke, which Walter fails to understand--Dr. Holsma
to the rescue--Femke and family portraits--Femke, and once more
Femke 270
Chapter XXXI
Stoffel's view of the matter--Juffrouw Laps's distress, and
Juffrouw Pieterse's elation--Elephants and butterflies, and
Kaatje's conception of heredity 279
Chapter XXXII
A theatrical performance under difficulties--The contest between
Napoleon and King Minos of Crete--A Goddess on Mt. Olympus--Kisses
and rosebuds 286
Chapter XXXIII
Conclusion 298
WALTER PIETERSE
CHAPTER I
I don't know the year; but, since the reader will be interested to
know the time when this story begins, I will give him a few facts to
serve as landmarks.
My mother complained that provisions were dear, and fuel as well. So
it must have been before the discovery of Political Economy. Our
servant-girl married the barber's assistant, who had only one
leg. "Such a saving of shoe-leather," the good little soul argued. But
from this fact one might infer that the science of Political Economy
had already been discovered.
At all events, it was a long time ago. Amsterdam had no sidewalks,
import duties were still levied, in some civilized countries there were
still gallows, and people didn't die every day of nervousness. Yes,
it was a long time ago.
The Hartenstraat! I have never comprehended why this street should
be called thus. Perhaps it is an error, and one ought to write
Hertenstraat, or something else. I have never found more "heartiness"
there than elsewhere; besides, "harts" were not particularly plentiful,
although the place could boast of a poulterer and dealer in venison.
I haven't been there for a long time, and I only remember that the
Straat connects two main canal-streets, canals that I would fill up
if I had the power to make Amsterdam one of the most beautiful cities
of Europe.
My predilection for Amsterdam, our metropolis, does not make me
blind to her faults. Among these I would mention first her complete
inability to serve as the scene of things romantic. One finds here
no masked Dominos on the street, the common people are everywhere
open to inspection, no Ghetto, no Templebar, no Chinese quarter,
no mysterious courtyard. Whoever commits murder is hanged; and the
girls are called "Mietje" and "Jansje"--everything prose.
It requires courage to begin a story in a place ending with
"dam." There it is difficult to have "Emeranties" and "HÈloises";
but even these would be of little use, since all of these belles have
already been profaned.
How do the French authors manage, though, to dress up their "Margots"
and "Marions" as ideals and protect their "Henris" and "Ernestes"
from the trite and trivial? These last remind one of M'sieu Henri or
M'sieu Erneste just about like our castle embankments remind one of
filthy water.
Goethe was a courageous man: Gretchen, Kl‰rchen----
But I, in the Hartenstraat!
However, I am not writing a romance; and even if I should write one,
I don't see why I shouldn't publish it as a true story. For it is
a true story, the story of one who in his youth was in love with a
sawmill and had to endure this torture for a long time.
For love is torture, even if it is only love for a sawmill.
It will be seen that the story is going to be quite simple, in fact
too frail to stand alone. So here and there I am going to plait
something in with the thread of the narrative, just as the Chinaman
does with his pigtail when it is too thin. He has no Eau de Lob or
oil from Macassar--but I admit that I have never found at Macassar
any berries which yielded the required oil.
To begin, in the Hartenstraat was a book-shop and circulating
library. A small boy with a city complexion stood on the step and
seemed to be unable to open the door. It was evident that he was
trying to do something that was beyond his strength.
He stretched out his hand towards the door knob repeatedly, but
every time he interrupted this motion either by stopping to pull
unnecessarily at a big square-cut collar that rested on his shoulders
like a yoke, or by uselessly lifting his hand to screen an ingenuous
cough.
He was apparently lost in the contemplation of the pictures that
covered the panes of glass in the door, turning them into a model
chart of inconceivable animals, four-cornered trees and impossible
soldiers. He was glancing continually to one side, like a criminal
who fears that he is going to be caught in the act. It was manifest
that he had something in view which must be concealed from passers-by,
and from posterity, for that matter. His left hand was thrust under
the skirts of his little coat, clutching convulsively at something
concealed in his trousers pocket. To look at him one would have
thought that Walter contemplated a burglary, or something of the kind.
For his name was Walter.
It is a fortunate thing that it occurred to me to relate his history;
and now I consider it my duty to report that he was entirely innocent
of any burglarious or murderous intentions.
I only wish I could clear him of other sins as easily as this. The
object he was turning and twisting in his left breeches pocket was
not a house-key, nor a jimmy, nor a club, nor a tomahawk, nor any
infernal machine: It was a small piece of paper containing fourteen
stivers, which he had raised on his New Testament with Psalms at
the grocer's on the "Ouwebrug"; and the thing that held him fast on
the Hartenstraat was nothing more or less than his entrance into the
magic world of romance. He was going to read "Glorioso."
Glorioso! Reader, there are many imitations, but only one Glorioso. All
the Rinaldos and Fra Diavolos are not to be mentioned in the same
breath with Glorioso, this incomparable hero who carried away
countesses by the dozen, plundered popes and cardinals as if they
were ordinary fallible people, and made a testament-thief of Walter
Pieterse.
To be sure, Glorioso was not to blame for this last, certainly not. One
ought to be ashamed to be a hero, or a genius, or even a robber, if
on this account one is to be held responsible for all the crimes that
may be committed years afterwards in the effort to get possession of
one's history.
I myself object to any accusation of complicity in those evil deeds
that are committed after my death in quenching the thirst for knowledge
of my fate. Indeed, I shall never be deterred from a famous career
merely by the thought that some one may sell the New Testament to
get hold of the "Life and Deeds of Multatuli."
"You rascal, what are you loitering around here for? If you want
anything, come in; if you don't, make yourself scarce."
And now Walter had to go in, or else abandon his cherished
Glorioso. But the man who bent over the counter and twisted himself
like a crane to open the door and snarl these words at our young hero
did not have a face that advised anything like turning back. He was
angry. At first Walter had not had the courage to go in; now he did
not dare to turn back. He felt himself drawn in. It was as if the
book-shop swallowed him.
"Glorioso, if you please, M'neer, and here----" He drew that infernal
machine from his pocket. "And here is money----"
For he had learned from his schoolmates, who had infected him with
this craving for romance, that at the circulating library strangers
must deposit a forfeit.
The shopman seemed to regard himself as "sufficiently protected"
by the sum produced. He took down a small volume, which was greasy
and well worn, and bore both within and without the traces of much
unclean enjoyment.
I am certain that the "Sermons of Pastor Splitvesel," which stood
undisturbed on the top shelf and looked down contemptuously on
the literature of the day, would have been ashamed to bring their
spotless binding into contact with so much uncleanliness. But it is
not difficult to remain clean in the upper row. I find, therefore,
that the "sermons" were unjust; and the same is true of many sermons.
After Walter had given his name to the man in a trembling voice, he
stuck the reward of his misdeed under his coat and hurried out the
door, like a cat making away with the prey for which it has waited
for hours.
Walter ran and ran, and did not know where to go. He couldn't go home;
he was watched too closely there,--which was not very difficult,
as the space was rather limited.
He selected quiet streets and finally came to a gateway that he
remembered to have seen several times. It was a low, smooth arch,
where it always smelled like ashes. Here, as a truant, he had taken
that leap! He was with Franz Halleman, who had dared him to cut sacred
studies and jump from the top of this arch. Walter did it just because
little Franz had questioned his courage.
To this escapade he was indebted for his great familiarity with the
prophet Habakkuk, whose prophecies he had to copy twelve times as
a penalty. Further, the sprain that he got in his big toe on that
occasion gave him a good barometer in that organ, which always warned
him of approaching rain.
In a certain sense Habakkuk is to be regarded as marking a transition
in Walter's life, viz. from nursery rhymes to books which deal with big
people. For some time he had felt his admiration for "brave Heinriche"
to be growing; and he was disgusted with the paper peaches that are
distributed as the reward of diligence in the beautiful stories. Of
any other peaches he had no knowledge, as the real article was never
seen in the houses he visited.
Nothing was more natural than that he should most ardently long to
talk with the older schoolboys about the wonders of the real world,
where people ride in coaches, devastate cities, marry princesses,
and stay up in the evening till after 10 o'clock--even if it isn't a
birthday. And then at the table one helps one's self, and may select
just whatever one wants to eat. So think children.
Every boy has his heroic age, and humanity, as a whole, has worn the
little coat with the big collar.
But how far can this comparison be carried? Where does the
identity stop? Will the human race become mature? and more than
mature?--old? Feeble and childish?
How old are we now? Are we boys, youths, men? Or are we
already----? No, that would be too unpleasant to think of.
Let us suppose that we are just in the exuberance of youth! We are
then no longer children exactly, and still we may hope something of
the future.
Yes, of the future,--when this stifling school atmosphere has been
blown away. When we shall take pleasure in the short jacket of the boy
that comes after us; when people will be at liberty to be born without
any legal permit, and will not be reviled for it; when humanity will
speak one language; when metaphysics and religion have been forgotten,
and knowledge of nature takes the place of noble birth. When we shall
have broken away from the nursery stories.
There is some silk for my Chinaman's pigtail. Some will say it is
only flax.
CHAPTER II
Walter thought neither of the heroic age nor of Chinese cues. Without
any feeling for the beauty of the landscape, he hurried along till
he came to a bridge that spanned a marshy ditch. After looking about
carefully to assure himself that he was alone, he selected this
bridge for his reading-room, and proceeded at once to devour his
robber undisturbed.
For a moment I felt tempted to make the reader a participant of
Walter's pleasure by giving a sketch of the immortal work that chained
the boy's attention. But aside from the fact that I am not very well
versed in Glorioso--which fact of itself, though, would not prevent me
from speaking about him--I have many other things of a more urgent
nature to relate, and am compelled therefore to take the reader
directly to the Hartenstraat, hoping that he will be able to find
his way just as well as if he had crossed the Ouwebrug--the old bridge.
Suffice it to say that Walter found the book "very nice." The virtuous
Amalia, in the glare of flaring torches, at the death-bed of her
revered mother, in the dismal cypress valley, swearing that her ardent
love for the noble robber--through the horrible trapdoor, the rusty
chains, her briny tears--in a word, it was stirring! And there was
more morality in it, too, than in all the insipid imitations. All the
members of the band were married and wore gloves. In the cave was
an altar, with wax tapers; and those chapters in which girls were
abducted always ended with a row of most decorous periods, or with
mysterious dashes--which Walter vainly held up to the light in his
effort to learn more about it.
He read to: "Die, betrayer!" Then it was dark, and he knew that it
was time to go home. He was supposed to be taking a walk with the
Halleman boys,--who were "such respectable children." With regret he
closed the precious volume and hurried away as fast as he could, for
he was afraid he was going to get a whipping for staying away so long.
"You will never get permission again"--thus he was always threatened
on such occasions. But he understood, of course, that they didn't mean
it. He knew too well that people like to get rid of the children for
a while when they are a little short of space at home. And then the
little Hallemans were "such extraordinarily respectable children;
they lived next to a house with a portico, and recently they had
taken off their little caps so politely."
Now, I don't believe that the Hallemans were any more respectable
than other boys of Walter's acquaintance; and, as I would like to
give some reasons for my belief, I am going to relate an incident
that had happened some time before this.
Walter never got any pocket-money. His mother considered this
unnecessary, because he got at home everything that he needed. It
mortified him to have to wait for an invitation to join in a game
of ball with his companions, and then be reminded that he had
contributed nothing towards buying the ball. In Walter's time that
useful instrument of sport cost three doits--just a trifle. Now
I suppose they are more expensive--but no, cheaper, of course, on
account of Political Economy.
On many occasions he was depressed by reason of this lack of money. We
shall see later whether what his mother said was true, or not: that he
received at home everything he needed. It is certain that at home he
never had the privilege of doing with some little thing as he pleased,
which is very nice for children. And for grown-up people, too.
The Hallemans--who were so especially respectable--gave him to
understand that they had no desire to bear all the expenses. Franz
calculated that Walter's friendship had already cost them nine
stivers, which I find high--not for the friendship, but merely
as an estimate. Gustave said it was still more; but that is a
detail. Gustave, too, had let him have four slate pencils, that he
might court "the tall Cecilia," who wouldn't have anything to do with
him because he wore a jacket stuck in his trousers--the kind small
boys wore then. She accepted the pencils, and then made Gustave a
present of them for a kiss.
The reproaches of the little Hallemans, who were so very respectable,
almost drove Walter to despair.
"I have told my mother, but she won't give me anything."
The little Hallemans, who were so respectable, said: "What's that
you're giving us? You're a parasite."
This was the first time Walter had ever heard the word, but he knew
what it meant. Nothing sharpens the wits like bitterness of heart.
"A parasite, a parasite--I'm a parasite," and he ran off screaming,
making a detour in order to avoid the street where Cecilia's father
had a second-hand store. Oh, if she had seen him running through
the street crying like a baby--that would have been worse than the
breeches pulled up over his jacket!
A parasite, a parasite!
He met lots of grown-up people who perhaps were parasites, but they
were not bawling on this account.
Parasite!
He saw a policeman, and caught his breath when he got by him, surprised
that the man hadn't arrested him.
Parasite!
Then came a street-sweeper with his cart, who seemed to rattle that
hateful word after him.
Our little sufferer remembered that the Halleman boys had once told
him what a fortune could be made by peddling peppermint drops. For
twenty-four stivers one could buy a big sack full. By selling so
and so many for a doit, the profit would be enormous. If one only
had the capital to begin! The Hallemans had calculated everything
very exactly; for they were not only very respectable, but also very
cunning. Cunningness and respectability usually go hand in hand. They
had said, all that was needed was the capital. They would attend to
laying in the stock, and would assume all responsibility for the sale
of the same. If Walter would chip in just a florin, they could raise
the rest and all would go well.
Parasite.... Parasite....
Walter slipped a florin from his mother's box of savings and brought
it to the Halleman boys, who were so remarkably respectable.
"Where did you get it?" asked Gustave, but careful not to give Walter
time to answer, or to fall into an embarrassing silence.
"Where did you get it?"--without any interrogation point--"fine! Franz
and I will each add one like it. That'll make twenty-four, and then
we'll buy the peppermints. There's a factory on the Rosengracht--such
a sack for four shillings. Franz and I will do everything. We'll
have more opportunity at school, you understand. Christian Kloskamp
has already ordered twelve; he'll pay after the holidays. We'll take
all the trouble; you needn't do anything, Walter--and then an equal
divide. You can depend upon it."
Walter went home and dreamed of unheard-of wealth. He would put a
dollar in his mother's savings-bank, and buy for Cecilia a lead pencil
from the man who had picked holes in the wood-work of his wagon with
them. So strong were they! That would be something entirely different
from those slate pencils; and if the tall Cecilia still wouldn't
have him, then--but Walter did not care to think further. There are
abysses along the path of fancy that we do not dare to sound. We see
them instinctively, close the eyes and--I only know that on that
evening Walter fell asleep feeling good, expecting soon to have a
good conscience over his little theft and hoping that Cecilia would
give him a happy heart.
Alas, alas! Little Walter had made his calculations without taking into
consideration the slyness and respectability of the Hallemans. They
lay in wait for him the next day as he came from school. Walter,
who had painted to himself how they would be panting under the
weight of the great sack; Walter, who was so anxious to know if
Christian Kloskamp had taken what he had ordered; Walter, who was
burning with curiosity as to the success of the venture--oh, he was
bitterly disappointed. Gustave Halleman not only carried no sack of
peppermints. What's more, he had a very grave face. And little Franz
looked like virtue itself.
"Well, how is everything?" Walter asked, but without saying a word. He
was too curious not to ask, and too fearful to express the question
otherwise than by opening his mouth and poking out his face.
"Don't you know, Walter, we've been thinking about the matter; and
there's a lot to be said against the plan."
Poor Walter! In that moment both his heart and his conscience suffered
shipwreck. Away with your dreams of ethical vindication, away with
the gaping money-boxes of mothers--away, lead pencil that was to
bore a hole in the hard heart of the tall Cecilia--gone, gone, gone,
everything lost.
"You see, Walter, the mint-drops might melt."
"Y-e-s," sobbed Walter.
"And Christian Kloskamp, who ordered twelve--don't you know----"
"Y-e-s."
I wonder if Christian was likely to melt too.
"He is leaving school, and will certainly not return after the
holidays."
"H-e-e i-i-s?"
"Yes, and for that reason, and also because there are not anything like
so many to the pound as we had thought. Mint-drops are heavy. We've
calculated everything, Franz and I."
"Yes," added little Franz, with the seriousness of one giving
important advice in a time of great danger, "the things are very
heavy at present. Feel this one; but you must give it back to me."
Walter weighed the mint-drop on his finger and returned it
conscientiously.
He found it heavy. Ah, in this moment he was so depressed that he
would have found everything heavy.
Franz stuck the piece of candy into his mouth, and sucking at it
continued:
"Yes, really, very heavy. These are the English drops, you know. And
then there is something else, too, isn't there, Gustave? The propriety,
the respectability! Tell him, Gustave."
"The respectability," cried Gustave, significantly.
"We mean the respectability of it," repeated Franz, as if he were
explaining something.
Walter looked first from one to the other, and did not seem to
comprehend.
"You tell him, Gustave."
"Yes, Walter, Franz will tell you," said Gustave.
"Walter, our papa is a deacon, and carries a portfolio, and there
where we live is a----"
"Yes," cried Gustave, "there on the Gracht, you know, lives M'neer
Krulewinkel. He has a villa----"
"With a portico," added Franz.
"It's just on account of our standing--don't you see, Walter? And
when a visitor comes our mother brings out the wine."
"Yes, Maderia, Maderia! And our tobacco-box is silver, and----"
"No, Franz, it isn't silver; but, Walter, it looks just like silver."
Our poor little sinner understood all of this, but he failed to see
what bearing it might have on his own disappointed hopes. He stuttered:
"Yes, Gustave--yes, Franz--but the peppermint----"
"We just wanted to tell you that we are very respectable, don't
you see?"
"Yes, Gustave."
"And well-behaved."
"Y-e-e-s, Franz." Poor Walter!
"And then as you said you never got any pocket-money----"
"Yes, Walter--and don't you know? Because our papa is so
respectable--when winter comes you can see how he looks after the
orphans."
"Yes, and he rings at every door. And--and--we are afraid, that
you----"
"That you----"
"The florin----"
"The florin! You understand?"
"That you didn't get it----"
"That you didn't get it honestly. That's it," said Franz, sticking
another mint-drop into his mouth, perhaps to brace himself up.
It was out at last. Poor, miserable Walter.
"And on that account, Walter, we would rather not keep the money,
but just divide now--equally, as we all agreed."
"Yes," cried Gustave, "divide equally. The work--we--you understand?"
They divided the profits. And the Hallemans were sleek about
it. Twenty-four stivers; three into twenty-four goes eight times,
therefore----
Walter received eight stivers.
"Don't you see," explained Gustave, "we couldn't do it, because our
papa is a deacon."
"Yes--and our tobacco-box, even if it isn't pure silver, it's just
like silver."
My lack of faith in the extreme respectability of the Hallemans
is based upon the foregoing story; and I am inclined to think that
all this "respectability" of which Walter heard so much at home was
only an excuse on his mother's part to get him out of the way. For
there was a lack of room. If she had wanted to use Walter about the
house, it is questionable if she had discovered anything especially
respectable about those boys.
Many laws and most customs have their origin in a "lack of room"--in
the intellect, in one's character, in the house or flat, in the fields,
in the city.
This applies to the preference for the right hand--a result of
crowding at the table--to the institution of marriage, and to many
things lying between these extremes.
CHAPTER III
We will not try to explain further this fruitful principle of
"limitation of space." Walter knew the fruit of it, even if he failed
to recognize the origin. He was not worried so much by the mere coming
home as by the punishment he expected to receive as soon as that New
Testament should be missed. He had returned from his little excursion
into the country with Glorioso, and now in Amsterdam again the memory
of his recent offense--or shall I say the anticipation of what was
coming?--lay heavily on his mind.
If we could think away all the results of crime committed, there
would be very little left of what we call conscience.
But Walter consoled himself with the thought that it wasn't a thimble
this time. The testament will not be missed at once, he reflected,
because Sunday was a long way off, and no one would ask about it
during the week.
No, it was not a thimble, or a knitting-needle, or a sugar-bowl,
or anything in daily use.
When our hero got home, he stuck his greasy Glorioso under Leentje's
sewing-table--the same Leentje who had sewed up his breeches after
that wonderful leap, so that his mother never found out about it. She
went down to her grave in ignorance of these torn breeches.
But Leentje was employed to patch breeches and such things. She
received for this seven stivers a week, and every evening a slice of
bread and butter.
Long after the Habakkuk period, Walter often thought of her humble
"Good-evening, Juffrouw; good-evening, M'neer and the young Juffrouwen;
good-evening, Walter," etc.
Yes, Walter's mother was called Juffrouw, on account of the
shoe-business. For Juffrouw is the title of women of the lower middle
classes, while plain working women are called simply Vrouw. Mevrouw
is the title of women of the better classes. And so it is in the
Netherlands till to-day: The social structure is a series of classes,
graduated in an ascending scale. Single ladies are also called
Juffrouw, so that Juffrouw may mean either a young lady or a young
matron--who need not necessarily be so young. The young Juffrouwen
were Walter's sisters, who had learned how to dance. His brother
had been called M'neer since his appointment as assistant at the
"intermediate school," a sort of charity school now no longer in
existence. His mother had spliced his jacket that he might command
the respect of the boys, and remarked that the name "Stoffel" scarcely
suited him now. This explains why Leentje addressed him as M'neer. To
Walter she simply said Walter, for he was only a small boy. Walter
owed her three stivers, or, to be exact, twenty-six doits, which he
never did pay her. For, years afterward, when he wanted to return the
money to her, there were no more doits; and, besides, Leentje was dead.
This pained him very much, for he had thought a great deal of her. She
was ugly, even dirty, and was stoop-shouldered, too. Stoffel, the
schoolmaster, said that she had an evil tongue: She was thought to
have started the report that he had once eaten strawberries with
sugar in the "Netherlands." This was a small garden-restaurant.
I am willing to admit the truth of all this; but what more could one
expect for seven stivers and a slice of bread and butter? I have known
duchesses who had larger incomes; and still in social intercourse
they were not agreeable.
Leentje was stooped as a result of continuous sewing. Her needle
kept the whole family clothed; and she knew how to make two jackets
and a cap out of an old coat and still have enough pieces left for
the gaiters that Stoffel needed for his final examination. He fell
through on account of a mistake in Euclid.
With the exception of Walter nobody was satisfied with Leentje. I
believe they were afraid of spoiling her by too much kindness. Walter's
sisters were always talking about "class" and "rank," saying that
"everyone must stay in his place." This was for Leentje. Her father
had been a cobbler who soled shoes, while the father of the young
Juffrouwen had had a store in which "shoes from Paris" were sold. A
big difference. For it is much grander to sell something that somebody
else has made than to make something one's self.
The mother thought that Leentje might be a little cleaner. But I am
going to speak of the price again, and of the difficulty of washing
when one has no time, no soap, no room, and no water. At that time
waterpipes had not been laid, and, if they had been, it's a question
if the water had ever got as far as Leentje.
So, everyone but Walter had a spite against Leentje. He liked her,
and was more intimate with her than with anyone else in the house,
perhaps because the others could not endure him, and there was nothing
left for him to do but to seek consolation from her. For every feeling
finds expression, and nothing is lost, either in the moral or in the
material world. I could say more about this, but I prefer to drop the
subject now, for the organ-grinder under my window is driving me crazy.
Walter's mother called him, "That boy." His brothers--there were
more beside Stoffel--affirmed that he was treacherous and morose,
because he spoke little and didn't care for "marbles." When he did say
anything, they attributed to him a relationship with King Solomon's
cat. His sisters declared he was a little devil. But Walter stood
well with Leentje. She consoled him, and considered it disgraceful
that the family didn't make more out of such a boy as Walter. She
had seen that he was not a child like ordinary children. And I should
scarcely take the trouble to write his story if he had been.
Up to a short time after his trip to Hartenstraat, Ash Gate and the
old bridge, Leentje was Walter's sole confidant. To her he read
the verses that slender Cecilia had disdained. To her he poured
out his grief over the injustice of his teacher Pennewip, who gave
him only "Fair," while to that red-headed Keesje he gave "Very good"
underscored--Keesje who couldn't work an example by himself and always
"stuck" in "Holland Counts."
"Poor boy," said Leentje, "you're right about it." They went over into
the Bavarian house. It's a disgrace! And to save a doit on the pound.
She claimed that Keesje's father, who was a butcher, let Pennewip
have meat at a reduced price, and that this was what was the matter
with all those Holland counts and their several houses.
Later Walter looked upon this as a "white lie," for Pennewip, when
examined closely, didn't look like a man who would carry on a crooked
business with beefsteak. But in those days he accepted gladly this
frivolous suspicion against the man's honor as a plaster for his own,
which had been hurt by the favoritism towards Keesje. Whenever our
honor is touched, or what we regard as our honor, then we think little
of the honor of others.
When his brothers jeered at him and called him "Professor Walter,"
or when his sisters scolded him for his "idiotic groping among
the bed-curtains," or when his mother punished him for eating up
the rice that she intended to serve again "to-morrow"--then it was
always Leentje who restored the equilibrium of his soul and banished
his cares, just as, with her inimitable stitches, she banished the
"triangles" from his jacket and breeches.
Ugly, dirty, evil-tongued Leentje, how Walter did like you! What
consolation radiated from her thimble, what encouragement even in
the sight of her tapeline! And what a lullaby in those gentle words:
"There now, you have a needle and thread and scraps. Sew your little
sack for your pencils and tell me more of all those counts, who always
passed over from one house into another."
CHAPTER IV
I don't know what prophet Walter got as punishment for that pawned
Bible. The pastor came to preach a special sermon. The man was simply
horrified at such impiousness. Juffrouw Laps, who lived in the lower
anteroom, had heard about it too. She was very pious and asserted
that such a boy was destined for the gallows.
"One begins with the Bible," she said significantly, "and ends with
something else."
No one has ever found out just what that "something else" is which
follows a beginning with the Bible. I don't think she knew herself,
and that she said it to make people believe that she possessed much
wisdom and knew more about the world than she gave utterance to. Now,
I admit that I have no respect for wisdom that cannot express itself
in intelligible words, and, if it had been my affair, I should have
very promptly drawn a tight rein on Juffrouw Laps.
Stoffel delivered an exhortation in which he brought out all that had
been forgotten by the preacher. He spoke of Korah, Dathan and Abiram,
who had erred similarly to Walter and had been sent to an early grave
for their sins. He said too, that the honor of the family had been
lost at the "Ouwebrug," that it was his duty, "as the eldest son of an
irreproachable widow and third assistant at the intermediate school,
to take care of the honor of the house----"
"Of Bavaria," said Leentje softly.
That "a marriage, or any other arrangement for the girls, would be
frustrated by Walter's offence, for no one would have anything to do
with girls who----"
In short, Stoffel accented the fact that it was "a disgrace," and that
"he would never be able to look anyone in the face who knew of this
crime." He remarked distinctly that the schoolboys must know of it,
for Louis Hopper had already stuck out his tongue at him!
And finally, that he "shuddered to cross the new market-place"--in
those days criminals were scourged, branded and hanged here--because
it reminded him so disagreeably of Juffrouw Laps's horrible allusion
to Walter's fate.
Then followed all sorts of things about Korahs, Dathans and Abirams,
whereupon the whole family broke out in a wail. For it was so pathetic.
Walter comforted himself with thoughts of Glorioso, and, whenever that
"something else" of Juffrouw Laps was spoken of, he just dreamed of
his marriage with beautiful Amalia, whose train was carried by six
pages. I fancy Juffrouw Laps would have made a pretty face if she
had learned of this interpretation of her mysterious climax.
All efforts to compel our hero to tell how he had spent that money were
in vain. After all known means had been applied, the attempt to force a
confession had to be abandoned. Water and bread, water without bread,
bread without water, no water and no bread, the preacher, Stoffel,
Habakkuk, Juffrouw Laps, tears, the rod--all in vain. Walter was not
the boy to betray Glorioso. This was what he had found so shabby of
Scelerajoso, who had to pay the penalty, as we have seen.
As soon as he got the privilege of walking again with the Hallemans,
who were so eminently respectable, he hurried away to the old bridge,
near Ash Gate, to continue his thrilling book. He read up to that
fatal moment when he had to tell his hero good-bye, and on the last
page saw Glorioso, as a major-general, peacefully expire in the arms
of the virtuous Alvira.
When Walter had returned the book to Hartenstraat his eye was attracted
by some almond-cakes at the confectioner's on the corner. He did with
Glorioso just as the Athenians did with Kodrus: No one was worthy to
be the successor of such a hero, and within a few days the residue
of the New Testament had been converted into stomach-destroying pastry.
I ought to add that a part of the "balance" left after that Italian
excursion--perhaps the part contributed by the Psalms--was invested
in a triple-toned, ear-splitting, soul-searing harmonica, which was
finally confiscated by Master Pennewip as being a disturbing element
in the schoolroom.
CHAPTER V
I don't feel called upon to pass judgment on the strife between
Leentje and Pennewip regarding the latter's partiality towards Keesje,
the butcher's son. But that fiery feeling for right and justice
which has harrassed me from my earliest youth--ah, for years have I
waited in vain for justice--and the foolish passion for hunting after
mitigating circumstances, even when the misdeed has been proved--all
this compels me to say that Pennewip's lot might be considered a
mitigating circumstance for a man convicted of the eight deadly sins.
I have found that many great men began their careers as feeders of
hogs (see biographical encyclopedias); and it seems to me that this
occupation develops those qualities necessary in ruling or advancing
mankind.
If the theologists should happen to criticise this story, and perhaps
accuse me of far-reaching ignorance, because I enumerate one cardinal
sin more than they knew of, or of the crime of classifying man as
a sort of hog, I reply that, still another new canonical sin could
be discovered that they have never studied. And that ought to be as
pleasing to them as influenza is to the apothecary.
New problems, gentlemen, new problems!
And as for our relationship with pigs, just consider the relation
of coal to diamond, and I think everyone will be satisfied--even
the theologists.
What a magnificent prospect anyone has who spends his tender youth
with those grunting coal-diamonds of the animal world! But I have
often wondered that in the "Lives of Famous Men" we so seldom read of
a school-teacher, for in the school all the ingredients of greatness
are abounding.
The reverse is more often true. Every day we see banished princes
teaching lazy boys. Dionysius and Louis Philippe are not the only
ones. I myself once tried to teach an American French. It was no go.
If it should ever become customary again to elect kings, I hope the
people will elect such persons as have studied men, just as one studies
Geography on globes or maps. All virtues, propensities, passions,
mistakes, misdeeds, knowledge of which is so indispensable in human
society, can be studied much better in the schoolroom. The field is
restricted, and can be taken in more readily. The famous statecraft
of many a great man, if the truth were known, had its origin in that
old tripping trick, which is everything to the three-foot Machiavellis.
The task of a schoolmaster is not an easy one. I have never understood
why he is not better paid, or, since this must be so, why there are
still men who prefer to teach, when on the same pay they might be
corporals in the army, and teach the use of firearms, which offers
fewer headaches and more fresh air.
I would even rather be a preacher; for he does work with people who are
interested and come to hear him of their own free will. The teacher
has to fight continually with indifference, and with the extremely
dangerous rivalry of tops, marbles, and paper-dolls--not to speak of
candy, scarlatina and weak mothers.
Pennewip was a man of the old school. At least he would seem so to
us if we could see him in his gray school jacket and short trousers
with buckles, and his brown wig, which he was continually pushing
into place. At the first of the week this was always curly, when it
was not raining--rain isn't good for curls; and on Sundays "the man
with the curling irons" came.
Antiquated? But perhaps this is only imagination. Who knows? perhaps
in his day he was quite modern. How soon people will say the same
of us! At all events, the man called himself "Master" and his school
was a school and not an "Institute." It is no advance to call things
by other than their right names. In his school boys and girls sat
together indiscriminately, according to the naÔve custom of those
days. They learned, or might learn, Reading, Writing, Arithmetic,
National History, Psalmody, Sewing, Knitting, and Religion. These
were the order of the day, but if anyone distinguished himself by
a show of talent, diligence or good behavior, that one received
special instruction in versification, an art in which Pennewip took
great pleasure.
Thus he taught the boys till they were sufficiently advanced to be
confirmed. With the help of his wife he gave the girls a "finishing
course." They were graduated with a paternoster done in red on a black
background, or perhaps a pierced heart between two flower-pots. Then
they were through and ready to become the grandmothers of their
own generation.
There was no natural science then. Even to-day there is room for
improvement along this line. It is said that some advance has been
made recently. It is more useful for a child to know how corn grows
than to be able to call the name of it in a foreign language. I don't
say that either is incompatible with the other.
The public schools were most deficient at the time when Walter and
Keesje were slowly crawling around the arena of honor; but I doubt if
one could say much more of the "institutes" of to-day. I would advise
everyone to visit such a school as he attended when a boy; and I am
convinced that after this test many a father who has the welfare of
his children at heart will prefer to keep them at home. One comes to
the conclusion, that after all in the school of clever Master Miller,
who was so clever that he got himself addressed as M'sieu Millaire,
precious little was to be learned.
Failing to make this test we continue to believe in the infallibility
of M'sieu of Millaire. We always consider that one a great man whom
we have known in childhood and haven't seen since.
When I remarked a moment ago that school-teachers are paid so
niggardly, I didn't mean that their remuneration was insufficient,
considering the quality and quantity of the goods delivered--knowledge,
scholarship, education. I only had in mind the bitterness of their
lot, and the poor indemnity given to the man who spends his life in
a wasp's nest.
In addition to versifying, Pennewip had still another hobby, which gave
him more claim to a throne than did anything else. He was possessed
with the mania for classifying, a passion known to few, but still of
not infrequent occurrence. I have never quite understood the disease;
and I gave up my search for the "first cause" as soon as I saw how
difficult it is to get around with a hobby-horse taken from somebody
else's stable. So I am going to give only a short sketch of Pennewip's
harmless animal.
Everything that he saw, perceived, experienced he divided into
families, classes, genera, species and sub-species, and made of the
human race a sort of botanical garden, in which he was the Linne. He
regarded that as the only possible way to grasp the final purpose
of creation and clear up all obscure things, both in and out of
school. He even went so far as to say that Walter's New Testament
would have turned up again if Juffrouw Pieterse had only been able
to tell to what class the man belonged who had bound the volume in
black leather. But that was something she didn't know.
As for myself, I shouldn't have said a word about Pennewip's mania for
classifying everything, if I hadn't thought it might help me to give
the reader a better picture of our hero and his surroundings. I should
have preferred to leave the said Pennewip in undisturbed intercourse
with the muses; but we shall have occasion later to refer to his
poetic art, when we shall quote some poems by his pupils.
After the usual general division into "animate" and "inanimate"--the
good man gave the human race only one soul--followed a system that
looked like a pyramid. On the top was God with the angels and
spirits and other accessories, while the oysters and polyps and
mussels were crawling about down near the base, or lying still--just
as they pleased. Half way up stood kings, members of school-boards,
mayors, legislators, theologians and D.D.'s. Next under these were
professors and merchants who do not work themselves. Then came
doctors of things profane, i. e., those driving double rigs, also
lawyers and untitled preachers, the Colonel of the City Militia,
the Rector of the Latin School. Philosophers (only those who have
developed a system), doctors with one horse, doctors without any
horse and poets were further down. Rather low down, and not far from
the mussels, was the seventh sub-division of the third class of the
"citizen population." Our hero would come under this sub-section.
Citizen Population, Class III., 7th Sub-Division.
People Living in Rented Flats.
a. Entrance for tenants only. Three-window front. Two stories,
with back-rooms. The boys sleep alone, dress, however, with
the girls. Fresh straw in case a baby is born. Learning French,
poems at Christmas. The girls are sometimes called Lena or Maria,
but seldom Louise. Darning. The boys work in offices. One girl
kept, sewing-girl, and "person for the rough work." Washing
at home. Read sermons by Palm. Pickled pork on Sundays, with
table-cloth, liquor after coffee. Religion. Respectability.
b 1. Still three windows. One story. Neighbors live above who ring
twice (Vide b. 2). Leentje, Mietje; Louise heard seldom. House-door
opened with a cord, which is sleek from long use. Sleep in one
room. Straw-heaps in cases of confinement. One maid-servant
for everything. Sundays cheese, no liquor, but religion and
respectability as above.
b 2. Neighbors who ring twice. About as above. No maid, only a
"person for the rough work." Seamstress. White table-cloth. Cheese
from time to time, only occasionally. Religion as above.
c. One story higher. Two-window front. Small projecting
back-room. The entire family sleeps in two beds. No trace of
straw. The boys are called Louw, Piet, or Gerrit, and become
watchmakers or type-setters. A few become sailors. Continual
wrangle with the neighbors about the waste-water. Religion as
above. Associate with "respectable folk." Read "Harlemmer" with
III. 7, b. 2. No maid, or person for rough work, but a seamstress
on seven stivers and a piece of bread and butter.
That brings us to Juffrouw Pieterse.
The reader will now have a very good idea of Walter's environment, and
will readily understand why I said he had a "city complexion." That
was when we saw him in the Hartenstraat, on the road to fame, or on
the road to that nameless "other thing" of Juffrouw Laps. At all
events he was on his way to things that will occupy our attention
for some time yet.
CHAPTER VI
It was Wednesday, and the Pieterses were going to give a
party. Juffrouw Laps had been invited, also the Juffrouw living
over the dairy, whose husband was employed at the "bourse." Further
Mrs. Stotter, who had been a midwife for so long and was still merely
"very respectable." Then the widow Zipperman, whose daughter had
married some fellow in the insurance business, or something of the
kind. Also the baker's wife. That was unavoidable: it was impossible
to buy all kinds of pastry and cakes without her finding out what
was up. Then the Juffrouw living below and to the rear. Of course
she wouldn't come, but the Pieterses wanted to show that they had
forgotten the late quarrel over the broken window-pane. If she didn't
come that was the end of the matter, so far as Juffrouw Pieterse was
concerned. She would have nothing more to do with the Juffrouw from
below. I may add that the lady from below did not come, and that her
name was stricken from the calling-list of those higher up.
The children were to go to bed early, with the promise of a cup of
sage-milk for breakfast if they would not make any noise the entire
evening. This drink largely took the place of tea then. It was thought
that the "noise" made by children would not be appreciated. Walter
got permission to go play with the Halleman boys, who were thought
to be very respectable. He must be at home by eight o'clock; but this
was said in a tone that gave him no cause to fear a reprimand in case
he should stay out later. Laurens, who of course was an apprentice to
a printer, and usually came home about seven o'clock in the evening,
was big enough to be present with the guests, but must promise to sit
still and drink only two glasses. The big girls were to be present
as a matter of course: They had been confirmed. Stoffel presided. His
business was to meet the gentlemen when they came for the ladies about
ten o'clock, and entertain the company with stories of Mungo Park.
Leentje was to remain till the people were all there, as it was so
inconvenient to have to open the door every time. She could make
herself useful in arranging the table and doing other things incident
to such occasions. But she "must move about a little brisker,"
otherwise they would prefer to do everything themselves.
The eldest of the girls, Juffrouw Truitje, must look after the
"sage-milk." Pietje had charge of the sandwiches; but Myntje was to
see to it that the butter was spread a little thicker, for the last
time the bread had been too dry.
Everything was going to turn out so nicely, "if only Juffrouw
Laps wouldn't talk so much." That was her failing. And, too, they
hoped that the widow Zipperman would "brag a little less about her
son-in-law." This was considered a source of weariness. And the
Juffrouw who lived over the dairy "might be more modest." She had
"never lived in such a fine house"; and as for the shop--that was no
disgrace; and on the top floor--but one cannot tell how it will be.
No one understood why the baker's wife used so many French words, which
was not becoming in one of her station. "If she does it this evening,
Stoffel, say something to me that she can't understand, then she will
find out that we are not 'from the street,' that we know what's what."
"It's all the same to me," Juffrouw Pieterse continued, "whether the
Juffrouw downstairs comes or not. I don't care a fig about it.--Four,
five--Louw can sit there, but he must keep his legs still--and a chair
there--yes--so! It's a good thing she's not coming; it would have been
too crowded. Leentje, go to work--do blow your nose! No, run over to
Juffrouw Laps's and ask the Juffrouw if the Juffrouw could spare a
few stools--without backs, you understand; because the chairs there
by the chimney--yes, ask the Juffrouw for a few stools, and tell the
Juffrouw that they are for me, and that I expect the Juffrouws about
seven. Give my compliments to the Juffrouw and wipe your nose."
Juffrouw Pieterse didn't like to use personal pronouns; it was
impolite.
On this afternoon Walter went to his bridge early. It was now not
so useless as usual, for the rain of the day before had filled the
ditch with water, which was even running, so that the straws which
Walter thoughtlessly, or full of thought--both are about the same
thing--threw into the water were carried down to the pond, where
the logs lay that were to be sawed up by the "Eagle" and the "Early
Hour." These were the names of the sawmills that for some weeks had
been the witnesses of Walter's daydreams.
Glorioso was gone, and could not be replaced; but on those afternoons
when he was free Walter returned involuntarily to the spot where he had
had his first glimpse of the world of romance. How rough and crude the
colors in that first picture! Perhaps it was the very roughness of the
colors that attracted him and changed him, till he could not conceive
how he had ever found enjoyment in the little cakes on the corner.
A peculiar prospective had opened up before him. He dreamed of things
that he could not name; but they made him bitterly dissatisfied with
his present condition. He was anxious to do everything prescribed
to get to Heaven; but he thought it would be much easier to pray in
such a cave with wax candles. And as for honoring his mother, a point
upon which she always laid great stress--why didn't she have a train
like the countess? Certainly he ought not to have sold the Bible;
and he wouldn't do it any more--he had vowed it; but then he ought
to have had a box filled with florins, and a feather in his cap,
just as it was in the book.
He was disgusted with his brother Stoffel, and his sisters, and
Juffrouw Laps, and the preacher and everything. He couldn't understand
why the whole family didn't go to Italy and form a respectable
robber-band. But Pennewip and Keesje shouldn't go; that was certain.
He wondered what had become of his verses. Every Wednesday such
pupils as had been well-behaved, and, for that reason, deemed worthy
to contest for the "laurel," handed in a poem written on some subject
suggested by the teacher. This time the subject assigned to Walter was
"Goodness," which probably had some reference to his former behavior,
and was a hint for the improvement of his moral character. But Walter
had already put goodness into rhyme so often, and found the subject so
dry and tedious and worn-out that he had taken the liberty of "singing"
something else. He selected the theme nearest his heart--robbers!
Like all authors he was greatly infatuated with his work. He was
convinced that the teacher, too, would see the excellencies of his poem
and forgive him for deviating from the path of goodness. The verses
would undoubtedly be sent to the mayor, and he would pass them on to
the Pope, who would then summon Walter and appoint him "Court-robber."
And thus he dreamed and threw his straws into the stream. They
moved away slowly and disappeared between the moss-covered
timbers. Involuntarily his fancy had transmuted them into the
characters of his world of romance. There went the countess with
her long train, which got caught in the moss and held the countess
fast. The virtuous Amalia met with no better luck; she got tangled
up in the water lentils. And now came Walter himself. He approached
Amalia, in her green robes, and was just about to rescue her, when
he was swallowed by a duck. This was most unkind of the duck, for
it was Walter's last stalk of grass; and now in the rattling and
buzzing of the sawmills below he could hear Amalia repeating in a
reproachful voice:
"Warre, warre, warre, we;
Where is warre, warre, wall--
Walter, who will rescue me?"
This annoyed him, and he could not resist the temptation to throw
a rock at the duck whose greediness had caused Amalia to doubt his
chivalry.
The duck chose the better part, and retired after she had done Walter
all the damage she could. But the sawmills paid no attention to these
happenings and continued to rattle away.
Walter heard now in the noisy clatter of the mills all kinds of songs
and stories, and, listening to these, he soon forgot Amalia and the
Pope. That the reader may not get a wrong impression of these mills,
I hasten to say that there was really nothing extraordinary about
them. They buzzed and rattled just like other sawmills.
It often happens that we think we perceive something which comes from
the external world, when in fact it is only a subjective product in
ourselves. Similarly, we may think we have just imagined something,
when really it came to us from the world of the senses.
This is a kind of ventriloquism that often gives cause for annoyance
and enmity.
I wonder which turns the faster?--Walter listened to the mills. Now--I
think--no, begin together. Good! No, the Eagle was ahead! Once
more--now!
Which will get there first? No, that won't do. Once more together. Look
sharp, Morning Hour,--out again! I can't hold my eye on it--what a
whirling and buzzing!
You are tired, are you? I believe it.
If I might only sit on such a big wing, wouldn't I hold on tight? And
wouldn't the sawyer look?
Why are you called "Morning Hour"? Have you gold in your mouth? And
"Eagle"! Can you fly? Take me with you. What a big play-ground up
there, and no school!
I wonder how the first school began. Which came first, the school,
or the teacher? But the first teacher must have attended a school. And
the first school must have had a teacher.
So the first school must have just started itself. But that is
impossible. "Eagle," can you turn yourself?--with the wind? Can you
turn yourself some other way? Try it. Beat "Morning Hour." Quick,
quick--beautiful!
Now, once more alone. Good!
Now, together again! Karre, karre, kra, kra--stretch your arms out and
take me with you. Will you? Put your hat on, Eagle; how the ribbons
fly.--Who are you? Warre, warre, ware, wan--I can't help it; it was the
duck. Tell me what your name is. Fanny, fanny, fanny, fan---- Is your
name fan? And you, Morning Hour, what is your name? Ceny, ceny, ceny,
ce. What kind of a name is Ce? Now together--sing a song together:
Fanny, fanny, fanny, fan--
Ceny, ceny, ceny, ce--
Fanny, ceny, fanny, ceny,
Fanny, ceny, fan--cy.
Fancy--what do you mean by that? Is that the name of both of you? And
what is it? Has it wings?
"Morning Hour" and "Eagle" had fused into something that had wings
and was called fancy.
Fancy lifted Walter up and bore him away.
When she brought him back to the bridge again it had already been
dark for a long time. He shook himself as if he were wet, rubbed his
eyes and started home. We shall see later what awaited him there;
but first we must go back a few hours. I hope the reader will not
disdain an invitation to Juffrouw Pieterse's. Remember that her
husband never made anything, but bought everything ready-made in Paris.
In passing by I should like to make Master Pennewip a short visit.
CHAPTER VII
School was out; and the seats looked as if the pupils had just left
the tediousness of it all lying there. The map of Europe looked down
peevishly on the heap of writing-pads. There lay the mutilated and
well-worn goose-quills, which since time immemorial have opened up
the gates of learning. True, the black-board vaunted itself with the
heavy results of the last lesson in "fractions"; but the school was
no more. The spirit had fled: It was a corpse.
Yes, the "Geist" had gone out with the children; for the reader will
see in a moment that they carried about with them a tremendous amount
of that article.
We already know that this was the great day when Pennewip was to
criticise the poetical effusions of his young geniuses. There he sat,
his restless wig sharing all the poetical feelings and emotions--and
motions--of its owner. We will just look over his shoulder and read
with him those inestimable treasures of poetic art; and perhaps we
too shall be moved to emotion.
Wig: In the middle, resting quietly.
Lucas de Bryer: "Our Native Land."
Cake and wine and native land,
Out in the moonlight I take my stand;
Our native land and cake and wine,
And I hope the moon will shine;
Five fingers have I on my hand,
All to honor our native land.
"Melodious," said the teacher, "very melodious; and very profound. Cake
and wine, with our native land as a climax."
Wig: On the right side.
Lizzie Webbelar: "My Father's Vocation."
The cat is sly, I know;
My father is a dealer in Po-
Tatoes and onions.
"Original, immediate! But I don't like the way she cuts her potatoes
in twain."
Wig: On the left side.
Jeanette Rust: "The Weather-cock."
He stands on the chimney since long ago,
And shows the wind which way to blow.
"Smooth, but not quite correct, if examined closely--but I'll let it
pass as poetic license."
Wig: Down in front.
Leendert Snelleman: "Lent."
In Lent it is always nice,
My brother's birth-day is in May,
He says his feet need warming,
So that Lent we must be praising,
And then we're going to celebrate,
Easter brings eggs and a holiday.
"It's too bad that he's so careless with his rhymes. His imagination
is extraordinary. Very original."
Wig: Down on his neck.
Keesje, the Butcher's Boy: "In Praise of the Teacher."
My father has slaughtered many a steer,
But Master Pennewip is still living, I hear;
Some are lean, and some are well-fed,
He has slipped his wig to the side of his head.
The wig actually went to the side of his head.
"Well, this is curious. I hardly know what to say about it."
The wig slipped to the other side.
"What's the connection between me and steers?"
The wig protested vigorously against any implication of relationship
with steers.
"H--mm! Can it be that this is what our new-fangled writers call
humour?"
The wig sank down to his eyebrows, which signified doubt.
"I will call up the boy and----"
The wig passed again to the zenith, to express its satisfaction with
the teacher's determination to interview the butcher's boy.
Lucas de Wilde: "Religion."
Religion very nice must be,
Much it pleases the people we see.
"The fundamental idea is very beautiful," said the teacher, "but it
ought to have been developed better."
The wig nodded acquiescence.
Trudie Gier: "Juffrouw Pennewip."
The path of virtue she shows us each day,
And we are glad to go that way;
And as there's nothing to do more fitting,
She teaches us sewing, darning and knitting.
The wig fairly leaped with pleasure, and the curls embraced one
another. This out-pouring of Trudie's heart was borne at once to
Juffrouw Pennewip, and was later hung by the fireplace in honor of
the poetess and the subject of the poem.
Then followed a sublime poem on God by Klaasje van der Gracht, the
son of the Catechist. He was thirteen years old, and had not been
vaccinated--out of regard for predestination.
"If only his father didn't help him!"
The wig was rigid with astonishment.
Louwtje de Wilde: "Friendship."
Friendship very nice must be,
Much it pleases the people we see.
The wig seemed dissatisfied. The "Religion" of Lucas de Wilde was
pulled out and compared with Louwtje's "Friendship."
"H--emm. It is possible. Another example of how one thought can
originate in two heads at the same time."
Wimpje de Wilde: "Fishing."
Fishing very----
"What's that?"
Yes, really, there it was again:
Fishing very nice must be,
Much it pleases the people we see.
The wig was moving continually. It looked as if it were fishing too.
The teacher looked hurriedly through the remaining poems and picked out
the offspring of the entire Wilde connection. His worst suspicions were
realized. Mietje de Wilde, Kees de Wilde, Piet and Jan de Wilde--all
uniformly declared that religion, friendship, fishing, dreaming,
cauliflower and deception "very nice must be," and that they were
also very pleasing "to the people we see." A regular flood of the
nice and pleasing.
Now, what do you suppose the wig did? It did the best thing that
could be done under the circumstances. More could not be expected of a
wig. As soon as it saw the futility of its efforts to comprehend the
difference between fishing, friendship, deception, dreams, religion
and cauliflower, it merely ignored the whole matter, readjusted itself
and assumed an expression of expectancy for what was yet to come.
Leentje de Haas: "Admiral de Ruyter."
Pulling the rope with emotion,
To the top of the mast he came,
And then he went to the ocean,
And won for himself great fame.
And very much more he perfected,
Saleh he vanquished, too;
A hero he was then elected,
With nothing else to do.
The wig lifted itself, the curls applauding enthusiastically. It was
evidently pleased.
Grete Wauzer: "The Caterpillar."
The caterpillar, free from care,
Crawls on the tree just over there.
"Descriptive poetry. A daring idea--the caterpillar crawling on the
tree free from care."
Wig: Quiet.
Ah, the pleasure of a wig is short-lived! And how soon was this
one--but I will not anticipate. Soon, all too soon, the reader will
know the worst.
Walter Pieterse: "A Robber Song."
"Aha, what's this? And 'goodness'? But where has he written on
goodness?"
The teacher could scarcely believe his eyes. He turned the sheet of
paper over and examined the back side, hoping to discover there some
lines on goodness.
Then he saw that on Walter's sheet there was not a trace of "goodness."
Oh, wretched wig!
Yes, wretched wig! For after it had suffered as never wig had
suffered before, after it had been pulled at and tugged at
and martyred in a manner beyond even the imagination of the
Wilde family, Master Pennewip snatched it from his head,
twisted it convulsively in his hands, stammered a short
"Heaven-human-Christian-soul-good-gracious-my-life--how is it
possible!" slapped it on his head again, covered it with his venerable
cap and burst out the door like one possessed.
He was on his way to Walter's home, where we shall soon see him
arrive. As a conscientious historian, however, it will be my duty
first to give an account of the happenings there.
CHAPTER VIII
"Goodness, I'm glad to see you! And so early, too! Leetje, place a
chair over there and get the footstool, but be in a hurry, or I'd
rather do it myself. And how are you? Juffrouw Laps is coming too,
you know--Myntje, you'd better be thinking of your dough and stop
combing your head. That girl can't keep her hands off of her hair
when there's company. But do take a seat--no, not in the corner;
there's a draft there."
There was no more draft in this corner than is usual to corners;
but Mrs. Stotter was only a Vrouw, and not a "Juffrouw." She had
no right to the seat of honour; for on all occasions a Juffrouw
takes precedence of a Vrouw, just as a Mevrouw takes precedence of
a Juffrouw. Everyone must keep his place, especially those in III,
7, b1; or c., where etiquette is observed more closely than at the
court of Madrid. The care and anxiety of the mistress of ceremonies
make her work most trying, and, too, not merely for Juffrouw Pieterse.
"Ah, my dear Juffrouw Pieterse, I was so surprised when Louwie came
to invite me, for I had just remarked to Wimpje, who makes caps, you
know--no, thank you, Pietje, I don't care for any just now--I said
to Wimpje, I wonder what Juffrouw Pieterse is doing, for I hadn't
heard from you in so long, you know--yes, just throw it aside, it's
my old one; I knew you wouldn't mind my wearing my old one--and then
Wimpje said----"
What Wimpje really said I don't know. Mrs. Stotter's garment, which she
had described as her "old one," was removed and placed on the foot of
the bed in the back room. The children, who were piled together there
like sardines, were duly admonished not to stretch out their feet,
lest in doing so they injure Mrs. Stotter's "old" garment.
"And now, my dear, be seated--yes, that's for us, twice
already. Leentje, where are you hiding now? Can't you hear that
somebody is ringing?--It's probably Juffrouw Zipperman. Juffrouw
Zipperman is coming, too, you know."
Again I am at a loss: I don't know whether it was Juffrouw Zipperman
who had rung, or somebody else. But the reader need not scold me for
writing a story that I don't know myself. I cannot be sure whether it
was Juffrouw Zipperman this time or Juffrouw Mabbel, from the bakery,
or Juffrouw Krummel, whose husband is at the bourse, or Juffrouw
Laps--but she didn't need to ring, as she lived in the house. Anyway,
by half past seven the entire company was assembled, and Stoffel was
smoking his pipe as if his life depended upon it. Leentje had gone home
without her piece of bread and butter. She "could get it to-morrow";
to-day there was "so much to do," and "one can't do everything at once,
you know."
"And then she got another one right away--don't you know? One with
a wart on her nose."
"Ah, it's an ordeal one has with girls," said Juffrouw Pieterse. "Take
another piece, don't wait to be insisted upon; it's a cake from your
own dough."
"Excusez," said the Juffrouw from the bakery, with a mouth like a
rabbit, a style of mouth signifying graciousness and good breeding.
"You must eat more, or I shall think you don't like it." She had
baked it herself.
"Then I cannot refuse, Juffrouw Pieterse. ObligÈ and many thanks."
"And you, Juffrouw Laps, what can I pass you?" Juffrouw Laps selected
ginger cake.
"Fill the cups, Trudie! Yes, Mrs. Stotter, when you are here you must
drink with us. You are welcome to anything we've got. Pietje, wipe off
a table--such a girl! And now go and look after the baby, and tell
her that I don't want to hear any more noise. Ah, Juffrouw Mabbel,
children are a great deal of trouble. And your little Sientje--how
is her cough now?"
"We've got a magnetisier, but that isn't enough. We must have the
clairvoyange of the sonnebule."
"You don't say so! One can hardly believe it. And when is he coming,
the cler--cleek--clar----"
"It's in the nerves, Juffrouw Zipperman. But he has the little nightcap
and nightgown, in which she has sweated, you know; and he says that
it will come all right now."
"Who would have thought it! What will you do now?"
"That's just it; the sonnebule must tell us what to do."
Juffrouw Laps could not agree to this.
"I wouldn't do it--I wouldn't do it--not for anything in the world! I
tell you, what God does is all right. Just mark my words!"
"Yes, Juffrouw Laps; but the Juffrouw at the provision store did it,
and her child is lots better."
"That's what you say, Juffrouw Mabbel, but I tell you there is
something in her eye that I don't like."
"What then, Juffrouw Laps?"
"She has a look, a look--and it's sin--I tell you it is. It's wrong,
it won't do. What God does is all right."
"Come, Stoffel, talk some. You sit there like a stone. Recite a poem,
or tell us something about your school. Would you believe it, Juffrouw
Mabbel, he knows a whole poem by heart. And he has memorized all the
verbs of the feminine gender."
"Mother, what are you talking about?" said Stoffel, displeased. "Don't
you see I'm smoking?"
"Yes, dear, I meant when you were through smoking. Then you can repeat
the words. You will be surprised, Juffrouw Zipperman, and wonder where
he learned it all. How does it go? 'I would have been drunk, he would
have been drunk'--of course, you know, he was not drunk, it belongs
with the verbs. You will kill yourself laughing when he begins. Fill
the cups, Trudie, and blow in the spout; there's a leaf over it."
The reader will not take it amiss, I trust, if I pass over the
subsequent history of this leaf, and, too, make some deviations from
the text of the conversation during the further course of Juffrouw
Pieterse's tea-evening. Stoffel spun off his conjugations and the
ladies fairly shrieked when he related how "he had been drunk" and
that "he would be drunk." Thereupon followed general and particular
criticism of the neighbors. The Juffrouw below received her share,
as a matter of course: She was absent.
Religion and faith play an important part. Juffrouw Laps was for
organizing a prayer-class. The preachers of to-day, she insisted,
take their work too lightly and don't sweep out all the corners.
"I tell you, it's in the Bible that man is only man," she cried;
"that's what I want to tell you. Man must not try to know better than
God himself. Salvation comes through grace, and grace through faith;
but if a man is not chosen, then he has no grace and can have no
faith. That's the way he is damned, don't you see? I tell you, it's
just as certain as twice two--understand? And for that reason I want
to have a prayer-class. Not for the sake of money or profit--God help
me, no! At most just a trifle for the fair, or for New Year. What do
you think of the plan, Juffrouw Mabbel?"
That lady expressed the opinion that her husband would be opposed to
it, for he liked to go out of evenings, and then she must stay in the
shop. Besides, it was so difficult to get through with the work. No
one could imagine what a laborious occupation baking was.
"What do you say, Juffrouw Zipperman? Don't you think it would be a
go? I would serve coffee; and the people could leave something on the
saucers. Really, I am not doing it for the money. We would begin with
the Old Testament--and then--exercise, you know; practice--understand?"
Juffrouw Zipperman thought it would be very nice; but her son-in-law
had said that the preachers are paid to do this, and that any
additional "exercise" was merely an unnecessary expense.
"What do you say to it, Juffrouw Krummel? Don't you think that such
a class--just a small class----"
Juffrouw Krummel said she practiced with her husband when he came
from the bourse.
Juffrouw Laps was now forced to turn to Mrs. Stotter, though she felt
that she was letting herself down in appealing to a Vrouw.
"Ah, my dear Juffrouw Laps, if you had been a midwife as long
as I have you'd take no interest in a prayer-class. Now there is
M'neer Littelman in Prince Street. I've been at his house--always in
respectable houses--and he always said--it's a house with high steps,
and in the hall there's a big clock about the wind and rain--and he
always said: 'Vrouw Stotter,' said he, 'you're a good woman,' said he,
'and a faithful midwife. I always tell the people that,' said he,
'and,' said he, 'all of my connection must send for you,' said he,
'but,' said he, 'when people tell you this you must act as if you
didn't hear it'--thank you, Juffrouw Pieterse, my cup is turned
over. Just as I said: Everyone must know what he's doing."
"But just a little exercise like that, Mrs. Stotter!"
"It's possible, it's possible. But I've had so much experience in such
things. I go my own way; and that's the best way, too. For I've been in
the home of M'neer Witte, who has an uncle in congress--for I always
go to respectable places--and he always said, because he's so funny:
'Child-woman, child-woman, you're nothing but a child-woman.' I was
just going to say that I know what I'm doing, for I've seen a lot in
my life. There's M'neer--what's his name? There in Prince Street--no,
no, Market Square. Oh, what is his name!"
The reader will have noticed that Mrs. Stotter digressed from the
theme. But other folk do the same.
"And Juffrouw Pieterse, what do you think of the idea? Just a little
exercise."
"Ah, my dear, I have exercise enough with my children. You don't know
what it means to bring up nine. I always worship with the children,
for the Bible says--Trudie, go to the baby; I hear her again."
There was something noble in Trudie's gait as she walked into that
back room. One could see that she felt flattered by the transmission
to her of maternal dignity. Little Kee, the baby, was less flattered.
"What were we talking about? Yes, that is my religious service. The
children keep me busy. You don't know anything about it; if I bring
them up properly--run, Pietje, and straighten out Simon. He's pinching
his sister again; he always does it when there's company."
Simon was straightened out.
"Whenever we have company the children behave so badly. There it
goes again. Myntje, go and see what's the matter and tell them to go
to sleep."
Myntje went, returning immediately with the report that they had
"turned something over."
General indignation. Angry message from the Juffrouw below. It was
unpleasant for the Juffrouw below when the children of the Juffrouw
above turned over things and flooded the back room. Terrible
excitement.
Finally the children were straightened out.
Juffrouw Zipperman again sat in the corner where there was such a
"draft." This only goes to show that earthly greatness has its dark
side, and that a son-in-law in the insurance business entitles one
to rheumatism.
Juffrouw Laps was greatly pleased with the hearty manner in which
punishment was meted out to the children. It was exactly according
to Scripture, she said; and then she cited a text or two in which
the rod was prescribed. It's in the Bible somewhere, I don't know
where. The Bible mentions everything, and the "rod" especially.
"Now, Stoffel," said the hostess sweetly, "recite something for
us." She wanted to show that her children could do something else
besides pinch and turn things over.
"I don't know anything," said Stoffel, but without a trace of Socratic
arrogance.
"Just say for us what you said the other day. Come, Stoffel. That's
the way he always is, Juffrouw Mabbel. One has to pull him up on his
feet before he will do anything. But then he goes all right. Forward,
Stoffel! He's tired now. Teaching in such a school is hard work. Yes,
Juffrouw, he's as smart as he can be. Would you believe it? All words
are either masculine or feminine. Aren't they, Stoffel?"
"No, mother."
"No? But--and the other day you said--it's only to get him started,
you know, Juffrouw Zipperman, it takes a little time, because he's
worn out with his school work--but you said that all words----"
"No, mother. Masculine, feminine or neuter, I said."
"Yes, and still more," said Juffrouw Pieterse. "You will be astonished
when you hear him. What do you suppose you are, Juffrouw Krummel?"
"I? What I am?"
"Yes, yes, what you are--what you really are."
"I am Juffrouw Krummel," she said, but doubtfully; for she read in
the triumphant look of Juffrouw Pieterse and the tightly closed lips
of Stoffel that she might easily be something entirely different from
Juffrouw Krummel.
The tension did not need to be farther increased; so Juffrouw Pieterse
passed now from the special to the general. Her glance took in the
entire company.
"And you, too, Juffrouw Mabbel; and you, Juffrouw Laps; and you,
Juffrouw Zipperman; and you, Mrs. Stotter--what do you all think
you are?"
No one knew.
This will not be surprising to anyone who knows how difficult knowledge
of the "self" is; but Stoffel had something else in mind. There was
a deeper meaning involved.
Juffrouw Laps was the first to answer, and she spoke with proud
self-sufficiency:
"I am Juffrouw Laps!"
"Wrong, wrong--entirely wrong!"
"But for Heaven sake, am I not Juffrouw Laps?"
"Y-e-s. Of course you are Juffrouw Laps; but Stoffel didn't ask who
you were, but what you were. There's the fine point."
"What I am? I'm Dutch Reform!"
"Y-e-s. That you are, too; but--it isn't that. The question is,
What are you? Help her out, Stoffel."
Between puffs of smoke, and with the air of a professor, Stoffel
proceeded to "help":
"Juffrouw Laps, I wished to know what you were from a zoˆlogical
standpoint."
"I won't have anything more to do with it," said Juffrouw Laps in
the tone of one who feels that he is going to be insulted.
"I am a midwife," said Mrs. Stotter, "and I'm going to stick to it."
"And I am the baker's wife," cried Juffrouw Mabbel, with a positiveness
in her tone which showed her intention to hold to this opinion.
"Certainly, certainly, Juffrouw Mabbel; but I mean from a zoˆlogical
standpoint."
"If it's going to be indecent, I prefer to go home."
"I, too," added Juffrouwen Krummel and Zipperman. "We came here to
be entertained."
"But you're not going to get angry about it! I tell you, it's in
the book, Stoffel--you will laugh when you hear it, Juffrouw Mabbel;
and the best part of it is, that it's in the book, and one can't say
anything against it. Tell her, Stoffel!"
"Juffrouw Laps," said Stoffel with dignity--an important moment in
Juffrouw Pieterse's tea-evening had arrived--"Juffrouw Laps, you are
a sucking animal."
I admit frankly that I cannot adequately describe the crisis that
followed these two words. If Stoffel had only said mammal, perhaps
then my task would have been easier.
Juffrouw Laps's face took on all the different colors that are
generally supposed to express anger. She had been attacked more openly
than the others, it is true; but her attitude toward the prayer-class
would go to show that she was naturally polemical.
In French novels people used to turn green; but Juffrouw Laps did not
read French, so she stopped at a terrible violet and screamed--no,
she didn't. She didn't scream anything; for she was choking for
breath. But she did pulverize that piece of ginger cake; and she
looked at Stoffel and his mother in a manner that would have been most
damaging for her if those two persons had happened to die that night.
Imitating the trick of the cuttle-fish, no doubt unconsciously,
Stoffel managed to escape this fatal stare by enveloping himself in a
heavy cloud of smoke. Juffrouw Pieterse, however, not being a smoker,
was at the mercy of Juffrouw Laps. She stammered humbly: "It's in
the book, really it's in the book. Don't be angry, it's in the book."
By this time Juffrouw Laps was getting a little air, so much that
there was now no danger of her suffocating. She threw the mutilated
remains of the ginger cake on the table and began:
"Juffrouw Pieterse, you are nothing but a low, vile, filthy--you
may even be a sucking animal, you and your son too. I want you
to understand that I've always been respectable. My father sold
grain, and nobody's ever been able to say anything against me! Ask
everybody about me--if I've ever run with men-folk, and such things;
and if I haven't always paid my debts. He was manager I would have
you understand, and we lived over the chapter-house, for he was in
the grain business, and you can ask about me there. Thank God, you
can ask about me everywhere--do you hear? But never, never, never,
has such a thing happened to me. What you put on me! If it wasn't
for lowering myself I'd tell you what I think of you--you sucking
animal, you and your son and your whole family. My father sold grain,
and I'm too respectable for you to----"
"But--it's in the book that way. For God's sake believe me; it's in
the book."
"Just hold your lip about your book. Anybody who sells God's holy
word on the Ouwebrug needn't talk to me about books."
This accusation was false; for Walter, and not his mother, had sold
the Bible; but this was no time for such fine distinctions.
"Stoffel, go get the book and show Juffrouw--my God, what shall I do!"
"Go to the Devil with your book and your sucking animals. You've got
nothing to show in your book. I know you--and your lout of a son,
and your wenches of daughters, that are growing up like----"
Truitje, Myntje and Pietje, understanding from this that there
was something radically wrong with their growth, began to screech
too. Other members of the party bawled a word from time to time,
as opportunity presented itself. Then came another message from the
Juffrouw below. This time she threatened to call in the police. The
children, taking advantage of the general excitement to break the
ban under which they had been placed, had left the bed and were
now listening at the keyhole. Juffrouw Pieterse was calling for the
camphor bottle, declaring that she was going to die; Mrs. Stotter
was clamoring for her wrap--her "old one"; and Stoffel was playing
cuttle-fish as well as he could.
All had got up and were going to leave. They could "put up with a
good deal," but that was "too much"! Juffrouw Krummel was going to
tell her husband; Juffrouw Zipperman was going to let everybody in the
insurance business know about it; Mrs. Stotter was going to relate the
whole story to the gentleman in Prince Street; and Juffrouw Mabbel--I
forget whom she was going to tell it all to. In short, every one of
them was going to see to it that the affair was well aired.
Who knows but what these threats would have been carried out, if the
good genius of the Pieterses had not at that moment caused someone
to ring the door-bell? It was that worthy gentleman whom we left in
such a state of pious despair at the close of the last chapter.
CHAPTER IX
Yes, the door-bell rang. And it rang again: So it was "for
us." Juffrouw Pieterse drew a long breath; and I must say, she did
a very proper thing. While admitting that it is foolish to say what
one would do if one were somebody else, still, in her place I should
have drawn a long breath, too. Firstly, because I imagine she hadn't
done this for a long time; secondly, because I know how, in adverse
circumstances, every change and interruption gives one ground for
hope; and, finally, because I think Juffrouw Pieterse was human,
just like the rest of us.
"Ah, my dears," she said, "be peaceable. It must be the gentlemen."
The ladies declared it couldn't be the gentlemen, because it was
too early for them; and this very doubt and uncertainty as to who it
might be gave the crisis a favorable turn.
Mere uncertainty, even when in no way connected with what is occupying
us, has a sort of paralyzing effect. Besides, when one is interrupted
in one's anger, afterwards it is difficult to find the place where
one left off.
This was Juffrouw Laps's experience; she tried it, but it wouldn't
work. Her "a sucking animal, a sucking animal!" was smothered by,
"What can it mean? He never comes before ten!"
Juffrouw Pieterse quickly availed herself of this diversion to get
them all seated again.
Trudie was commissioned to "straighten out" the children, who came off
rather badly. The hostess was just about to state a new zoˆlogical
argument, which should establish peace between the hostile parties,
when the door opened and Master Pennewip stood before the agitated
assembly.
He, too, was agitated: the reader knows it.
The surprise caused by the arrival of this unexpected visitor had a
most favorable effect on the peace negotiations. A truce was tacitly
declared, though not without the proviso, at least on Juffrouw Laps's
part, that hostilities should be reopened as soon as curiosity as to
Pennewip's visit had been sufficiently satisfied. Indeed, she was
all the more willing for a truce, as it was evident from the man's
appearance that there was something momentous at hand. His wig cried
out fire and murder in unmistakable tones. And that was just what
the good Juffrouw Laps liked.
"Good-evening, Juffrouw Pieterse; my humblest respects. I see you
have company, but----"
"That 'doesn't make a bit of difference,' Master Pennewip. 'Come
right in and take a seat.'"
These forms of expression were rigidly observed in the "citizen
populace," III, 7. c.
"Won't you drink a cup with us?"
"Juffrouw Pieterse," he said with extreme dignity, "I didn't come
here simply to drink a cup of sage-milk."
"But, Master Pennewip, please be seated!"
It wasn't easy; but the ladies made room and he was soon seated.
He cleared up his throat and looked about him with dignity. Then
he drew a roll of manuscript from his pocket, disarranged his wig
and spoke:
"Juffrouw Pieterse! You are a worthy, respectable woman, and your
husband sold shoes----"
Juffrouw Pieterse looked triumphantly at Juffrouw Laps.
"Yes, Master Pennewip, quite so; he did----"
"Don't interrupt me, Juffrouw Pieterse. Your departed husband sold
shoes. I have taught your children from little tots up to their
confirmation. Haven't I, Juffrouw Pieterse?"
"Yes, Master Pennewip," she replied modestly; for she was afraid of
that excessive dignity in Pennewip's manner and voice.
"And I just want to ask you, Juffrouw Pieterse, whether, during all
this time that your children were in my school, you ever heard any
complaints--reasonable complaints--of the manner in which I, with
my wife, instructed your children in reading, writing, arithmetic,
national history, psalmody, sewing, knitting, drawing and religion? I
put the question to you, Juffrouw Pieterse, and wait for a reply."
An awful silence followed this speech. The Juffrouw below had every
reason to be satisfied.
"But, Master Pennewip----"
"I don't want any 'but', Juffrouw Pieterse. I ask you, whether you
have had any complaints. I mean, of course, well grounded complaints
about my instruction in reading, writing, arithmetic----"
"Well, no, Master Pennewip, I have no complaints; but----"
"So-oo? No complaints? Well, then I will explain to you--where is
your son Walter?"
"Walter? Dear me! Hasn't he come home, Trudie? He went to take a
walk with the Halleman boys. They are such respectable children,
Master Pennewip, and they live----"
"So! With the Hallemans--who go to the French school! Aha, and
that's it? So--from the Hallemans! And he learns such things from the
Hallemans--the Hallemans III, 7, a2, perhaps 'a'--yes, who knows but
that it might be II. It's no wonder--immorality, viciousness--at the
French school! And now, Juffrouw Pieterse, I want to tell you that
your son----"
"What did you say?"
Master Pennewip looked about him as if he were drinking in the
breathless silence that had fallen over his hearers.
Juffrouw Laps hastened to repay with compound interest that triumphant
look of the hostess, while that lady, thoroughly miserable, was making
frequent use of the camphor bottle. She was not so much mortified that
Juffrouw Laps should hear something else unfavorable about Walter,
who had caused them so much trouble, as angry that she should be
the witness of an accusation that would give her a new weapon in the
zoˆlogical fray.
"Didn't I tell you so? Nothing good will ever come to this Walter. A
boy that begins with the Bible will end with something else. Yes,
Master Pennewip, I'm not surprised--I shouldn't be surprised at
anything he did. I've seen it coming for a long time. But what
shouldn't one expect from a family----"
As quick as a flash Juffrouw Pieterse saw here her opportunity to
recover her lost advantage. Stoffel had said it was in the book;
but a teacher must know whatever is in a book. Therefore----
"Master Pennewip," she cried, "Is it true that Juffrouw Laps is a
sucking animal?"
I am convinced that Pennewip brought this question under a special
category for "peculiar overflowings of the heart," seeing that it
followed upon his unfinished accusation against Walter. He looked
over his glasses and slowly described with his eye a circle, peopled
with women holding their breath, heads and necks stretched out and
mouths wide open. The attitude of Juffrouw Laps was threatening above
everything else, and said quite distinctly: Answer or die! Am I a
sucking animal?
"With whom have I the honor to speak?" he asked, probably not
considering that this question made the matter still more mysterious,
giving the impression that Laps's animal quality depended upon her
name, age, place of residence, family relations, etc.
"I am Juffrouw Laps," she said, "and live down stairs in the front
part of the house."
"Ah--so! Yes, indeed you belong to the class of sucking animals."
A ten-fold sigh was heaved; and Juffrouw Pieterse was again
triumphant. In politics and the citizen populace complete equilibrium
is impossible. The parties or powers are in continual motion, first
one in the ascendency, then the other.
Juffrouw Laps, who had not been able to accomplish anything with pride,
now attempted good humor.
"But Master Pennewip," she said sweetly, "how can you say such a
thing? My father was in the grain business and----"
"Juffrouw Laps, answer me one question."
"Yes, Master Pennewip, but----"
"Answer me, Juffrouw Laps, where do you live?"
"Where I live? Why, in my room, down stairs--two windows--front
entrance----"
"You miss the significance of my question entirely, Juffrouw Laps. The
meaning would be similar if I were to ask you if you belonged to that
class of organisms that live in oyster-shells."
"Yes, yes, Juffrouw Laps," cried the triumphant hostess, "that's the
point--the main point!"
And Stoffel added that it was really and truly the main point.
Juffrouw Laps saw that she was hopelessly lost, for she had to admit to
herself that she didn't usually reside in an oyster-shell. She looked
at the teacher with astonishment; but he paid no attention at all to
the effect of his questions. Assuming a sort of legal manner--which
was closely imitated by his wig, he continued:
"Can you live in water? Have you gills?"
"In water? But--Master Pennewip----"
Wig to the left, which meant: No, but!
"Or half in water, half on land?"
"Master Pennewip, how should I----"
Wig to the right: No subterfuges.
"Answer me, Juffrouw Laps, have you cold blood? Do you bring living
young into the world?"
"It is a sin, Master Pennewip!"
The wig now looked like a battering-ram, anticipating the nature of
the next question.
"Can you lay eggs, Juffrouw Laps? I only ask you the question. Can
you lay eggs? Eh?"
She said she couldn't.
"Then you are a sucking animal, Juffrouw Laps!"
The wig was in the middle again resting quietly. It had vanquished
Juffrouw Laps.
I wonder what the reader's idea is of the effect produced on the
company by this terrible sentence, against which there could be no
appeal. There was something pitiless in Pennewip's manner, and in
his contracted eyebrows there was no intimation of mercy.
CHAPTER X
The attentive reader who knows human nature will naturally wish to
know why I closed the last chapter so tamely, and why that zoˆlogical
problem which, only a short time before had caused such a violent
explosion, was now allowed to rest in peace.
There are three reasons for this.
Firstly, the women had been so wrought up that they were now exhausted.
Secondly, Juffrouw Laps, the shrewd leader of the fight, looked over
the battlefield and, without thinking of the famous battle between
the Horatii and the Curiatii, saw with innate tactical talent the
correctness of "divide and conquer." With the forces Stotter, Mabbel,
Krummel and Zipperman against the house of Pieterse--that was all
right. But now that the house was supported by Pennewip's powerful
hand, it was prudent to withdraw from the battle. For who could
guarantee her that she might depend upon her allies? What assurance
had she that the midwife, or even Juffrouw Zipperman would not go over
to the enemy?--if only out of deference to the versatile wig! No, no,
no! She wouldn't risk her rhetorical artillery in such a doubtful
engagement! She was content to say to herself, "I will get even
with you later." Imagining her, with all her relations to society,
multiplied by twenty or thirty millions, we would have read the next
day in this or that official Laps organ something like this:
"Our relations with the Pietersian empire are most cordial. The
recent friendly meeting between the two sovereigns was merely that
they might have the mutual pleasure of seeing one another, and had
no political significance whatever. It will be seen how unfounded
were those rumors of 'strained relations,' which were said to have
been brought about by a discussion of certain characteristics of our
popular princess. The reader will recall that we never gave credence
to those rumors, and reported them with great reserve."
Thirdly. The third and chief cause of the armistice
was--curiosity. Under the present changed circumstances whoever
betrayed any anger would have to leave; and whoever left would not
find out why Master Pennewip had come, or what new crime Walter had
committed. Again we see the truth of the proposition, that everything
has its good side.
"But, Master Pennewip," asked Juffrouw Pieterse--she threw the
subdued sucking animal a look that was like a triumphant telegram,
and read: Where are you now?--"but Master Pennewip, what has Walter
been doing now?"
"Yes, what has he been up to this time," added Juffrouw Laps, delighted
that the conversation had taken this turn, and that she was now to
hear about Walter's latest sin.
For the sinner is a thing in which pious persons find much
edification. As we have already seen, Juffrouw Laps was fond of
edification.
Pennewip was just on the point of beginning his indictment when the
door-bell rang. It rang again: "It's for us"--and in a moment our
truant walked into the room.
He was paler than usual, and with good reason; for strange things
had happened to him since Fancy had lifted him up and borne him away.
"Juffrouw Pieterse," began Pennewip, "my school is famous, even as
far away as Kattenburg. Do you hear me?"
"Yes, Master Pennewip."
"I repeat it: Famous! And, too, chiefly on account of the fine moral
there--I mean, of course, in my school. Religion and morality occupy
the first place in my school. I could show you verses on the Deity--but
I pass over that. It is sufficient for you to know that my school is
famous as far as--but what am I talking about--I've even had a boy
from Wittenburg; and I was once consulted about the education of a
boy whose father lived at Muiderberg."
"Oh, Master Pennewip!"
"Yes, Juffrouw, I still have the letter and could show it to you. The
man was a gravedigger--the boy painted inappropriate figures on
the coffins. And just for this reason I feel it my duty to tell you
that I don't intend to see my school lose its good name through that
good-for-nothing boy of yours there!"
Poor Walter had fallen from the clouds. That sounded quite different
from a papal appointment--which he really no longer cared for, as he
had just received another appointment that pleased him better.
His mother wanted to pass immediately to what she called her "divine
worship" and give him a sound thrashing, in order to satisfy the
teacher that religion and morality took the first place in her
house, too.
But the teacher found it preferable to tell the party what the
trouble was, and incidentally to strengthen the feeling of guilt in
the patient.
"Your son belongs to the class of robbers, murderers, ravishers of
women, incendiaries----"
That was all.
"Holy grace! Heavenly righteousness! Compassionate Christian souls! Ah,
divine and human virtue, is it possible! What must we endure!"
I cannot always be exact; but, in general, such was the flood of
exclamations that all but swept away that ten-year-old robber,
murderer, ravisher of women and incendiary.
"I am going to read you something from his hand," said the teacher,
"and then if anybody still doubts the boy's viciousness----"
All tacitly promised to have no doubts.
The work that the teacher read was indeed of such a nature as to leave
small room for doubts; and I, who have chosen Walter for my hero,
anticipate difficulty in convincing the reader that he was not so
bad as he seemed--after his
"Robber Song."
"On the steed,
Off I speed,
With helmet on head
And a sword in my hand and the enemy dead;
Quick, away!"
"Christian souls," cried the whole party, "is he mad?"
"Rather late,
Near the gate
A push and a blow,
Vanquished dragoon, Margrave laid low----"
"Heaven save us, what has he against the Margrave," wailed the mother.
"For the spoil!"
"Don't you see, it's for booty," said Juffrouw Laps. "I told you so:
He began with the Bible, he'll end with----"
"And the prize--
Pretty eyes----"
"Did you ever hear the like--he has scarcely shed his milk teeth!"
"And the prize--
Pretty eyes--
She was bought with steel----"
"With ste-e-l!"
"And the prize--
Pretty eyes--
She was bought with steel;
I bore her away to the cave just to feel
How it seemed."
"Heavenly grace, what is he going to do in the cave?"
"In my arm,
Free from harm
Lay the maid as we sped;
Her cries, sweet complaints, and the tears----"
"Oh, blessed peace, and the poor thing crying!"
"Her cries, sweet complaints, and the tears she shed--
O, delight!"
"And he calls that delight! I'm getting right cold."
"Then again,
O'er the plain----"
"Holy Father, there he goes again!"
"Then again,
O'er the plain.
Right and left, nothing spurned,
Here a villa destroyed or a cloister burned
For fun."
"The Devil is in that boy. For fun!"
"Farther yet,
I forget--
But the deeds they were dire,
And the road was marked with blood and fire
And revenge!"
"Mercy on us! What had they done to him!"
"Revenge's sweet,
And is meet
For the King of the World----"
"Is he crazy? I'll make him a king!"
"Revenge's sweet
And is meet
For the King of the World,
Who alone is supreme, with a banner unfurled
Forever!"
"What sort of a thing is he talking about?"
"All! Hurrah!
But, I say----"
Everybody shuddered.
"All! Hurrah!
But, I say
No pardon shall be lavished,
The men shall be hanged and the women----"
"Trudie, Trudie, the camphor bottle! You see--I----"
"The men shall be hanged and the women ravished----"
"The camphor bottle! Trudie, Trudie!"
"For pleasure!"
"For pleasure," repeated the teacher in a grave-yard voice, "for
pleasure!"
"He--does--it--for--pleasure!"
The company was stupefied. Even Stoffel's pipe had gone out.
But Walter's was not a nature to be easily disturbed. After his mother
had beaten him till she came to her senses again, he went to bed
in the little back room, far from dissatisfied with the day's work,
and was soon dreaming of Fancy.
CHAPTER XI
On the next day things had largely resumed their wonted course. That
someone may not charge me with carelessness, or indifference towards
the persons with whom we spent a pleasant evening, I will remark
in passing that Juffrouw Mabbel was again busy with her baking and
"clairvoyange," and that Mrs. Stotter had resumed her activities with
the stork. Those unfortunate creatures who were committed to her care
she condemned to lie motionless for two or three months--perhaps to
give the newly born an idea of their new career, and, at the same time,
to punish them for the shameful uproar they had caused by their birth.
As for Master Pennewip, he was busy, as usual, educating future
grandparents of the past. His wig had not yet recovered from the
excitement of the night before and was longing for Sunday.
Klaasje van der Gracht had been awarded the prize with an impressive,
"Keep on that way, my boy"; and he kept on. I still see poems in
the papers whose clearness, conciseness and sublimity betray his
master hand. I have heard that he died of smallpox--he had not been
vaccinated; it will be remembered--but I consider it my duty to
protect him from any such slander. A genius does not die; otherwise
it wouldn't be worth while to be born a genius. Still, if Klaas had
died like other people, his spirit would have lived in those coming
after him. And that is a beautiful immortality.
The family de Wilde, too, has not died out, and will not die. I am
certain of it.
Juffrouw Krummel asked her husband if she was really a "sucking
animal." Being from the bourse, and having much worldly wisdom, he
replied after reflection that of such things he didn't believe more
than half he heard. "In this case the last half," he added--but softly.
Juffrouw Zipperman had caught a cold; but was still able to boast
about her son-in-law. She was a "respectable woman." Only she couldn't
endure for Juffrouw Laps to talk so much about "virtue," and the
"respectability" of her father, who was "in the grain business." Old
Man Laps, she said, was not in, but under the grain business. He had
carried sacks of grain, but that was quite different from selling
grain. For the man who sells is much bigger than the man who
carries. Juffrouw, therefore, had been making misleading statements.
Trudie and her sisters had decked themselves out as well as possible
and were sitting at the window. When young people passed by they
looked as if they had never in their lives straightened out anybody.
The Juffrouw in the rear below told the grocer that she was going
to move out; for it was just scandalous, simply scandalous the way
the Pieterses carried on in their back room; that she couldn't leave
anything uncovered.
Juffrouw Pieterse was busy with her household, and looked like
a working woman. From time to time she had "divine service" with
the children, who, if they could have had their choice, would have
preferred to have been born among the Alfures, Dajaks, or some other
benighted people whose religion is less strenuous.
I am glad to be able to say that Juffrouw Laps had passed a good
night. I should like to tell more about her, but I don't care to
exhaust myself.
Stoffel had returned to school, and was trying to inspire the boys with
contempt for riches. He was using on them a poem that had probably
been written in a garret by some poor devil or other whose wealth
gave him little cause for complaint. The boys were inattentive,
and seemed not to grasp the peculiar pleasure in having no money to
buy marbles. Stoffel attributed their hard-heartedness to Walter's
crazy ideas: They had heard of his attack on the Margrave and of that
remarkable visit to the cave.
And Walter?
He still lived in expectation of the punishment he deserved so
richly. For his mother had given him to understand repeatedly that
the little "straightening out" of the evening before was merely for
practice, and that the reward of his sin would be delayed till she
could speak with the preacher about it.
In the meanwhile Walter didn't know what to do. He couldn't return
to school: Pennewip had closed for him that fountain of knowledge.
Nor was he allowed to go out for a walk. "Who knows what he will do
if I let him out of my sight?" said his mother, who was presumably
afraid that he might make a fresh attack on the cloisters. As a matter
of fact, she denied him this privilege merely because Walter asked it.
She expressed the opinion that it was best not to let bad children
have their own way.
If Walter had been right wise, he would have pretended to be thoroughly
in love with that dark back room; then, for his moral improvement,
he would have been chased down the steps, and away to his sawmills.
But Walter was not smart.
He was forbidden to go into the front room because the young ladies
did not care to see him.
That back room was more than dark: It was narrow, and dirty,
and reeked with all the fumes of "III, 7, c." But Walter was used
to all this and much more. He had always been a martyr--bandages,
poultices, bandy legs, biblical history, rickets, poems on goodness,
evening prayers, the judgment day, hobgoblins for wicked children,
closed eyes before and after the slice of bread, sleeping with crooked
knees, committing sins, fear for the torn breeches, "divine service"
with and without sensible accompaniment!
That droll robber song, whose origin we know so well, shows how easily
his childish soul was moved by whatever seemed great to him. He was a
pure child, and he was a good boy. He wouldn't have hurt a fly. The
criminal character of his song was due to his desire to grasp what
is greater than everything else and to be the leader in that world
created by his childish fancy.
Robber--good! But a first-class robber, a robber of robbers, a robber
without mercy--for pleasure!
As to the gross mistreatment of women mentioned in his song, he had
no idea what it meant. He used the word for the sake of rhyme, and
because from certain sentences in his book he had got the impression
that it must afford great pleasure.
If, perchance, for those fourteen stivers Grandisson--weary
remembrance--had fallen into his hands, his Wednesday's poem would have
been quite different. No doubt he would have sought a reconciliation
with the butcher's Keesje, forgiving him completely all his liberties
with "Holland nobility" and even presenting him a few slate pencils.
For that is the striking characteristic of spirits such as
Walter's. Whatever they are, they are that with all their might,
always going further in any direction than they would seem to be
warranted in doing by the mere external circumstances.
From such characters we could hope much, if through some chance--i. e.,
a natural cause, which we call chance, because we do not understand
it and are ashamed to admit our ignorance--if through some chance
they were not born among people who do not understand them, and,
therefore, mistreat them.
It is one of our peculiarities that we like to mistreat anyone
whose soul is differently organized from ours. How does the watch
move? asks the child, and cannot rest until he has torn apart the
wheels he could not understand. There the watch lies in pieces, and
the little miscreant excuses himself with the remark that he just
wanted to see how it was made.
CHAPTER XII
Walter sat with his elbows on the table, his chin resting in his
hands. He seemed to be deeply interested in Leentje's sewing, but
we shall see in a moment that his thoughts were elsewhere, and, too,
far away from III. 7, c.
They had forbidden her to speak to the shameless rascal, and only
occasionally, when Juffrouw Pieterse left the room, did she have an
opportunity to whisper to him a few words of comfort. To be sure,
she noticed that Walter was not so sad as we should expect one to be
who was caught in between the thrashing of yesterday and the priest of
to-morrow. This gentleman was to come to-morrow to settle the matter.
"But, Walter, how could you speak of burning cloisters!"
"Ah, I meant--sh!"
"And the Count--what had he done?"
"It was a Margrave--sh!"
"What sort of a count is that? I'll bet he was one out of another
house."
"Yes, it was Amalia's father--but that isn't it. I have something to
tell you, Leentje--sh!"
"Amalia--who is Amalia?"
"That was my bride, but--Leentje, I wanted to tell you something--sh!"
"Your bride! Are you mad, Walter? Your bride?"
"Yes, she was; but now no more. I was going to help her--but a duck
came--but that isn't it, Leentje. Now I see it all--sh. I swam by--sh!"
"Who, what? Swam by?"
"By Amalia. She sat on the rushes--now I understand it all--I am--sh!"
"I don't understand a word, Walter. But the women--why did you
want to----"
Poor innocent Leentje.
"The women were in the book--but listen, I am--sh!"
"And the cloisters?"
"That has nothing to do with it--I know everything now. Listen Leentje,
I am--sh!"
"For Heaven sake, Walter, what's the matter with you? You look as if
you were mad."
Walter had a vision. He stretched himself up, cast a proud glance
at the beams in the ceiling, placed his right hand over his heart,
extended his left, as if he were draping a Spanish mantle about
him--remember that he had never been in a theatre--and said:
"Leentje, I am a prince."
At that moment his mother came in, boxed his ears and sent him out
of the room.
Walter's principality was in the moon--no, much farther away.
In the following the reader shall learn how he had attained to this
new dignity.
Long before the beginning of this story--yes, a long time before
this--there was a queen of spirits, just like in "Hans Heiling." Her
name was A----o.
She did not live in a cave, but held her court far up in the clouds;
and this was airier and more suitable for a queen.
She wore a necklace of stars, and a sun was set in her signet-ring.
Whenever she went forth, the clouds flew about like dust, and with
a motion of her hand she drove away the firmaments.
Her children played with planets as with marbles, and she complained
that it was so difficult for her to find them again when they had
rolled away under the furniture.
The little son of the queen, Prince Upsilon, was peevish over this
and was continually calling for more playthings.
The queen then gave him a sack of siriuses; but in a short time these,
too, were all lost. It was Upsilon's own fault: He ought to have paid
more attention to his playthings.
They tried to satisfy him as best they could, but no matter what they
gave him, he always wanted something else, something larger. This
was a defect in the character of the little prince.
The mother, who, as queen of the spirits, was a very intelligent woman,
thought it would be a good idea for the little prince to accustom
himself to privations.
She issued an order, therefore, that for a certain time Upsilon was
to have no playthings.
The order was carried out. Everything was taken away from him,
even the comet that he and his little sister Omicron happened to be
playing with.
Prince Upsilon was somewhat stubborn. He so far forgot himself one
day as to speak disrespectfully to his mother.
Even Princess Omicron was contaminated by his example--nothing is
worse than a bad example--and violently threw her pallet against the
universe. That was not becoming in a girl.
Now, in the kingdom of spirits, there was a law to the effect, that
anyone showing disrespect toward the queen, or throwing anything
against the universe, should be deprived of all titles and dignities
for a certain length of time.
Prince Upsilon became a grain of sand.
After he had behaved himself well in this capacity for a few centuries
he received the news that he had been promoted to be a moss plant.
Then one morning he woke up and found himself a coral zoˆphyte.
That occurred about the time that man began to cook his food.
He was industrious, building up islands and continents on the earth. In
recognition of his zeal he was turned into a crab.
In this capacity, too, there could be no complaint against him,
and he was soon transferred to the class of sea-serpents.
He played some innocent pranks on sailors, but he never harmed
anyone. Soon he received four feet and the rank of a mastodon, with
the privilege of roaming over the land.
With the self-control of a philosopher he entered upon his new life,
busying himself with geological investigations.
A few centuries later--remember that in the kingdom of spirits all time
taken together is only as a short quarter of an hour--or to speak more
correctly, that all time is nothing. For time was made merely for man,
for his amusement, and given to him just as we give picture books to
children. For spirits, present, past and future are all the same. They
comprehend yesterday, to-day and to-morrow at a glance, just as one
reads a word without spelling it out. What was and is going to be, is.
The Egyptians and Phoenicians knew that very well, but Christians
have forgotten it.
Fancy knew that Walter could not read, so she related Upsilon's story
to him, just as I am doing for the reader.
Some centuries later he had become an elephant; then a moment later,
i. e., about ten years before the opening of my story--I mean years
as we mortals reckon them--he was elevated to the class of man.
I don't know what sins he may have committed as an elephant.
Anyway, Fancy had said, that in order to return to his station as a
spirit-prince in a short time and escape any further degradation it
was necessary for him to be diligent and well behaved in his present
state, and not write any robber songs, or slip out things and sell
them--even if it was only a Bible.
And, too, he must become reconciled to seeing Juffrouw Pieterse
without a train on her dress. Fancy said it couldn't be helped.
This "Fancy" must have been some lady at his mother's court, who
visited him in his exile to comfort and encourage him, so that
he wouldn't think they were punishing him because they were angry
with him.
She promised to visit him from time to time. "But," asked Walter,
"how is my little sister getting along?"
"She's being punished, too. You know the law. She is patient with
it all and promises to improve. At first she was a fire-ball; but
she behaved so nicely that she was soon changed to a moon-beam; and
also in this state there was nothing against her. It seemed to be
a pleasure for her; and it was all her mother could do to keep from
shortening the punishment. She was soon turned into vapor, and stood
the test well; for she filled the universe. That was about the time
you began to eat grass. Soon she was a butterfly. But your mother
did not consider this suitable for a girl and had her changed into
a constellation. There she stands before us now."
It often happens that we do not see a thing because it is too big.
"Look," said Fancy. "There--to the right! No, further--there,
there--the north star! That is her left eye. You can't see her right,
because she is bending over towards Orion, the doll which she holds
in her lap and caresses."
Walter saw it plainly enough and cried: "Omicron, Omicron!"
"No, no, prince," said the lady of the court, "that will not do. Each
must undergo his punishment alone. It's already a great concession
that you two are imprisoned in the same universe. Recently, when your
little brothers flooded the milky way with sin, they were separated
completely."
Walter was sad. How gladly would he have kissed his little
sister!--that group of stars nursing the doll.
"Ah, Fancy, let me be with Omicron."
Fancy said neither yes nor no.
She looked as if she were reflecting on the possibility of
accomplishing the almost impossible.
Walter, taking courage from her hesitation, repeated his request.
"Ah, let me live with my little sister again, even if I have to eat
grass or build continents--I will eat and build with pleasure, if I
may only be with Omicron."
Probably Fancy was afraid to promise something beyond her power;
and she was sorry not to be able to give her promise.
"I will ask," she whispered, "and now----"
Walter rubbed his eyes. There was the bridge and the ditch. He heard
the ducks cackling from the distance. He saw his mills again. Yes, yes,
there they were. But their name was no longer--what was their name?
The mills were called "Morning Hour" and "Eagle," and they called
out just like other sawmills: "Karre, karre, kra, kra----"
Thereupon Walter went home. We have already seen what awaited him
there.
CHAPTER XIII
The preacher had come and gone. Sentence had been passed and the
penalty paid. But Walter was depressed and despondent. Leentje did
her best to put some animation into him, but in vain. Perhaps it was
because she no longer understood her ward.
Those confidential communications of Walter's were beyond her
comprehension; and often she looked at him as if she doubted his
sanity. From her meagre weekly allowance she saved a few doits,
thinking to gladden Walter's heart with some ginger cakes, which he
had always enjoyed. It was no use: Walter's soul had outgrown ginger
cakes. This discovery caused Leentje bitter pain.
"But, my dear child, be reasonable, and don't worry over such
foolishness. This Fancy, or whatever the creature's name is, has
mocked you; or you have dreamed it all."
"No, no, no, Leentje. It's all true. I know everything she said,
and it's all true."
"But, Walter, that story about your sister--you would have known that
long ago."
"I did know it, but I had forgotten it. I knew everything that Fancy
told me. It had only slipped out of my mind. When she spoke, then it
all came back to me distinctly."
"I will go to those mills some day," said Leentje.
And she did it. After Walter's description she was able to find
the place where that important meeting had taken place. She saw
the timbers, the dirt, the ducks, the meadow--everything was there,
even the ashes,--everything except Fancy and her stories.
Nor could Walter find Fancy now. In vain did he go out walking with
those respectable Halleman boys as often as he was in the way at
home. For hours he would stand on the bridge and listen to the rattling
of the sawmills; but they told him nothing, and Fancy would not return.
"She has too much to do at my mother's court," Walter sighed, and
went home sad and disappointed.
When he looked out the window and saw the beautiful stars twinkling
encouragement to him, he cheered up a little. His sadness was less
bitter, but it was still there. Pain passed into home-sickness,
a sweet longing for home, and with tears in his eyes, but no longer
despairing, he whispered "Omicron, Omicron!"
Who heard that call, or understood his grief over his exile? Who
observed how that sigh for the "higher" and that fiery desire had
passed into a nobler state?
After long deliberations and Walter's express promise to do better,
Master Pennewip had at last been prevailed upon to allow our young
robber to return to school. He now had the opportunity to perfect
himself in verse-writing, penmanship, verbs, "Holland Counts" and
other equally important things.
The teacher said that the boy at Muiderberg had been still worse,
and he had known what to prescribe. Walter would do all right now,
he thought; but Juffrouw Pieterse must get another pastor, for the
present one belonged to the class of "drinkers." This she did. Walter
was to receive religious instruction from a real preacher.
I don't remember the title of the book, but the first lines were:
"Q. From whom did you and everything in existence have its origin?"
Walter wanted to say, From my mother; but the book said:
"Ans. From God, who made everything out of nothing."
"Q. How do you know that?"
"Ans. From nature and revelation."
Walter didn't know what it meant, but like the good-natured,
obedient child that he was, he repeated faithfully what he had
memorized from the book. It was annoying for him to have his
Sundays spoiled by recitations in the Kings of Israel--days so well
suited for rambling. He was jealous of the Jews, who were always led
away--a misfortune that seemed delightful to him. But he worked away
patiently, and was not the worst of those apprentices in religion. At
the end of the year he received a book containing three hundred and
sixty-five scriptural texts, twenty-one prayers, as many graces,
the Lord's Prayer, the ten commandments and the articles of faith. It
also contained directions for using it--once a day through the year,
three times a day for a week, etc., etc.; or simply use as needed. On
a leaf pasted in the front of the book was written:
To Walter Pieterse
as a
Reward
for
Excellent recitations
in the
Noorderkerk
and as an
Encouragement
for him to continue to
Honor God
in the manner in which he has begun.
Under this were the names of the preacher and the officers of the
church, ornamented with flourishes that would have put Pennewip
to shame.
The outward respectability of the Hallemans continued to increase. The
parents of these children had hired a garden on the "Overtoom." That
was so "far out," they said; and then they "couldn't stay in the
city forever." Besides, the expense was "not so much"; for there was
one gardener for everybody; and then, there were plenty of berries
growing there, and that was always very nice. There would be grass
enough for bleaching the linen--an important item, for just lately,
said the mother of the Hallemans, there had been iron-rust in Betty's
dress. For that reason it was the very thing to rent the garden;
and if people said anything about it, it would only be because they
were jealous. And, too, there was a barrel there for rainwater; and
Mrs. Karels had said it leaked, but it was not true; for everyone
must know what he's doing; but when you do anything, everybody
is talking about it. If one paid any attention to it, one would
never get anything done--and it would be such a recreation for the
children. Juffrouw Karels ought to attend to her own business--and
when Gustave's birthday came, he might invite some "young gentlemen."
Gustave's birthday came. "Young gentlemen" were to be invited,
and--Walter was among that select number.
It would lead me too far from the subject to enter upon an
investigation of the motives that prompted Gustave and Franz to invite
their former partner in the peppermint business. The list was made out
and approved by their mother; and as Juffrouw Pieterse felt flattered,
there was no objection from her side. Walter must promise, of course,
to behave properly and be "respectable," not to soil his clothes, not
to wrestle and tear his clothes, and many other things of a similar
nature. Juffrouw Pieterse added that it was a great favor on her part
to let him go, for such visits made a lot of work for her.
Yes, Walter was to make a visit! Eat, drink and enjoy himself under
a strange roof. It was a great event in his life, and already he
was becoming less jealous of the Jews, who went away so often, and
finally never came back home at all.
It was midday now--that glorious midday. With indescribable dignity,
for a boy, Walter stepped through the gate-way. "A little to right--to
the left, to the left again, then over a bridge, and then to the
right straight ahead. You can't miss it," Gustave had said. The name
of the garden was "City Rest," so all Walter had to do was to "ask,"
and he would "find it."
And so it was.
Anyone making a call or visit for the first time always arrives too
early. So it was with Walter, who reached City Rest before any of the
other guests. But the boys received him cordially and presented him
to their mother, who said that Walter had a pretty face, if it were
only not so pale.
The other playmates came then, and running and throwing began, in
the customary boyish style. This was interrupted with waffles and
lemonade, which they "must drink quite slowly," because they were
"wet with perspiration."
When the proud mother of the Hallemans was speaking of berries and
the grossly slandered rainwater barrel, she might have mentioned
the advantages of the leafy bower, where Betty was now sitting with
a gentleman.
"Who is that?" asked Walter of little Emma, who was playing with
the boys.
"That? That's Betty's sweetheart."
From that touching story of slender Cecilia we know that Walter already
had his first love affair behind him; but still Emma's statement was
to him something new. Up to that time he had thought that a sweetheart
was a girl to whom one gives slatepencils and bonbons. But she seemed
to be above such things. Walter saw immediately that he had not taken
the right course with Cecilia; and all at once a desire came over
him to know how a grown man treats a girl who is through school.
"Her sweetheart?"
"Oh yes--engagÈ!"
That word was too modern for Walter. If the reader is sharp he can
calculate in what year that girl married the barber's apprentice. All
that is necessary is to determine when that stupid engagÈ came into
use in this sense in "III. 7, a."
"What did you say?" asked Walter.
"EngagÈ--they go together."
"What is that?"
"Oh, they're going to get married. Don't you know?"
Walter was ashamed not to know such a simple thing; and, as is often
the case, he was ashamed of being ashamed.
"Certainly, of course I know. I hadn't understood right
well. Emma--will you marry me?"
For the moment Emma was unable to accommodate him, as she was engagÈ
with her mother; but as soon as she was free she would consider
the matter, and Walter would probably be favored. She looked at him
sweetly--and then the game called her to another part of the yard.
Love is the instinct for unity--and the instinct for multiplicity. As
everywhere, nature is simple here in principle, but manifold in
application. The love of a thief means: Come, we will go steal
together. The servant of the Word unites with his loved one in prayer
and psalm, etc., every animal after his kind.
Or is this instinct to share, to be together, to be united at the
same the instinct for the good?
In Walter's case it was, even though he himself did not know it. Had
he not, in the name of Cecilia, liberated a bird that fluttered about
its narrow cage in distress? Of course Cecilia had laughed and asked
Walter if he was crazy. She did not know that there was any connection
between his sympathy for the poor little bird and the beating of his
heart when he scratched her name on the frozen window-pane in the
back room. Perhaps she would have understood if she had loved Walter;
but that was impossible, because he still wore his jacket stuffed in
his trousers.
At all events, it was not possible for him to think of anything bad
when he called "Omicron." He had now forgotten Cecilia, and would
have been greatly surprised if she had appeared in answer to his
call. Little Emma would have come nearer meeting his requirements.
Walter felt that he must know just how the young man was proceeding
with Betty in the bower. He soon found an excuse to separate himself
from his companions; and then he heard all sorts of things that did
not make him much wiser.
"Yes, I said so too. In May----"
"Certainly, on account of the top story----"
"It's annoying! And what does your mother say?"
"Hm--she says we must wait another year, that it isn't respectable
to get married in such a hurry--it's just as if----"
"Four years----"
"Yes, four years. Louw and Anna have been engaged for seven."
Walter was proud that he knew exactly what it all meant. To rent
an upper story together, preferably in May!--that was the way he
understood it.
"And do you get that press for the linen?"
"No, mother wants to keep it. But if we will only wait a year she
will give us another one--a small one."
"The big one would have been nicer."
"I think so too, but she says young people don't need a big press. But
when my sister was married she got a big one."
"Tell them you want a big one too."
"It's no use."
"Try it. I won't marry without that big one."
"I will make them----"
This is a fair sample of what Walter overheard. He was dissatisfied
and slipped away and hid himself, lost in thought. He didn't even know
himself what was the matter with him; but when Emma came and called
him he looked as if he had been thinking of anything else but presses
and vacant flats, for in a tone at once joyous and fearful he cried:
"Could it be she--my little sister?"
It was evening now, and the children were to continue their games
indoors. As the little party was tired, one of the grown-ups was
going to tell a story.
Just what "grown-up" had been requisitioned to narrate the story of
Paradise and Peri, I don't know. Anyway the story hardly harmonized
with Betty's engagement and that love-obstructing clothes-press. But
just as Fortune is said to smile on everyone once in a lifetime, so,
in the midst of the flatness and insipidity of everyday life, it seems
that something always happens which gives that one who lays hold of it
opportunity to lift himself above the ordinary and commonplace. To the
drowning man a voice calls: "Stretch out thy arms, thou canst swim."
"After Peri had begged long, but in vain, at the gates of paradise to
be admitted to the land of the blessed, she brought at last, as the
most beautiful thing in the world, the sigh of a repentant sinner;
and she found favor with the keeper of the gate on account of the
sacredness of the gift she had brought----"
"Let's play forfeits now!" cried Gustave.
"Forfeits! Forfeits!" everybody called out after him.
And they played forfeits. Pawns were redeemed; and of course there
was some kissing done. Riddles were given that nobody could guess;
and who ever knew must not tell--a usual condition in this game.
"Heavy, heavy hangs over your head; what shall the owner do to
possess it?"
"Stand on one leg for five minutes."
"Let him jump over a straw--or recite a poem!"
"No, a fable--la cigale, or something like that."
"Yes, yes!"
It was Walter's pawn.
"I don't know any fable," he said, embarrassed; "and I don't know
French either."
"I will help you," cried Emma. "Le pere, du pere----"
"That's no fable! Go ahead, Walter!"
For some of the party it was a joy that Walter knew no Fable and no
French. If it were only known how often one can do a kindness by being
stupid, perhaps many, out of love for humanity, would affect stupidity.
But Walter did not think of the pleasure of the others--which he
could not have understood. He wept, and was angry at Master Pennewip,
who had taught him no French and no fable.
"Forward, Walter, forward!" insisted the holder of the pawn.
"It needn't be French. Just tell a fable."
"But I don't know what a fable is."
"Oh, it's a story with animals."
"Yes, or with trees! Le chÍne un jour dit au roseau--don't you see,
you can have one without animals."
"Yes, yes, a fable is just a story--nothing else. You can have in it
anything you want to."
"But it must rhyme!"
Walter was thinking about reciting his robber song, but fortunately
he reconsidered the matter. That would have been scandalous in the
home of the Hallemans, who were so particularly respectable.
"No," cried another, who was again wiser than all the rest, "it needn't
rhyme. The cow gives milk--Jack saw the plums hanging--Prince William
the First was a great thinker. Don't you see, Walter, it's as easy
as rolling off of a log. Go ahead and tell something, or else you
won't get your pawn."
Walter began.
"A little boy died once who was not allowed to go to heaven----"
"Oho! That's the story of Peri. Tell something else."
"I was going to change it," said Walter, embarrassed. "And so the
little boy couldn't enter the heavenly gates, because he didn't know
French, and because he had sometimes been bad, and because he hadn't
learned his lessons, and also because he--because he"----I believe
Walter had something on the end of his tongue about his mother's
box of savings, but he swallowed it, that he might not offend the
Hallemans by any allusion to the peppermint business--"because he
once laughed during prayers. For it is certain, boys, that if you
laugh during prayers you'll never get to heaven."
"So--o-oo?" asked several, conscious of their guilt.
"Yes, they can't go to heaven. Now the boy had had a sister, who died
one year before him. He had loved her a lot, and when he died he began
to hunt for his sister right away. 'Who is your sister?' he was asked."
"Who asked him that?"
"Be still! Don't interrupt him. Let Walter tell his story!"
"I don't know who asked that. The boy said that his little sister
had on a blue dress and had dimples in her cheeks, and----"
"Just like Emma!"
"Yes, exactly like Emma. They told him that there was a little girl
in heaven that looked just like that. She had come the year before,
and had asked them to let her brother in, who would certainly inquire
after her. But the boy could not go in. I have already said why."
"Had the little girl always learned her lessons?"
"Of course! Don't you see she had? Let Walter go on with his story!"
"It was sad that he could not get to see his sister any more. He felt
that it hadn't really been worth the trouble to die. 'Oh, just let
me in!' he begged the gentleman at the door----"
"At the gate!" corrected several simultaneously, who, though untouched
by the sublimity of Walter's conception of death, were offended by the
commonplaceness of the word door. But such things happen frequently.
"All right!" said Walter. He was ashamed that he had offended against
propriety. "The gentleman at the gate said, 'No!' and then the poor
boy returned to the earth."
"That won't do," cried the philosophical contingency, "whoever is
dead remains dead."
"Don't interrupt him. Of course it's only a story!"
Walter continued: "He returned to the earth and learned French. Then
he appeared at the gate again and said, 'Oui, Monsieur!' but it did
no good; he was not admitted."
"I should think not; he ought to have said: 'j'aime, tu aimes.'"
"I don't know anything about that," Walter replied.
"Then he went to the earth again and learned his lessons till he
could say them backwards. He did this for the keeper of the gate;
but all this did no good; he was not allowed to go in."
"Of course not," cried one of the wise ones, "to get to heaven you
must be confirmed. Had he been confirmed?"
"No. That's the reason it was so difficult. Then he tried something
else. He said that he was engaged to his sister."
"Just like Betty," cried Emma.
"Yes, like Betty--and that he loved her and wanted to marry her. But
it was all of no use; they wouldn't let him into heaven.
"Finally he didn't dare go to the gate any more, for fear the keeper
would get angry at him."
"And then? What happened?"
"I don't know," Walter stuttered. "I don't know what he ought to do
to get to heaven."
Walter knew the rest of the story very well, but he couldn't put it
into words. This was shown in a peculiar manner an hour later.
On the way home the party was almost run over by a wagon just as
they were crossing a bridge. In the commotion Emma slipped under the
railing and fell into the stream. Somebody screamed, and Walter sprang
after her.
If he had died at that moment the keeper of the gate would hardly
have turned him away because he didn't know French and had not been
confirmed.
When he was brought home, wet and dirty, Juffrouw Pieterse said that
one ought not to tempt the Master, and that's what one did when one
jumped into the water without being able to swim.
But I find that the man who can't swim is the very one to expect
something of the Master; for the man who can swim has some prospect
of helping himself.
And Juffrouw Pieterse complained that there was "always something
the matter with that boy." There was something the matter with him.
CHAPTER XIV
Juffrouw Pieterse must have inherited something, for all at once the
Pieterses moved to a more respectable neighborhood, and the daughters
no longer knew any of the girls that they used to sew with. Such things
do happen in cases of inheritance, when one moves to a more select
quarter. Besides, there were other signs. They exerted themselves in
trying to get Leentje to speak "better Dutch." Stoffel was zealous
in teaching her, but Juffrouw Pieterse spoiled everything by her
bad example.
Walter was now wearing a new jacket, with a small collar, such as
cabmen wore later. For him a jacket to stuff in the trousers was a
thing of the past. It "looked so babyish," the young ladies said,
and was "out of the question now when the boy can write poetry."
That Walter could write poetry was boasted of to everybody that
would listen. Under the circumstances they really had no right to
reap any fame from Walter's robber song; but this only showed what an
important rÙle vanity plays in the world. Of course he himself never
heard anything of this; it was mentioned only when he was not present.
The image of Cecilia had disappeared from Walter's heart; and little
Emma was forgotten. Omicron must show her face in the stars from time
to time to remind the child of his love. And even when he looked at
the evening sky and his soul was stirred by an inexpressible longing
after the good, it was not so much that he was thinking of Omicron
as that he was moved by vague sweet memories. In the twelve years of
his life there was a mythical prehistoric period which was difficult
to separate from the historical period.
He didn't know that he could write verses. He accepted it as a matter
of course that his robber song was very poor, and looked upon Klaasje
van der Gracht with awe. It was from Juffrouw Laps he learned that
he could write poetry; and it was an illumination for him.
Juffrouw Laps had an uncle whose birthday was coming the next week. She
had paid the Pieterses a swell visit to ask if Walter wouldn't write
her a poem for the occasion. She would see that he got some bonbons.
"But Juffrouw Pieterse, you must tell him that it must be religious
and that my uncle is a widower. He must bring that in. I should like
for it to be in the melody of the 103d psalm, for my uncle has that
psalm in his lyre."
The reader will note that she did not mean the lyre of Apollo. What
she spoke of was a thing that turned, and made a screechy noise.
Juffrouw Pieterse was going to speak with Walter about it when he came
from school, but first she had to consider the matter with Stoffel,
to decide whether it should be a request or a command, so that Walter
would have no reason to be "stuck-up." For that she could not endure
in a child.
"Walter, did you know your lesson?"
"No, mother; I had to learn thirteen mountains in Asia, and I knew
only nine."
"Now, look here, that won't do. I'm paying tuition for nothing. Do you
think money grows on my back? I don't know what's to become of you."
"I don't know, either."
After all, though, Walter was flattered by the commission to write
a poem. Stoffel's and Juffrouw Pieterse's efforts to conceal their
real opinion of his poetical talents had been useless. It was a
pleasant surprise for the boy to learn that he was looked up to. He
had always heard that he was worse than worthless, and that he would
never amount to anything. It interested him now to hear the assurance
of his mother and Stoffel that the commission was only a punishment for
not knowing the mountains in Asia. In a great rush Stoffel taught him
the difference between "masculine" and "feminine" verses, explaining
that these must alternate, that all must be of the same length, and
that if at any time the boy was in doubt he would clear the matter up,
etc., etc.
Walter was delighted. He went to the back room, got a slate pencil
and began to write. It could hardly be called a success. "A widower
of God"--"O God, a widower!" That was as far as he got.
He gnawed on the pencil till he had pulverized it and worn out his
teeth, but it wouldn't go. He was continually being interrupted
by Stoffel's masculine and feminine verses. He had been too proud,
and now he was receiving his punishment. He began to believe that
his mother was right when she said nothing would ever come of him.
Nor could Leentje help him. So he determined to make another attempt
to-morrow. Perhaps he could do better then. Leentje agreed with him.
"All right," said Juffrouw Pieterse. "But don't disgrace us
all. Remember, I told Juffrouw Laps you could do it; and the man's
birthday comes Thursday week. So you haven't any too much time."
Walter went to Ash Gate, found his bridge and began to weep bitterly.
"See what's the matter with that boy," he heard a woman saying to a
girl fourteen or fifteen years old. "Perhaps he has lost something."
"Have you lost anything?"
Walter looked up, and was surprised; for he seemed to have seen that
face before. It reminded him of Fancy.
"Now, everything will be all right There you are; and I have been
hunting for you."
"For me?"
"Yes, yes, but I just didn't know it. But I know it now. Tell me
right quick how to write the poem!"
The girl, who was helping her mother place the linen on the grass for
bleaching, looked at Walter in astonishment. She hurried back to her
mother to say that she didn't know what was the matter with the boy,
but that there was certainly something wrong. "He looks as if he were
scared half to death," she decided.
Then she ran and fetched water from the house near by and made Walter
drink. He saw that he had made a mistake; but there was something in
the manner of the girl that drew him to her irresistibly, even though
her name was only Femke. So the mother addressed her. And this name
reminded him of Fancy, which was something.
Femke pointed to an inverted basket and told him to tell the cause of
his trouble; and Walter did it as well as he could, while the mother
was busy with the linen.
"Maybe I can help you," the mother said. "I have a nephew who is
a widower."
"Yes, Juffrouw--but the poem? And there must be something about God
in it."
"Certainly. It's a long story. His wife was a niece of my
husband's--you see we are Catholics, and she acted according to
her religion--put a stone on those cloths, Femke, or they'll blow
away--yes, bleaching is a job. You have no idea what a bother
it is--yes, she acted according to her religion; and that was
right. People that don't do that are not much. But he--draw that
shirt back a little, Femke. The sleeve is hanging in the ditch--but
he didn't believe in it, and said it was all nonsense. But when she
died, and he saw all that was done for her--it was Father Jansen who
was there. Of course you know him--he always walks with a black cane,
but he never lets it touch the ground----"
The women looked at Walter questioningly. The poor boy sat on the
basket, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands. He had listened
with open mouth, wondering how he was going to apply it all to his
poem. Of Father Jansen and that cane which despised the ground he
had never heard. This he had to confess.
"Yes, it was Father Jansen who was there, and when my husband's nephew
saw all that--don't spill any, Femke, or the mud will splatter so
bad--yes, when he saw that a human being doesn't die like an animal,
then he was more respectful, and after that he observed Easter like
other people. And last year when he broke his leg--he's a dyer,
you know--he drew thirteen stivers for nine weeks. And so I wanted
to tell you that there's a widower in our family. And now you must
get up, for I need the basket."
Walter arose quickly, as if he feared he might seem to be trespassing;
and the woman went away, after having warned Femke to watch the linen
and call her if any bad boys should come along.
"Are you better now?" Femke asked kindly.
"Oh yes; but I don't see how I'm to use all that in my poem. You
must remember that it has to rhyme, and the verses must be of the
same length, and that they must be masculine and feminine; for my
brother said so, and he's a school-teacher."
Femke reflected, then all at once she cried, "Do you know Latin?" As
if Latin would help Walter.
"No," disconsolately.
"Well, it really makes no difference. It's in Dutch, too. Just watch
the linen a minute."
Walter promised, and Femke ran to the house.
Then some boys came along throwing rocks. Walter, conscious of his
responsibility, called to them to desist--or words to that effect. This
only made them worse. They came closer, and, to worry Walter, began to
walk over the linen. For him it was as if they were mistreating Femke,
and he charged on the miscreants. But it was two against one, and a
weaker one at that; so he would have soon been defeated if his lady had
not returned quickly. She rescued him and drove off his assailants; and
when she saw that his lip was bleeding she gave him a kiss. The boy's
heart trembled; all at once his soul was lifted to an unfamiliar level;
and for the first time in weeks he felt again that princely nature
that had given Leentje such a fright. His eyes shone, and the boy,
who but a moment ago did not know how he was to write some rhymes,
was filled with the feelings and emotions that make poets of men.
"O Fancy, Fancy, to die for thee--to die with such a kiss on the lips!"
It hurt him to think that the boys were gone. If there had been ten
of them he would have had courage for the unequal fight.
And Femke, who had never heard of poetical overflows, understood him
immediately, for she was a pure, innocent girl. She felt Walter's
chivalry, and knew that she was the lady to reward it.
"You are a dear sweet boy," she said, taking his head between her
hands and kissing him again, and again--as if she had done something
of this kind before. But such was not the case.
"And now you must read the verses in the little book. Maybe it will
help you to write for your aunt----"
"She isn't my aunt," Walter said, "but of course I will look through
the book."
He laid it on the railing of the bridge and began to read. Femke,
who was taller than he, had put one arm around his neck, while with
the other hand she was pointing out what he should read.
"Don't you see?" she said, "the lines are the same length."
"Yes, but they don't rhyme." And Walter read:
Mother most pure,
Mother undefiled,
Virgin most powerful,
Virgin most merciful,
Virgin most faithful,
Spiritual vessel,
Vessel of honor,
Vessel of singular devotion,
Mystical rose,
Tower of David,
Tower of Ivory,
Gate of Heaven----
"But, Femke, how am I to use that for my poem? I don't understand
any of it."
Femke didn't understand much of it either. She had been reading the
book every day for the past four or five years, and she had always been
satisfied with her comprehension of it. But now she saw that she was
as ignorant about it as Walter. She was ashamed and closed the book.
"But don't you know what Faith is?" she asked, as if this defect
might account for the general ignorance of both.
"Not that way," Walter replied. "I learned it another way."
"But you believe in Jesus, don't you?"
"Oh, yes. That's God's son. But I didn't learn anything about vessels
and towers. Do they belong to faith?"
"Why, certainly! But you know the holy virgin, Maria!"
"So? Maria? No, I don't."
"And Purgatory?"
"I don't know anything about it."
"And confession?"
"No."
"What do you do then?"
"How do you mean, Femke?"
"I mean to be saved."
"I don't know," Walter replied. "You mean, to get to heaven?"
"Why, certainly. That's the point. And you can't do that without the
holy virgin and such a book. Shall I teach you the creed, Walter? Then
we'll be together in heaven."
That pleased Walter, and Femke and Walter began:
"God created the world----"
"What did he do before that, Femke?"
"I don't know. But the people were made wicked by a snake; then the
Pope pronounced a curse upon the snake, for the Pope lives in Rome,
you know. And then Jesus was crucified to make the people good
again. That was a long time ago."
"Yes, I know," Walter said, "Jesus changed the number of the year. At
his birth he began at nought."
Femke didn't know again. In this way each supplemented the knowledge
of the other; and Walter was proud that he knew something about the
creed, even if Femke did think it the wrong creed.
"And so Jesus made the people good again, and if you will pray out
of such a book you will be saved. Do you understand, Walter?"
"Not quite. What is an ivory tower?"
"Why, that's only a name for the virgin. It's as if you were to call
the pastor father. Now you understand."
Femke hunted for another illustration.
"You have a mother; what do you call her?"
"Why, I call her mother."
"Correct. What do the other people call her?"
"They call her Juffrouw Pieterse."
"Just so. When we call the holy virgin 'ivory tower' it's just like
calling your mother Juffrouw Pieterse. Ivory gate means that to get
to heaven we must go through the holy virgin. That's the main thing."
"But, Femke, what is a virgin?"
Femke blushed.
"That is anybody that has never had a child."
"Me?" asked Walter in astonishment.
"No, child, it must be a girl!"
"Are you a virgin?"
"Of course!"
Femke spoke the unvarnished truth.
"Of course--because I'm not married."
"But Maria was married--and Jesus was her child."
"Ah, that's where the holiness comes in," replied Femke. "And for that
reason she is called the ivory gate. Do you understand now, Walter?"
Walter did not understand; but he asked permission to take the book
home with him, that he might study it. That, however, was not possible,
as Femke needed the book every day. Walter consoled himself easily,
for not for anything in the world would he have endangered Femke's
salvation. Femke asked him to come again. She would be glad to tell
him all she knew about the matter; and, if both should get tangled up,
she would ask Father Jansen about it. And then Walter would soon be
as wise as she was.
Walter withdrew; i. e., after he had kissed Femke heartily. This
meeting with her, the mysterious book, salvation, the fight with the
boys--all these things would run through his mind whenever he tried
to think of the poem. It seemed to him that there was some connection
between them.
When he got home he turned through Stoffel's books, hoping to find
something about holy vessels, ivory towers, and immaculate virgins. But
they were all school books, and gave information about everything
else but salvation. Walter was crushed, but he was still searching.
"Master Pennewip had a father and mother; and certainly old Pennewip,
too, who slaughtered hogs; and the one before him, too--but who was the
first Pennewip? And who slaughtered the hogs before old Pennewip? And
before there were any hogs, what did butchers do? And----"
I will know all of that some day, Walter thought. If he could have only
quieted himself so well about his poem! If that were only written, he
thought, then he would clear up the lost causes of everything. In the
meanwhile he dreamed of Femke, of her blue eyes, her friendliness,
her soft lips--and of her voice, when she said, "You are a dear,
sweet boy."
Could it be that she is Omicron? he thought.
And thus the child dreamed, dreamed; and, just as in the development
of humanity, in his life was working a three-fold impulse, towards
love, knowledge, and conflict.
"But Walter, don't you read any books at home about the creed?"
Thus Femke questioned her little friend the next day, as he sat on
her basket again.
"Yes, but they're not pretty."
"Don't you know anything by heart?"
Walter repeated a stanza of a reformed church hymn. This found no
favor with Femke; though she liked his reciting.
"Don't you read anything else?"
Walter reflected: he flew through Stoffel's library--works of the
Poetical Society, Geology by Ippel, On Orthography, Regulations
for the Fire-Watch, Story of Joseph by Hulshoff, Brave Henry, Jacob
Among His Children, Sermons by Hellendoorn, A Catechism by the same,
Hoorn's Song-book.
He felt that all of this would not prove very imposing for
Femke. Finally:
"I do know something, but it isn't about faith and the creed. It's
about Glorioso."
Femke promised to listen, and he began to relate the story. At first
he spoke mechanically, using all the "and then's": but soon he put
himself into the soul of the hero and told the story better than he
had read it in the greasy book. At every deed of Glorioso he would
spring from the basket and act the part of that hero in a way that
made Femke's blood run cold. Still, how magnificent she found it! And
when at last he was through, a spark from his peculiar but sincere
enthusiasm had fallen into her heart, which like his beat with delight
over the beauty of what she had heard. Her cheeks glowed--really,
if a Treckschent had started to Italy at that moment I believe she
would have gone along, in order to take part in so much danger and
adventure--and love. The nicest thing about the story was that it
showed how firm such a robber is in the faith.
"Don't you know another story?"
"Yes," said Walter. "One more. It's in a little book--a calendar,
I believe."
And he related the story of Telasco and Kusco and the beautiful
Aztalpa.
Telasco and Kusco, sons of the King of the Sun-worshipers, were
twins; and so both were equally near the throne. They loved each other
devotedly; so which would give way for the other? Which of the two was
to become Inca? Funeral pyres were built, one for each, and prayers
were offered to the sun that one of the piles might be ignited. But the
sun did not light either. He ordered that Aztalpa, the sister, should
choose one. That one to whom she offered her hand should inherit the
throne and the empire. But the princess could not decide, for she
loved them both dearly and both equally. It was then decided that
both should go out hunting on a certain morning, and that the one who
killed the first doe should become king. Telasco had red arrows, Kusco
blue. The morning came. The brothers were lying in a thicket as the
deer approached. Both fired, and both missed. Then they swore mutually
not to miss intentionally the next time. They kept the oath, and two
deer fell; but Telasco had shot one of Kusco's arrows, and Kusco one
of Telasco's. Telasco then proposed that Aztalpa should be killed,
to avoid any discord in the empire; and in the other world both would
enjoy the same place in her affections. All agreed to this; but when
the fatal day came, Aztalpa fell on her knees before Telasco and begged
that she might receive her death at the hand of Kusco. Telasco cried:
"Aztalpa, you have chosen!" All bowed down before Kusco; and when
they looked for Telasco he had disappeared. He was never seen again.
Often Femke interrupted with questions, for there was much that was
strange and wonderful to her; but she was charmed with the story and
shared all of Walter's enthusiasm.
"I tell you, though, Walter, if that girl had known what Telasco was
up to she wouldn't have done it. But the story is beautiful. I wonder
if such things really happen."
"That was far from here, Femke, and a long time ago. That's just the
way it was in the book. But now I must go home, for I haven't a stiver
to pay the gate-keeper if I come in after eight. Oh, Femke--if I were
only through with that poetry business."
"It will turn out all right. Just think of Telasco. He had a difficult
task, too."
"No! I will think of the girl. Good-evening, Femke----"
Walter received the hearty kiss that his story had earned him, and
dreaming of Aztalpa, who was guarding the linen, he passed through
the Ash Gate and turned towards home. The moon shone so brightly that
he was annoyed not to have been able to remain with Femke. How much
better, he thought, could he have told his story by moonlight! But
he didn't have the price--a stiver.
CHAPTER XV
The moon paused on the sky, as if she were weary of her lonely
lot. Was she grieved because ungrateful humanity had fallen asleep
and was ignoring her?--or because of the light borrowed from her
for thousands of years, and none returned? She poured forth her
sorrow in heart-breaking noiseless elegies till the night-wind was
moved to pity. Whish! he went through the trees; and the leaves
danced. Crash! he went over the roof; and the tiles flew away, and
chimneys bowed meekly; and over the walls and ditches the sawmills
danced with the logs they were to saw. There a girl sat sleeping. Could
it be Femke? The linen danced about her to the music of the wind, the
shirts making graceful bows and extending their sleeves. Nightcaps,
dickeys and drawers danced the minuet; stockings, skirts, collars,
handkerchiefs waltzed thicker and thicker around the sleeping girl. Her
curls began to flutter--a smile, a sigh, and she sprang to her feet. A
whirlwind caught her up and----
"O, heavens, Femke, Femke!" and Walter grasped at the apparition that
was being borne away towards the moon in a cloud of stockings, socks,
drawers, shirts and collars.
"Mother! Walter's pinching me," cried Laurens, the printer's
apprentice; and Juffrouw Pieterse groaned, that those boys couldn't
even keep quiet at night.
The "House of Pieterse" gathered at Walter's bed. There was the noble
mother of the family enveloped in a venerable jacket that fell in broad
folds over a black woolen skirt. There was Trudie, with her stupid blue
eyes; and Myntje and Pietje--but what am I talking about? In the new
home Trudie had become Gertrude, like a morganatic princess in Hessia;
and Myntje was now Mina, but preferred to be called Mine, as that
sounded more Frenchy. But her stupid face remained unchanged. Pietje
was now Pietro. Stoffel had said that was a very swell name.
Stoffel, too, had now appeared on the scene, to the great astonishment
of his mother, who expected so much of him. This fine sense of
propriety had been developed in the new home.
"What's the matter with you, boy?" cried everybody at once.
"Oh, mother, Femke--Femke!"
"The boy is foolish." That was the unanimous verdict of the family.
And they were not altogether wrong. Walter was delirious.
"They are carrying her away--around and around--Daughter of the Sun,
decide--here is Telasco--thou shalt die, Aztalpa--Femke, stay,
stay, I will watch the clothes--I will shoot the doe--a widower
of God--together through the ivory gate--there she is again--stay,
Omicron!"
"Ought we to call in a preacher?" asked Juffrouw Pieterse
hesitatingly. She didn't know whether praying was needed or a
whipping--or both.
And now, perhaps for the first time in his life, Stoffel expressed a
sensible thought: "Mother, we ought to have a doctor. Walter is sick."
Walter had nervous fever. It was fortunate for him that a doctor was
called in, and still more fortunate that it was a man who understood
Walter's mental troubles. He exerted a most wholesome influence on
the boy; though this came later, as at first he could only treat
the disease.
On Juffrouw Pieterse, too, he had a good influence. To her great
astonishment, he explained to her that children ought not to be
packed together in a bed as if they were superfluous pieces of
furniture being thrown aside; that air, light, play, enjoyment,
exercise are all necessary for the development of body and soul;
that whipping does no good, and that she had better dispense with her
"divine worship." He told her of other things she had never heard of;
and she listened willingly, for the doctor----
"Ah, dear Juffrouw Laps, you must manage to be here when he comes. He
writes the prescriptions with a gold pen; and his coachman wears a
brown bear-skin cape."
That gold pen and the bear-skin cape! Ah, if everyone who preaches
truth could only dress up his coachman so swell! But alas, alas--I
know a great many people who love the truth, and they have no coachman
at all--not to mention the bear-skin.
And gold pens often get into the wrong hands.
"I just wanted Juffrouw Zipperman to come sometime when the doctor's
here. Run and tell her, Gertrude, that I said Walter was sick,
and say that we have lunch about twelve. He came about that time
yesterday. And Leentje, you go to the grocer's--we need salt--have
something to say about it--it's not just to be gossiping, you know--I
despise gossip--but I would like to know if the people have noticed
it. And you, Pietro, remember that you are to give me a clean cap
when he comes--for the doctor is such an elegant gentleman, and such
a doctor! And all that he said--I drank it all in. Mina, you mustn't
stare at him again like that; it's not proper. But I'm curious to
know if the people at the grocer's have seen him!"
I shouldn't like to be severe on her; but it seems to me that Juffrouw
Pieterse was gradually beginning to take pleasure in Walter's illness.
There is something swell in having such a carriage standing before
one's door.
Juffrouw Laps had come: "But dear Juffrouw Pieterse, what am I to do
about my uncle? You are invited; and I have told him that there will
be a poem."
"Very bad, Juffrouw Laps. You can see though that that poor worm
can't write the poem. What about Stoffel? Why not ask him to write it?"
"It's all right with me. Just so it's a poem; otherwise I'm disgraced."
Stoffel was requested to take Walter's place, but he raised objections
at once.
"You don't know what that would mean, mother. I would lose the respect
of the boys. For anyone working with youth, respect is the main thing;
and such a poem----"
"But the boys at school need not know it."
"But the man would tell somebody and then--you don't understand it. At
the Diaconate school there was a fellow who wrote verses; and what
has become of him? He went to India, mother, and he still owes me for
half a bottle of ink. That's the way it goes, mother. For me to write
such a poem? No, no, mother--for a boy like Walter it's all right;
but when one is already a teacher!"
"And Master Pennewip?" cried Juffrouw Laps.
"The very man!" cried Stoffel, as if this supported his former
argument. "A happy thought! Master Pennewip will do it."
"I've read a poem by him, Stoffel."
"Yes, yes. And you've read a poem by him. That's because--but how
shall I explain that to you, Juffrouw Laps? You know that in teaching
there are all kinds of things. Take Geography, for example. I will just
mention one fact: Madrid is on the Manganares. Understand, mother?"
"Yes, yes, Stoffel. That's just as if you were to say----"
"Amsterdam on the Y. Exactly so. And then there are many, many more
things, Juffrouw Laps. You have no idea how much there is of it. A
grocer mixes sugar with something else. He must calculate exactly
what he must get for a pound in order not to lose money. Think of
it! And then you have partnership, and breakage, and the verbs--but
I must go before those rascals break everything."
Stoffel returned to school earlier than usual, without having
diminished Juffrouw Laps's difficulties very much. That poor woman
could not comprehend how geography and Madrid and the grocer and
partnerships made it impossible for Stoffel to write verses. Juffrouw
Pieterse smoothed the matter over as well as she could and sent
Juffrouw Laps to Master Pennewip.
That gentleman was alarmed when he saw the angry "sucking animal,"
but he quieted down as soon as he heard the object of her visit.
"To what class does your uncle belong, Juffrouw?"
"Why, to the class--you mean the mussel-shells and eggs?"
"No, no, Juffrouw, I mean on which rung of the ladder is he--how high
up. I repeat it, on what rung--it's a figure, Juffrouw--on what rung
of the social ladder?"
"In the grain business? Is that what you mean?"
"That is not sufficient, Juffrouw Laps. One may be in the grain
business as a pastry cook, a baker, a retailer, a wholesaler, or as a
broker; and all these vocations have their peculiar sub-divisions. Take
Joseph in Egypt, for example. This man of God, whom some place in
the class of patriarchs, while others claim--but let that be as it
may. It is certain that Joseph bought corn and was on the topmost
rung of the ladder, for we read in Genesis, chapter 41----"
"Yes, indeed, he rode in Pharaoh's carriage, and he wore a white silk
coat. My uncle is an agent, and my father was the same."
"So-o-oo? Agent! That's something Moses doesn't mention, and I
don't know in what class----" He spoke slowly, puzzling over his words.
"Besides, my uncle is a widower."
"Ah, there we have the difference! We read that Joseph wooed Asnath,
the daughter of Potiphar; but nowhere do we read that his spouse was
already dead when he went into the corn business. Therefore, Juffrouw
Laps, if it is your earnest desire to have a pious poem written on
your uncle, I advise you to go to my pupil, Klaasje van der Gracht."
He explained to her where that prodigy might be found.
Again I must beg pardon if my criticism of Pennewip is too severe; but
he gave me reasons enough to harbor ugly suspicions against him. I am
convinced that he would have written that poem for Juffrouw Laps if
her uncle had received a white silk coat from the king, or had ever
driven through The Hague in a royal carriage. But to sing an agent in
verse! He would leave that to the genius of "the flying tea-kettle"
in the Peperstraat. That was not nice of Pennewip. Was that uncle
to blame because his brothers never threw him into a well? or sold
him into Egypt? Or because he couldn't interpret dreams? Or because
cleverness is not rewarded to-day with rings, white coats, carriages
and high official position?
Juffrouw Laps footed it over to the Peperstraat, where she made
the acquaintance of the elder van der Gracht. The old gentleman
felt flattered.
He was most gracious, and assured the Juffrouw that the poem should
be written that very evening. Klaasje could bring it over the next
morning and repeat it to Juffrouw Laps, and if it were found worthy
as an expression of her feelings toward her uncle, then Klaasje was
to be invited to be present on that evening. The father assured her
that Klaasje would wear a white stand-up collar.
"Just like Joseph," said the Juffrouw. "Everything is in the Bible."
When she got home she read the forty-first chapter of Genesis,
trying to find the relation of Klaasje's apotheosis to Joseph's
exaltation. That night she dreamed she had a mantle in her hand.
CHAPTER XVI
It was the afternoon of the day on which Juffrouw Laps sought out
Klaasje van der Gracht, and Walter was lying in bed, still weak but
no longer delirious. The doctor had ordered rest and quiet. The child
counted the flowers in the curtain, and, in his imagination tried
to arrange them in some other order. He allowed them to jump over
one another, or flow into one another. He saw in them faces, forms,
armies, clouds--and all were alive and moving. It was tiresome, but
he couldn't do anything else. If he turned his face toward the wall
it was still worse. The hieroglyphic scratches on the wall told him
all sorts of things that he didn't need to know and overwhelmed him
with unnecessary impressions. He closed his eyes; but still he found
no rest. It seemed to him as if he were being swept away to take part
in that entertainment that the night-wind gave the moon. Everything
was turning round and round, taking him along. He seized his head in
both hands, as if he would stop his imagination by main strength; but
it was useless. The curtains, the cords, the wall, the flowers, the
dance, the whirlwind that tore Femke away--his efforts to hold her----
The boy burst into tears. He knew that it was all imagination; he
knew that he was sick; he knew that chimneys don't dance, and that
girls are not blown to the moon; and yet----
Weeping he called Femke's name softly, not loud enough to be heard
by the others, but loud enough to relieve his own depression.
"What's that?" he cried suddenly. "Does she answer? Is that
imagination, too?"
Actually, Walter heard his name called, and it was Femke's voice!
"I must know whether I'm dreaming, or not," he said, and straightened
himself up in bed. "That is a red flower, that is a black one, I am
Walter, Laurens is a printer's apprentice--everything is all right;
and I'm not dreaming."
He leaned out of bed and listened again, his mouth and eyes as wide
open as he could get them, as if the senses of taste and sight were
going to reinforce that of hearing.
"O, God! Femke's voice! Yes, yes, it is Femke!" He jumped out of bed,
ran out the door, and half ran, half fell down the steps.
To return to Femke for a little while. She had expected Walter at
the bridge the next day after the story of the sun-worshipers. At
first she thought that Walter was waiting till he could borrow from
Stoffel the book with the picture showing Aztalpa embracing the two
brothers. She wanted to see Walter with the picture; now she would have
been satisfied with him without the picture. It couldn't be the boy's
person, she thought--such a child!--but he did recite so well. Perhaps
in the heart of the girl Walter and his recitals had already coalesced.
"Put the clothes in the sun," cried her mother; and Femke translated
that: Sun--Peru--Aztalpa--Kusco--Walter.
"Run those fighters away; they'll throw dirt on the clothes."
Femke dreamed: Courageously fighting against the enemies of the
country--the noblest tribe of the Incas--Telasco--Walter.
Everything seemed to be calling for Walter; but he did not come.
The first day she was sad; the second, impatient; the third, restless.
"Mother, I'm going to see what's become of the little boy who was
going to write a poem."
"Do, my child!" said the mother. "Do you think you will find him?"
Femke nodded; but her nod was not convincing. She did not know where
Walter lived and was afraid to say so. It took courage to start out to
trace the child when she didn't know where he lived; and this courage
she wished to conceal. And why? Just timidity incident to the tender
feelings. Sometimes we conceal the good and boast of the bad.
The girl dressed herself as prettily as she could and put all her
money in her pocket. It was only a few stivers. She hurried through
Ash Gate and inquired where the shop was that lent books. Thus she
came directly to the Hartenstraat. She simply retraced the steps of
our hero, when he made that first sally with Glorioso.
Less timid than Walter--Femke was older, and had had more experience
with men--she asked the gruff fellow in a business-like way for
"the book about the countess with the long train or her dress."
"What? What's the title?"
"I don't know," Femke said. "It's about a robber--and the Pope's
mentioned in it, too. I am hunting for the boy who read the book. I
wanted to ask where he lives--I will pay you for your trouble."
"Do you think I'm a fool? Am I here to hunt for boys?"
"But, M'neer, I will pay you," the girl said, and laid the money on
the counter.
"Oh, get on! What do I know about your boy?"
Femke got angry now.
"I haven't done anything, and you can't run me off like that. No,
you can't. If you don't want to tell me, you needn't to. You are an
unaccommodating fellow!"
She was going to leave, when it occurred to her to ask, "And won't
you lend me a book, either?"
"Yes, you can get a book. What do you want?"
"That book about the robber and Amalia," said Femke. She felt now that
she was a "customer," and oh, how proud she had become all at once!
"I don't know anything about such a book. Do you mean Rinaldo
Rinaldini?"
"No. Is there more than one robber book? Just call over the names of
them for me."
This was said with an air of importance that was not without its effect
on the shopman. He pulled down the catalogue, and soon he came to
"Glorioso."
"That's it, that's it!" cried Femke, delighted.
"But you must deposit a forfeit," the man said, as he mounted the
ladder to get that precious book.
"No, no, I don't want the book at all. I only want to know where the
boy lives who read it. I will pay you gladly," and she pointed to
her money.
"That isn't necessary," he said. "I don't mind accommodating you when
you ask me politely."
He looked in the register and found the name Femke had mentioned, with
the address. He showed it to her, and was even going to explain to her
the best way to get there; but Femke was already out the door. The
fellow had difficulty in overtaking her to return the money she had
forgotten on the counter.
When she reached the address given, Femke learned that the Pieterses
had moved to a "sweller neighborhood." It was quite a distance away;
but Femke was not deterred by that.
Once at the Pieterses', she was received by the young ladies with a
rough, "What do you want?"
"Oh, Juffrouw, I wanted to ask about Walter."
"Who are you?"
"I am Femke, Juffrouw, and my mother is a wash-woman. I would like
to know if Walter is all right."
"What have you got to do with Walter?" asked Juffrouw Pieterse,
who had heard the commotion and came down.
"Ah, Juffrouw, don't be angry--I wanted to know; and my mother knows
that I've come to ask. Walter told me about Telasco, and the girl
that was to die--oh, Juffrouw, tell me if he's sick! I cannot sleep
till I know."
"That's none of your business. Go, I tell you! I don't want strange
people standing around the door."
"For mercy's sake, Juffrouw!" cried the girl, wringing her hands.
"The girl's crazy. Put her out, Trudie, and slam the door!"
Trudie began to execute the order. Myntje and Pietje got ready to
help her; but the child clung to the balustrade and held her ground.
"Throw her out! The impudent thing!"
"Oh, Juffrouw, I'm not impudent. I will go. Just tell me whether
Walter is sick. Tell me, and I will go right now. Just tell me if
he's sick--if, if he's going--to die."
The poor child began to weep. Anybody else but those Pieterse women
would have been touched at the sight. They were too far up the ladder.
Plainer people, or nobler people would have understood Femke. Feeling,
sympathy, is like the money in a gambling-place. It doesn't come
to everybody. There wenches and countesses sit side by side; merely
respectable people, who sell shoes made in Paris, are not there.
"I won't go!" cried Femke. "Oh, God! I won't go! I will know whether
that child is sick!"
A door was heard opening above; and Walter came in sight. He tumbled
down the steps and fell unconscious at Femke's feet.
"That boy!" groaned the old lady, while the girls stood as if
transfixed. Femke picked Walter up and carried him upstairs. His
bed was pointed out to her, and she placed him in it. No one had the
courage to run her away when she took a chair by the bedside. If at
this moment the rights of the Pieterses and Femke had been voted upon,
all the votes would have gone to Femke.
She wept, and stammered "Don't be angry, Juffrouw; but I couldn't
sleep for thinking of him."
CHAPTER XVII
The evening of the birthday party came. All of the Pieterses went,
leaving Walter to be taken care of by Leentje.
Juffrouw Laps was doing the honors.
"A strange state of affairs," said the birthday uncle. "And what did
she want?"
"Oh, goodness, M'neer, I don't know myself. I've told Gertrude a
hundred times that it's too much for me. Just imagine to yourself--such
a thing issuing commands in my house! I told Mina to pitch her out. And
Pietro said----"
"You ought to have seen me get hold of her," croaked that brave young
woman, showing a blue place on her hand. From this it might have been
inferred that Femke had had hold of Pietro.
"Just wait till she comes again," cried Gertrude, "and I will attend
to her!"
"And what will I do for her?" said Mina significantly.
Every one of them was ready for the fray. That is often the case. If
the vote had been taken now on moral worth, Femke would have been
defeated.
"A common girl, M'neer!"
"Worse than common!"
"How did you get rid of her?"
"Ah, it wasn't easy. I said----"
"No, mother, I said----"
"No, it was I!"
"But it was I!"
Each one of them had said something. Everyone wanted to play the
leading rÙle in the interesting drama.
"I would like to know where the young Mr. van der Gracht is," said
Juffrouw Laps. "Yes, uncle, it's a surprise----"
Juffrouw Pieterse did not like to be interrupted when she had something
to tell.
"And so we said--what did we say, Gertrude?"
"Mother, I said it was a disgrace."
"Yes, I said so, too. Then that thing asked for cold water, and
when we didn't get it quick enough for her, she ran and fetched it
herself--just as if she were at home! She wet a cloth and put it on
Walter's head. I was amazed at her insolence. When the child came to
she gave him a kiss! Think of it--and all of us standing there!"
"Yes," cried the three daughters, "think of it--and us standing there!"
"Then she sat down in front of the bed again and talked to him."
"Where can the young Mr. van der Gracht be!" sighed Juffrouw
Laps. "It's only because we have a little surprise, uncle."
"And finally she went away like a princess!"
"Exactly like a princess," testified the girls; and they did not know
that they were telling the truth.
"And she told Walter she would come again. But I just want to see
her do it!"
The door-bell rang. Juffrouw Laps arose; and the catechist van der
Gracht with his son walked into the room. Juffrouw Pieterse didn't
like this; she felt that the star of her narration would pale in the
light of the poem Klaasje had brought with him. And even without a
poem: such dignity, such a carriage, such manners, such a voice!
"Mynheer and Juffrouwen, may God bless you all this evening! This
is my son Klaas, of whom you have heard, I suppose. He's too close
kin to me for me to praise him; but you understand--when it's the
father--well, all blessings come from above."
"Yes, uncle, it will be a surprise."
"Yes, indeed, Juffrouw, a beautiful surprise. I congratulate this
gentleman on the happy return of his natal day. It puts me in the
mood of the psalmist--and I thank God--for Mynheer, everything comes
from above, you know."
"Take a seat. I thank you," said the host, who understood that he
had been congratulated. "It's cold out, isn't it?"
"Yes, a little cool; hardly cold. It's just what we call cool, you
understand. The Master gives us weather as he sees fit; and for that
reason I say cool. Everything comes from above."
To this last statement all assented in audible sighs and thought
themselves pious. What would have happened to him if some poor devil
had announced to them that some things come from below?
"And now, uncle, what do you say? Shall we begin with the surprise?"
"Go ahead, niece; what have you got?"
"Oh, it's only a trifle, Mynheer," put in the catechist. "My son is
a poet. I don't praise him, because he's too close kin to me; but
he's a clever fellow--I can say that without bragging--for everything
comes from above. No, I won't praise him--praise is for the Master
alone. But he's a clever fellow."
The poet Klaas looked conscious, and sat toying with the bottom button
on his vest. He looked poetical all over.
"And so, Mynheer, without bragging--get it out, my son. As a father,
Mynheer, I may say that he's a clever fellow; for in the Bible----"
Klaasje drew a piece of paper from his pocket.
"In the Bible there is really nothing said about widowers--the Master
has his own good reasons for it--but what does the boy do? He takes
the hint and writes a whole poem on widows."
Klaasje laid the paper on the table.
"Yes, I dare say, he has brought into it all the widows mentioned in
the Bible."
"You see it's a surprise. I told you so," said Juffrouw Laps.
"Read it, Klaasje! There are seventy, Mynheer, seventy widows. Read,
my boy."
Klaas pulled at his clothes, arranged his cuffs and began:
"The widows that in the Bible appear,
I've brought together in this poem here,
For the birthday that we celebrate
Of him who sadly lost his mate,
Exalting always the Master of Love,
For all that we have comes from above."
"That's the prologue," explained the father.
"Yes, that's the prologue. Now I will read:
"Genesis, 38, verse 11, it is said:
At her father-in-law's must the widow have her bed.
Exodus, 20, 22, it is penned:
Widows and orphans thou shalt not offend.
Two verses further he threatens, wrathful and grim
To make widows of all the women that anger him.
Leviticus, 21, verse 14, thou read'st
That a widow won't do for the wife of a priest.
A chapter further, one verse less, we have read,
That a childless widow must eat her father's bread.
From Numbers, 30, verse 10, we clearly infer,
That a widow's vow is sufficient for her."
In this style he continued glibly, without any interruption; but when
he came to:
"Second Samuel, 20, 3, very clearly outlines,
That as widows must live David's concubines----"
Juffrouw Pieterse became restless and had to have an explanation.
"Yes, Juffrouw, concubines," said van der Gracht senior. "You see
the boy has brought in everything relating to widows."
"The verses are not the same length," Stoffel complained; and there
is no alternation of masculine and feminine lines."
"You may be right, Stoffel, for you are a school-teacher; but that's
immaterial to me. These--these con--what shall I say----"
"Juffrouw Pieterse, you ought not to mock at it," cried Juffrouw Laps.
"That's right," said the catechist, "all blessings come from above. Go
ahead, Klaas!"
"No, I will not hear such things--on account of my daughters!"
The girls were examining their finger nails, and looked preÎminently
respectable.
"Go ahead, Klaas!"
"If I had known that this was going to happen, I would have left my
daughters at home."
"But, Juffrouw, it's in the Bible. You're not opposed to the Bible,
are you?"
"No, but I refuse to hear anything that isn't respectable. My
husband----"
"Your husband sold shoes. I know it, Juffrouw, but you're not going
to turn against----"
"I'm not going to do anything against the Bible, but I will not endure
such coarseness. Come, Gertrude, come, children!"
Juffrouw Pieterse was climbing the ladder of respectability. Moving
out of a side street into one of the principal avenues, giving the
children French names, calling in a doctor whose coachman wears
furs--that is what lifts us up.
CHAPTER XVIII
Walter's illness now took a favorable turn. As soon as he was
strong enough to leave his bed, the whole family noticed that he
had grown. All remarked about it and called each other's attention to
it. No one was better convinced of the fact than Juffrouw Pieterse; for
"that boy" had "outgrown all of his clothes," and it would not be easy
"to fit him out respectably again." So much interesting notoriety and
respectability had been reaped from Walter's illness that it was only
natural that his convalescence should be turned to the best account.
The child would sit and fill in the colors in pictures. The doctor
had presented him the pictures and a box of colors. The latter,
so Stoffel said, were the genuine English article.
Oh, such pictures!
Walter was interested especially by pictures from the opera and the
tragedy. There were pictures from Macbeth, Othello, Lear, Hamlet,
from "The Magic Flute," "The Barber of Seville," "Der Freisch¸tz,"
and from still a few more--each one always more romantic than the
last. In selecting suitable colors for his heroes and heroines, Walter
had the advice of the entire family, including Leentje. Usually there
was disagreement, but that only made the matter more important. In
only two details were they agreed: faces and hands were to have
flesh-color, and lips were to be painted red. It had always been
that way; otherwise, why was it called flesh-color? On account of
this arrangement Hamlet came off rather badly, receiving a much more
animated countenance than was suited to his melancholy.
"I wish I knew what the dolls mean," said Walter. He was talking
about his pictures.
"It's only necessary to ask Stoffel," his mother replied. "Wait till
he comes from school."
Walter asked him. Stoffel--there are more such people in the
world--would never admit that he did not know a thing; and he always
knew how to appear knowing.
"What the dolls mean? Well, you see--those are, so to say, the pictures
of various persons. There, for instance, the one with a crown on his
head--that is a king."
"I told you Stoffel could explain them," corroborated his mother.
"Yes, but I should have liked to know what king, and what he did."
"Well! There it is at the bottom. You can read it, can't you?"
"Macbeth?"
"Certainly. It's Macbeth, a famous king of ancient times."
"And that one there with a sword in his hand?"
"Also a king, or a general, or a hero, or something of the
kind--somebody that wants to fight. Perhaps David, or Saul, or
Alexander the Great. That's not to be taken so exactly."
"And the lady with the flowers? She seems to be tearing them up."
"That one? Show her to me: Ophelia. Yes, that's Ophelia. Don't
you know?"
"Yes. Why does she throw the leaves on the ground?"
"Why? why? The questions you do ask!"
Here the mother came to the rescue of her eldest son.
"Yes, Walter, you mustn't ask more questions than anybody can answer."
Walter did not ask any more questions, but he determined to get to
the bottom of the matter at the first opportunity. His imagination
roamed over immeasurable domains--such an insatiate conqueror was
the little emperor Walter in his night-jacket!
He associated the heroes of his pictures with the doctor, who had been
so friendly to him, and with his immortal Glorioso. The Peruvian story,
too, furnished a few subjects for his empire. He married Telasco to
Juliet; and the priests of the sun got their rights again. Master
Pennewip received a new wig, but of gold-colored threads, on the
model of the straw crown of a certain King Lear. Persons that he
could see from the window were numbered among his subjects. He had
to do something; and this foreign material was preferable to that in
his immediate surroundings. Even Lady Macbeth, who was washing her
hands and not looking particularly pleasing, seemed to him to be of
a higher order than his mother or Juffrouw Laps.
In fact, for him those pictures were the greatest things in
the world. He was carried away with the crowns, diadems, plumes,
iron gratings over the faces, with the swords and the daggers with
cross-hilts to swear on--with the trains and puff-sleeves and girdles
with pendents of gold--and the pages. All this had nothing in common
with his everyday surroundings. How is it possible, he thought, that
anyone who has such beautiful pictures should sell them? The doctor
must have inherited them!
Even if he had known that Lady Macbeth was the personification of
crime, it would still have seemed to him a profanation to bring her
into contact with the plebeian commonness around him.
All at once something in Ophelia's form reminded him of Femke. She
too could stand that way, plucking the petals from the flowers and
strewing them on the ground.
He had dim recollections of what had happened, and occasionally he
would ask indifferently about "that girl." He was afraid to speak
her name before Gertrude, Mina, and Pietro. He was always answered in
tones that showed him that there was no room for his romance there;
but he promised himself to visit her as soon as he got up.
"When you're better you must go to see the doctor and thank him
for curing you--but thank God first; and then you can show him what
you've painted."
"Of course, mother! I will give her the Prince of Denmark--I mean him,
the doctor."
"But be careful not to soil it; and don't forget that the ghost of the
old knight must be very pale. Stoffel said so--because it's a ghost,
you see."
"Yes, mother, I'll make it white."
"Good. And you'll make the lady there yellow?" pointing with a
knitting-needle to Ophelia.
"No, no," cried Walter quickly, "she was blue!"
"She was? Who was?"
"I only mean that I have so much yellow already, and I wanted to make
her--this one--Ophelia--I wanted to make her blue. That one washing
her hands can stay yellow."
"So far as I'm concerned," the mother said, "but don't soil it!"
Stoffel, in the meantime, had got on the track of those pictures. He
was slick and had an inquiring mind. One of his colleagues at school,
who was in some way connected with the stage, told him that such
costume-pictures were of great value to players. He also told him
other things about these pictures and about the play in general.
It was fortunate for Walter that Stoffel brought this know
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