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Title: The Humour of Holland
Author: W. H. Dircks, - To be updated
Language: English
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_HUMOUR SERIES_
EDITED BY W. H. DIRCKS
THE HUMOUR OF HOLLAND
ALREADY ISSUED
_FRENCH HUMOUR_
_GERMAN HUMOUR_
_ITALIAN HUMOUR_
_AMERICAN HUMOUR_
[Illustration:
FANCY’S FAIRY TALE.
[_See page 119._
]
THE
HUMOUR OF HOLLAND
[Illustration]
TRANSLATED, WITH AN INTRODUCTION, BY A. WERNER.
ILLUSTRATIONS BY DUDLEY HARDY AND OTHERS
LONDON
1893
WALTER SCOTT
LTD
CONTENTS.
[Illustration]
PAGE
INTRODUCTION ix
THE KING’S DREAM—_Frederick Van Eeden_ 1
THE DOMINIE—_C. K. Elout_ 6
MY HERO—_Conrad van der Liede_ 35
NEWSPAPER HUMOUR 52
A RASCALLY VALET—_Multatuli_ 55
DROOGSTOPPEL INTRODUCES HIMSELF—_Multatuli_ 77
DROOGSTOPPEL PAYS A CHARITABLE VISIT—_Multatuli_ 83
APHORISMS—_Multatuli_ 90
OF SELF-DEPRECIATION—_Multatuli_ 93
OF EDUCATION, WITH PRACTICAL ILLUSTRATIONS—_Multatuli_ 94
GOING INTO BUSINESS—_Multatuli_ 112
TWO PARABLES—_Multatuli_ 113
THERSITES AND PLATO—_Multatuli_ 115
EGOTISM—_Multatuli_ 115
THE STORY OF CHRESOS—_Multatuli_ 116
THE FAIRY TALE THAT FANCY TOLD WOUTER—_Multatuli_ 119
HALF-AN-HOUR AT THE HAIR-DRESSER’S—_Anon._ 125
IN THE LITTLE REPUBLIC—_L. H. J. Lamberts-Hurrelbrinck_ 139
NEWSPAPER HUMOUR 173
FICTION AT SEA—_A. Werumeus Buning_ 174
NEWSPAPER HUMOUR 178
FARMER GERRIT’S VISIT TO AMSTERDAM—_J. J. Cremer_ 184
NO SWORD—“_Humoristisch Album_” 197
A STUDENT’S LODGINGS SIXTY YEARS SINCE—_J. Van Lennep_ 200
A COLONIAL PRIZE-GIVING—_Annie Foore_ 205
HOW MATHIS KNOUPS TURNED “LIBERAL” AND THEN “CATHOLIC”
AGAIN—_Emile Seipgens_ 212
NEWSPAPER HUMOUR 232
THE CANDIDATE—_T. H. Hooijer_ 252
EPIGRAMS 257
THE VILLAGE ON THE FRONTIER—_Van Lennep_ 261
PROVERBS 290
A DUTCH PODSNAP—_Gerard Keller_ 293
ROUGH DRAFT OF A NEW SET OF REGULATIONS—_Uilenspiegel_ 346
THE STORY OF A BOUQUET—_Uilenspiegel_ 347
UNBIDDEN GUESTS—_Annie Foore_ 351
BIOGRAPHICAL INDEX OF WRITERS 393
INTRODUCTION.
There appears to be an idea abroad to the effect that the “Humour of
Holland” could be most satisfactorily dealt with in a chapter resembling
the famous one “Of Snakes in Ireland.” As the average English reader, in
the most favourable instances, knows little more of Dutch literature
than a name or two (Rembrandt has introduced us to “the poet Vondel,”
and if Southey were not so little read in these days Bilderdijk and Cats
would not be so unfamiliar), the subject offers a free field to the
constructive imagination. Yet even so, one would think it must be
obvious that the nation which has produced a Teniers, a Jan Steen,
and—in some of his moods—a Rembrandt, could not be entirely destitute of
humour. The estimate of its quality may be a question of taste;
but—though many people practically do adopt this form of logic—we cannot
make the fact of our not finding it to our liking a ground for denying
its existence.
Of course, before determining what the humour of a nation is like, we
need to know what is that nation’s intellectual bent as a whole, and
what forces have been at work to determine its character. On this point
we may quote a paragraph or two from a Dutch writer, J. H. Hooijer, whom
we shall meet again in the course of these pages. He is describing a
village in North Holland, in the heart of the fat meadow-lands, famous
for the production of Dutch cheeses.
“The same village which you find so depressing this November day,—so
damp, so clammy, so dripping with water,—makes a very different
impression when Spring, with full hands, has showered her blossom-snow
over the orchards, or in the autumn, when the trees are hanging full of
golden pears or rosy apples. Greener meadow-land is nowhere on earth,
unless it be in the Emerald Isle itself. The rich green pastures have
velvety lights in the sunshine, and the splendid cattle—their dappled
skins smooth and shining as silk—show out to advantage against it—colour
on colour. At such times there is a glow of colour in the whole
landscape, which, strange as it may sound, reminds one of the South,—a
glow one might almost think was stolen from the palettes of the Old
Masters. Every breath you draw is perfumed with new milk and flowers,
mingled with the salt smell of the sea. There is a fulness of outward
life—a bubbling up and overflowing of vital juices,—for which they had
an eye and a heart, those great old realists. The man who despises a
rich clover pasture, speckled here and there with white-fleeced sheep;
who cannot spare a look for the magnificent horned cattle that stand
staring at you, with dreamy, half-sad gaze, over the fence, while
Geertje’s black eyes flash at you from behind the milking-pail,—well, he
need not come to North Holland. Intellects of this sort, exclusively
devoted to the contemplation of the sublime, will find everything ugly
in these parts. To such an one our Old Masters have nothing to say; for
him, Paul Potter’s art is a mere waste of time, and many a racy bit of
Vondel trivial nonsense. Happily the cheery sun is of another mind, and
his smile falls well-pleased on the endless emerald plain. He nurses it,
feeds it, warms it,—he sweetens the blades of grass for the palate of
the pampered cow. And sometimes, just before setting, he draws along the
horizon, with purple finger, broad streaks of crimson fire, and then the
dykes flame out like ruby bands winding over the green velvet robe of
the earth, and you wish for the power of wielding the brush, so as to
throw on canvas what one might almost call these brutal effects of
colour.”
Here we have a fertile country, with the means of existence in plenty,
but not one where it is easy to live without hard work. These rich
meadow-lands have been wrung from the sea by the painful toil of
centuries, and are only held by the tenure of constant vigilance. But
the struggle for existence is not hard enough to exhaust the vital
energies, and produce a stunted careworn race. There is abundance of
rough but wholesome food, such as results in strong limbs and clear
skins; there is leisure for dancing and play—rough horse-play though it
may be—when work is done; that there is a recognised place in life for
mere beauty and luxury, is shown in the gold head-ornaments of the
women. There are no mountains to suggest the sense of remoteness and
mystery; and the grey North Sea, with its sands and mud-flats, is rather
a fact to be accepted, a foe to be struggled with, in a grim
matter-of-course way from day to day, than the weird terror that the
ocean is to more imaginative peoples. But within the narrow and
well-ordered bounds of farm and homestead, there is a richness of colour
to fire the painter’s eye; the skies and sunsets are the glorious ones
that flame over fen and marshland, and winter brings the joy of
glittering ice and ringing skates. Life is and has been less bare and
hard than of old in Scotland; but on the whole, the history of the two
nations is somewhat similar, and they have many points of character in
common.
Both learned thrift, endurance, and foresight in a hard school; both
early acquired the inconvenient habit of thinking for themselves and
dispensing with any mental spectacles save those of their own choosing;
and both displayed a bull-dog tenacity in holding by their hardly won
rights. But after the Reformation a marked difference becomes evident.
Scotland only emerged from the troubles of that epoch to encounter the
religious persecution of the Stuarts. The seventeenth century was
fruitful of heroism; it tried the national character as by fire, and
developed its sterner and deeper elements; it was not unfavourable even
to tenderness, of a rugged and undemonstrative character, but the
lighter side of life was left, for the time being, entirely in abeyance.
In the quieter time which succeeded the Union, reaction soon became
stagnation. The fiery earnestness,—call it fanaticism, if you
like,—which had been so tremendous a force in action and endurance, now
became a sour harsh bigotry, lying like a leaden weight on men’s lives.
It is one thing to be in such deadly earnest over an urgent crisis, that
you have no time or inclination to admire a picture or laugh at a joke;
it is another to forbid such enjoyment to other people, because it is
inconsistent with the attitude of mind proper to the crisis that is over
and past. We all have _les défauts de nos qualités_; and the mistakes of
reformers include a tendency to regard the conclusions at which they
have arrived as final, and an imperfect estimate of the relative value
of means and ends—in other words, the inability to see when a truth
(that is to say, any particular statement of a truth) has done its work.
This general state of flatness and dulness could only be ended by a
volcanic outburst,—and such a one came in with Burns.
To return to Holland. The shaking off of the Spanish yoke was followed
by a period of peace and prosperity. Dutch ships had for some time past
been bringing home the wealth of the Indies. Dutch admirals were finding
their way into unknown seas. Colonies sprang up in the Spice Islands,
and the money gained by trade turned the swamps reclaimed from the sea
into flower-gardens, or covered them with stately buildings. Wealthy
burghers, even of the strictest Calvinist persuasion, did not appear to
find their Protestant principles an obstacle to the encouragement of
painters and poets. Roemer Visscher and his daughters, though members of
the defeated and unpopular church, kept open house at Amsterdam for all
who loved art and letters, and assembled round them the best wits of the
time. Gerbrand Bredero, painter and poet both, belonged to a respectable
burgher family, who—though grieved by the excesses of his riotous youth,
and sorely troubled by his contemplated marriage with Alida Jansdoter,
the pretty but characterless widow who kept the Toren van Monnickendam
tavern—do not appear to have mourned over his choice of a vocation, or
regarded his plays as anything to disapprove of. Joost van den Vondel,
the tragic poet (in whose genius some have found an excuse for
belittling that of our own Milton), was a deeply religious man; and
though he seems to have suffered from the aspersions of the religious,
it was not so much on account of his poems, as because he was a Baptist,
and they Reformed Calvinists. No doubt there _was_ religious bigotry in
Holland, but there were also elements of healthy life which kept it in
check. And there was a time when thought became dull and stagnant,—when
the dead-weight of the commonplace, backed by the double sanction of
social and religious orthodoxy, forced all individuality into its own
prepared mould,—when the Dominie looked with suspicion on every
independent expression of opinion, and the “Pious” kept a watchful eye
on the Dominie,—but that time was not yet. Betje Wolff, who suffered in
her youth from Cornelia Slimpslamp and Brother Benjamin,—and never
forgot it,—came in for part of it; but the worst was not till after she
and her friend Aagje had been laid to rest side by side. That was the
darkness just before the dawn; for surely there never was such a world
of dead forms and petty conventions, such a stifling atmosphere of cant
and artificiality, as that in which Multatuli spent his childhood.
The humour of the Netherlands has, in common with that of Scotland, a
certain canniness and practical shrewdness, characteristic of men and
nations who have bought their experience at first hand and a heavy
price. But, whether for want of that touch of Celtic fire which in
Scotland has leavened the solid Teuton into a thing quite unique in the
world, or what else, there is a notable lack of that dryness and
terseness—that expressing more than the whole by means of less than the
half—which comes out in the best Scotch anecdotes and sayings. It would
be an insult to a listener of average intelligence, to explain, for
example, “It’s a puir shaw for Kirkintilloch.” We are not sure
that—supposing that the exact equivalent to this joke existed in
Dutch—the Netherlander would feel the insult deeply; we rather think he
would enjoy the story the better for a half page or so of comments in
addition to the full explanation. Of this nature are many jocular poems
by the revered Father Cats, and the “Zinne-poppen” of Roemer Visscher
and his daughter Anna.
The Netherlander likes his fun pretty obvious, and not too concentrated.
And the main characteristic of the said fun is its breadth,—or rather
what the Germans call _Breite_, for the English word by no means conveys
exactly the same idea. “Long-windedness” alone does not express it;
Coleridge’s “nimiety or too-muchness” (which he calls a characteristic
fault in the German literary temperament) is much nearer the mark. It is
long-windedness combined with infinite multiplicity of detail,—a
gossipy, good-humoured, complacent triviality, which is the essence of
boredom. Voss’s “Luise” (which poem we doubt whether any British person
now living has read through) is a shining example of the quality.
Nothing is left to the reader’s imagination—everything, and the reason
for everything, is described and explained at full length, till the best
ideas are swamped in floods of formless verbiage. In Holland, this kind
of writing flourished most extensively in the seventeenth and eighteenth
centuries, and Father Cats, already referred to, exhibits it in an
excessive degree. He also shows an overpowering desire to be
improving,—another point common to the Scot and the Batavian,—and the
two things together made him, for two centuries, out and out the most
popular writer in Holland.
As to “broad” farce, in the other sense of the word, Dutch literature
possesses a good deal of it, of such extreme latitude, indeed, as to be
for the most part entirely unavailable for this volume. Besides, it is
not amusing. The _Sotternieën_, or farces, of the Middle Ages, were of
an extremely rough and ready type, to say no more, though Dr Jan Ten
Brink accords them the praise of “accurate observation of Flemish low
life, and a real comic gift.” They mostly turn on matrimonial
difficulties, in which a foolish husband gets the worst of it. More or
less of the same kind, though of a somewhat higher type, were the farces
(_Kluchten_) of what we may call the Dutch Renaissance (c. 1550–1650).
They mostly turn on rough or even disgusting practical jokes; they are
written in clumsy, lumbering verse, which has the effect of encouraging
and intensifying the author’s natural diffuseness; in short, whatever
laugh-provoking power they may once have had, most of them are now quite
intolerably dull. The best known are those of Coster, Vos, Jan Starter,
Hooft, Huygens (who made one excursion in this direction—_Trijntje
Cornelis_), and, above all, Gerbrand Bredero, whose genius had not yet
reached its highest point, when his short and stormy life came to an
end.
GERBRAND ADRIAENSZEN BREDERO was born at Amsterdam in 1585. His father
was a wealthy tradesman, at first a shoemaker, and afterwards farmer of
the taxes on wines and spirits. Adriaen Bredero was a generous patron of
art, and intended his son to become a painter; but the latter, though he
studied for a time, and appears to have shown some degree of talent,
preferred to devote himself to literature. He became a member of the
chamber, _In Liefde Bloeiende_,[1] and soon formed the acquaintance of
Spieghel, the didactic poet, and the genial Roemer Visscher, the
scholarly author of the “Zinne-poppen” and “Brabbeling.” An unhappy love
for Roemer’s younger daughter, Tesselschade, probably wrecked his life,
the greater part of which was spent in noisy dissipation, alternating
with intervals of deep depression. His work was both lyric and dramatic;
his principal plays are the tragicomedies of “Roderick and Alphonsus”
(1611), “Griane” (1612), and “The Dumb Knight” (1618), to which may be
added the unfinished play “Het daghet uyt den Oosten,” the farces of the
“Cow” (1612), the “Miller” and “Symen sonder Soeticheyt” (1613), and the
regular comedies of “The Moor” (1615), and “The Spanish Brabanter”
(1618). The last-named, his masterpiece, was intended to satirise (under
the name of Jerolimo) the Chevalier Theodor Rodenburgh, his rival in
literature and in a second unhappy love affair. From this bitter
disappointment Bredero never recovered. He died at the age of
thirty-three, after a lingering illness, tended with devoted care by his
mother, and comforted by the friendship of the gentle and earnesthearted
Vondel, whose religion was of a type to find easier access to the stormy
soul than the gloomy Calvinism of Bredero’s relations. For further
particulars of the poet’s life the reader is referred to the works of Dr
Jan Ten Brink, among others an interesting historical novel (founded on
contemporary documents) entitled “De Bredero’s,” which has appeared in
“Elsevier’s Geïllustreerd Maandschrift” for 1891 and 1892. Bredero’s
farces are rough, and even coarse—a defect from which his more elevated
work, such as the “Spanish Brabanter,” is not free; but this is a fault
common to the comic literature of all countries at that epoch. He was no
scholar, and though acquainted with French, did not know Latin, a
circumstance for which his writing is probably none the worse. His
comedy, “Het Moortje” (“The Little Moor”), is an adaptation of a French
version of Terence’s “Eunuchus,” and far inferior to the “Spanish
Brabanter,” which, though not absolutely original (the plot is to a
great extent taken from the Spanish novel “Lazarillo de Tormes”), is as
much so as most of Shakespeare’s, and full of life and vigour. It is
perhaps somewhat verbose, and the irregular kind of ballad-metre in
which it is written lends itself to indefinite _longueurs_; but the
character-painting is excellent. Indeed, Bredero’s chief merit is the
strong human sympathy shown in his broad, vivid pictures of popular
life. He gives us the life of the street in Amsterdam as he knew it—the
beggars, the scolding wives, the money-lender, the poor gentleman with
his frayed velvet doublet and rapier showing through its worn sheath,
the gossiping sexton, the boys playing at marbles. It is evident that
Bredero was on the right track, and, had he lived, might have produced
even better work than this play,—perhaps founded a new dramatic school,
which might have repeated in Holland the triumphs of our Elizabethan
writers. Dr Ten Brink compares him in his riotous enjoyment of life and
noisy excesses to Greene, Marlowe, and Massinger. It is difficult to
extract any single scene from the “Spaansche Brabander,” far and away
his best work; and, as, in fact, almost any attempt at translation could
reproduce only the faults of the original, it seemed better to avoid
courting inevitable failure.
English influence made itself felt in Holland during the seventeenth
century in more ways than one. Huygens, who repeatedly visited England,
and knew Donne, shows traces of the “Caroline” manner in his poems and
epigrams. Intercourse between the two countries was frequent, and the
connection, of course, became closer still with their temporary union
under one sovereign. During the eighteenth century, Dutch literature
appeared to be on the wane. Foreign works—English and French—were
admired and read, and educated persons took a certain pride in
neglecting their native language as a barbarous and uncultivated tongue.
It was in a passionate impulse of patriotism that Mevrouw Betje Wolff
and Mejuffrouw Aagje Deken determined to enter into competition with the
universally popular Richardson, and prove to the reading public of
Holland that a Dutch novel, showing Dutch characters amid the everyday
surroundings of Amsterdam, Utrecht, or the Hague, might be quite as
interesting as any foreign importation. The result was the publication,
in 1782, of the “History of Mejuffrouw Sara Burgerhart,” which ran into
a third edition in 1786.
ELIZABETH WOLFF and AGATHA DEKEN were two friends, affectionately spoken
of by their compatriots as Betje and Aagje, who lived and wrote
together, and collaborated so harmoniously that it is impossible to
distinguish their respective shares in the works jointly issued by them.
Elizabeth Bekker, born at Flushing, July 24, 1738, is described as “a
little delicate woman, with penetrating dark eyes, twinkling with
humorous mischief.” Her lively spirit maintained a hard struggle against
the harsh old-fashioned Calvinism of her Zeeland home, as represented by
her elder brother Laurens. It was probably to escape from this that, at
twenty, she married a “dominie” of fifty-two—the Predikant Adriaen
Wolff. In the quiet of the country parsonage she lived, happily enough,
from 1759 to 1777, devoted to her elderly husband, and with abundant
leisure for literature. During this period she wrote chiefly in verse,
and published several collections of poems; but, when left a widow in
1777, she invited her friend Agatha Deken to live with her. Agatha,
three years younger than her friend, was an orphan, brought up in the
Amsterdam “Weeshuis,” who had been living as companion with an invalid
lady named Maria Bosch, also given to poetry. The two friends first
essayed themselves in prose, by publishing “Letters on Various
Subjects,” in 1780, after which they gradually developed the idea of a
novel in letters, after the manner of Richardson. “The History of
Mejuffrouw Sara Burgerhart,” in spite of its somewhat repellent
epistolary form, remains capital reading to the present day. The book is
not so very long-winded, considering the epoch at which it was written;
the characters are clearly conceived and sympathetically drawn; and
there is a delicate humour which might almost be compared with Jane
Austen’s, but has a distinct flavour of its own. The portraiture of
Sara’s aunt, Mejuffrouw Hofland, and the designing parasites who make
her their prey—Cornelia Slimpslamp, and Brother Benjamin, the butcher’s
man turned preacher—reminds us of Betje Bekker’s bitterness against the
fanatical precisians (called by themselves “vromen,” or pious, and by
others “fijnen,” or subtle) who had darkened her youth. “Sara
Burgerhart,” published in 1782, was followed by a longer work, “Historie
van den Heer Willem Leevend,” which in some respects surpasses it. In
1788 the friends left Holland, in consequence of political changes, and
settled at Trevoux in Burgundy, where they remained till 1795, writing
“Letters of Abraham Blankaart,” and their third novel, “Cornelia
Wildschut.” Betje was robbed of her small property by a rascally man of
business; and, at the time of the Terror, narrowly escaped the
guillotine, being looked on as an aristocrat by the republicans of
Trevoux. They returned to Holland in 1795, settled at the Hague, and set
themselves to translating for a bare living. Their last years were spent
amid great financial difficulties and privations, borne with their usual
cheerfulness, and one cherished wish was granted them at last,—Betje
died November 5, 1804, and Aagje only survived her nine days.
It is a pity that these books are not of a kind to show to advantage in
extracts. To be appreciated, they must be taken in bulk, as the
character-drawing, which is their chief attraction, only comes out
indirectly, and point by point, in the course of the letters. Which of
the two collaborators should be credited with the quiet humour—of the
type recognised as peculiarly feminine—which flashes through them, is a
disputed point, but it is usually attributed to Betje Wolff. Internal
evidence, and especially the history of her early life, seem to point to
her as having originated the character of Sara herself, the bright,
lovable, merry-hearted girl, so willing to submit to loving guidance,
but impatient of the gloomy restraint of Aunt Susanna’s house, which
called out all that was worst in her nature. Agatha Deken, we are told,
was a large, fair person, of calm aspect and portly presence—somewhat
prosaic and matter-of-fact—yet the description does not exclude the
possibility of a certain “pawkiness,”—and probably there is no hard and
fast distinction to be drawn between the two, as regards the humorous
element. And, however that may be, “Sara Burgerhart” is a charming book,
and deserves to be much more widely known than it is. Lovers of
“Evelina” would delight in its old-time quaintness, and even those
without an especial _parti-pris_ for the eighteenth century could not
fail to appreciate the delicately finished pictures of Dutch life. Some
points in this latter suggest the question whether many things which we
have been accustomed to consider as purely American manners did not
originate in the Dutch ancestry of the New-Yorkers. The comings and
goings of the young ladies at the Amsterdam boarding-house, under the
friendly (but to contemporary English notions very inadequate)
supervision of the Widow Spilgoed, _née_ Buigzaam, is one of those.
Others suggest themselves to an attentive reader of the book. But this
is only in passing. Decidedly, an English version of “Sara” with a
loving and appreciative introduction by a capable hand, would be an
addition to the pleasures of life.
It is no part of the plan of this brief sketch—which aims throughout
at being suggestive rather than exhaustive—to furnish a comprehensive
introduction to Dutch literature, or even to that part of it to which
these pages are exclusively devoted. There is one point, however,
which we must not overlook. This is not the place—and perhaps, indeed,
the time has not fully come—to discuss the position which Multatuli
holds, or ought to hold, in his country’s literature; but it cannot
fail to strike any reader of this volume, that a large—perhaps
disproportionately large—number of pages is assigned to the work of a
writer cast in as un-Dutch, or even anti-Dutch, a mould as it is
possible to imagine. In fact, Multatuli stands as much alone among the
Dutch, as Heine does among the Germans; and, by the same token, we
might add, he is their only real humorist, in the highest sense. This
apartness is not to be accounted for in Douwes Dekker’s case, by
difference of race; but then, he was partly the product of reaction,
and there were, after all, strong race-affinities in the deeper parts
of his character. He had every quality calculated to jar upon the
feelings of the Amsterdam _petits bourgeois_ of his day: he had other
ideals than theirs; he would not be content to make money and abstain
from shocking the neighbours; he was nervous and imaginative in a
stolid and prosaic generation—lavishly extravagant in a prudent, not
to say parsimonious, one; but his passionate love of freedom, his
intolerance of shams, his resolute refusal to utter the shibboleths of
the age or bow before the idols of the market-place, proved him of one
blood with William of Orange and Marnix de Sainte-Aldegonde. And, had
he been as altogether isolated as he seems at first sight, he could
hardly have become the force in national life that he now is. His “Max
Havelaar” was like a volcanic outburst breaking up the crust of
convention which had been slowly stiffening over Holland; but it gave
voice to a cry which had been stifled in thousands of hearts. He
spoke, and the younger generation answered him as one man. To-day, in
Holland, Multatuli is a name to conjure with—a synonym for life,
thought, progress, revolt against convention—for everything that may
be called modernity.
He was a crude, formless, unmethodical writer. “Max Havelaar” is one of
the most exasperatingly inartistic books ever written, and it must
always remain matter for regret that he never seriously took in hand to
complete and give artistic unity to the brilliant fragments that form
the unfinished history of “Woutertje Pieterse.” But there is life and
red blood in everything he wrote—and that counts for far more than dead
correctness of form,—though, of course, the perfect form _enshrining_
the vitality gives it a chance to last longer.
There is something in “Wouter” that reminds one curiously of the “Story
of an African Farm.” Not that we would infer that the latter was
suggested by the former—it may well be that its author was, at the time,
quite unaware of Multatuli’s existence; and the agonies of isolated
childhood are the same all the world over. But there are certain points
of resemblance which make us think that a similar environment—the
compound of dead Calvinism, Dutch pseudo-propriety, and crass
ignorance—produced similar results. Though, perhaps it was natural that
poor Wouter, dreaming on the bridge by the saw-mill at Amsterdam, should
have less lofty visions than Waldo, dreaming on the open veldt under the
stars.
Wouter began his career in the story with a crime. He wanted very much
to read a book in the circulating library, but he had not the necessary
twopence. His mother thought little boys had no use for pocket-money.
Besides, circulating libraries did not enter into Juffrouw Pieterse’s
calculations from any point of view. But it was so deadly dull at home,
where there were no interesting books left unread—and no one was
supposed to want to read at all, except Stoffel, the elder brother, who
was a pupil-teacher, and preparing for an examination,—and he did long,
with an unspeakable longing, for the “History of Glorioso the Brigand.”
So he sold his Bible, with the paraphrases at the end, to a book-stall
man on the Old Bridge (this particular is never forgotten in subsequent
references to the misdemeanour, as though it had been an aggravation
thereof), trusting to the fact that the volume was not likely to be
inquired after on a week-day, to escape scot-free till Sunday. Which he
did; but with Sunday came discovery and swift retribution. But Wouter
did not mind that,—he had had his “Glorioso,” and was willing to pay the
price. That was not all, however;—this piece of juvenile depravity had
far-reaching consequences; but what they were will be discovered from
the extracts given in the text.
There is infinite humour, as well as infinite pathos, in the description
of the poor, starved child-soul, to which even a trashy sensational
novel could give some sort of outlook into the ideal—for that was what
Wouter’s (after all very innocent) glorification of crime practically
amounted to. No better proof of the hold which Multatuli has over the
hearts of his countrymen could be given than the fact that many of his
characters have passed into proverbs. Juffrouw Laps, Dominie Pennewip,
the Hallemans,—“who were so very particularly respectable,”—and others,
are constantly to be met with in current literature.
And yet, curiously enough, his views are almost entirely negative. He is
a preacher of revolt—a revolt often blind, illogical, inconsistent with
itself, and which, from our point of view, seems curiously out of
date—so that one is apt to forget he has only been dead six years,—and
he is seldom, if ever, a teacher of anything else. It proves how greatly
the revolt was needed, and what was the power of that Dagon of
convention against which he directed his blows.
One word about the drama[2] from which an extract has been given. It was
one of his earliest works, being written at Padang (Sumatra) in 1843,
when he was little more than a youth; and he himself in later years, was
sarcastic enough at the expense of its “lachrymose sentiment” and
emotional idealism. Perhaps it does err by excess in this direction,
especially in Holm’s interminable monologues,—perhaps, also, the comic
scenes force the note a little, and are not free from the trick of
catch-words,—but the play, as a whole, is a capital one, and was, we
believe, very successful on the stage. He wrote another serious drama,
in verse, the “Vorstenschool,” which has never been acted, but perhaps
for political rather than dramatic reasons. It seems a pity that he did
not make more sustained efforts in this style of writing, which would
have chastened the formlessness above alluded to as marring his work;
but he seems to have been too impatient in getting his thoughts on paper
to submit to the necessary restraints.
It will be noticed that this selection includes specimens from both
Dutch and Belgian writers. The fact is that Belgium, from a literary
point of view, scarcely exists. The written language is the same for
both countries, the differences being mainly local and dialectical.
After Brabant and Flanders had ceased to be Spanish provinces, and prior
to the Revolution of 1830, the two portions were respectively known as
Noord and Zuid Nederland. After 1830, the national language was, for a
time, entirely discredited, and Belgium threatened to become a mere
imitation of France, if not actually an appendage to that country. Of
late years a reaction has set in. A knowledge of Flemish is required by
law of all Government officials, except in those districts exclusively
inhabited by the Walloons, who are supposed to speak French, though in
fact, they discourse in a tongue which no mortal but themselves can
understand.
There is an increasing number of Flemish papers,—the comic ones
especially doing valiant service on the national side. In 1883 a law was
passed rendering the teaching of Flemish (or “Netherlands,” as both
Dutch and Belgians prefer to call it) obligatory in all intermediate
schools. At Ghent University, moreover, all lectures are now delivered
in that language, as well as some of the courses at the Universities of
Brussels and Louvain. Straws show which way the wind blows; and, though
a trifle, it is a significant one, that the streets of Antwerp are now
labelled in Flemish, as well as French, and that public notices,
advertisements, &c., when not bi-lingual, are usually Flemish.
The time of this linguistic reaction has also been one of revival in the
national literature. Maeterlinck, it is true, writes in French; and a
small coterie of less-known writers, calling themselves _La Jeune
Belgique_, have chosen that language as the vehicle of their
inspirations; but these do not represent the main current of the
national life. For a long time, Conscience stood almost alone as a
Flemish writer, and he was only known to the outer world through the
medium of French translations. Now we have, of poets, Pol de Mont, De la
Montagne, Hilda Ram, and Hélene Swarth, who, had she written in a more
widely known language, would be recognised as one of the world’s
greatest lyrists;—of prose-writers, Stijns, Virginie Loveling, Segers,
Smits, Van Cuyck, Anton Moortgat, Emile Seipgens, and many others. Not
all of them are available for our present purpose,—but some, as will be
seen, have been selected from.
In conclusion, I would express my indebtedness for valuable information
kindly given by Mr Frans Van Cuyck, of the Public Library, Antwerp, and
author of “Twee Huwelijken,” “Sinoren,” and other works.
A. WERNER.
THE HUMOUR OF HOLLAND.
_THE KING’S DREAM._
[Illustration:
“I STROLLED THOUGHTFULLY ALONG THE BEACH.”
]
_King Bilbonzo_. It is well. We ourself now desire to make an important
communication to you.
_Palaemon_ (_Prime Minister and Chancellor of the Kingdom_). We are all
attention.
_King Bilbonzo._ It pleased us to have a very strange dream last night.
_Courtiers._ Aha!
_King Bilbonzo._ I dreamed, gentlemen, that I was on an island in the
midst of the ocean. My royal palace, surrounded by luxuriant gardens,
stood in the centre of the island. My whole retinue was assembled
there,—they were all laughing, dancing, and feasting. On all sides,
smiling faces, rustling silks, and waves of sweet dance-music.
Meanwhile, I strolled thoughtfully along the beach, reflected on the
bounties of nature, and picked up shells.
_Courtiers._ Ah!
_King Bilbonzo._ But suddenly the ground trembled under my feet. I
looked up, and perceived that the whole island was moving under me. It
heaved, rocked this way and that, rose and fell on the water, and,
finally, shot swiftly over the surface of the foaming sea. The beautiful
island, my lords and gentlemen, was a living, terrible sea-monster!
_Courtiers_ (_in horror_). Ah!
_King Bilbonzo._ My courtiers clung to me in terror. My head swam.
Suddenly the monster dived, and the sea at once destroyed the palace and
gardens. I myself, with a few faithful ones—you, my lords, among the
number—remained bobbing up and down, holding to an empty cask. But the
monster came once more to the surface, lifted a huge dripping mouth out
of the water, and swallowed us all.
_Courtiers._ B-r-r-r!—most horrible!
_King Bilbonzo._ However, after a short interval of oppressive darkness,
it cast us out again uninjured—and I found myself in my bed!
_Courtiers_ (_drawing a long breath of relief_). Eh!
_King Bilbonzo._ What is your opinion, my lords? Is this a prophetic
vision?
_Palaemon._ It is a fact that the prophet Jonah, some time since, had
the honour of experiencing something very like what your Majesty has
just dreamed.
_King Bilbonzo._ Does any of you think himself in a position to explain
this dream to me? [_All shake their heads._]
_Palaemon._ Sire, I have been told that there is, at this moment, a
Spanish magician staying in our capital. Perhaps he might be able to
comply with your wish. I have already given orders to have this person
searched for—probably he has already reached the palace....
_King Bilbonzo._ Why! this is exceedingly interesting! Be so good as to
bring the man into our presence at once.
[_Exit Palaemon._
_Enter_ PALAEMON, _and_ DON TORRIBIO, a _Spanish magician_.
_Palaemon._ Here is the man.
_King Bilbonzo._ Come nearer, my friend.
_Don Torribio._ Who told you that I am your friend? Are you in the
thought-reading business too?
_Homaris_ (_3^{rd} Minister_). This is an unmannerly customer.
_Palaemon._ Do you know you are speaking to the King?
_Don Torribio._ Why, yes,—I thought so. I presume no one else would wear
such a head-gear.
_King Bilbonzo._ Silence, my lords!—this is evidently an eccentric man.
Let him alone. Magicians, fools, and poets have ever been allowed a
certain familiarity with princes.
_Don Torribio._ You forget to add _fleas_, my prince.
_Ministers._ Hush!—shame!—shame!
_King Bilbonzo._ Decency! decency!
_Don Torribio._ I assure you they are very decent well-behaved little
beasts, O King. They have never bitten you in your absence! They are the
most honest of your subjects. They have never taken anything from you
without informing you of the fact. There are not many like that. And
they are not at present suffering from hunger. Not many like that
either.
_King Bilbonzo_. Silence, now! Do you know wherefore you have been
summoned hither?
_Don Torribio._ Certainly. We are going to act a little play together.
You are Nebuchadnezzar, and I am Daniel.
_King Bilbonzo_ (_to Palaemon_). I see your Excellency has already
enlightened him.
_Palaemon._ Certainly not, your Majesty.
_King Bilbonzo._ Ah! this is indeed surprising. Listen then, and I will
tell you my dream.
_Don Torribio._ No, no—you need not let me off any of my part. I mean to
play Daniel entire—but I am not going to let you off the grass-eating,
either! Do you listen to me, and I will interpret the dream.
_King Bilbonzo._ Well—this is astonishing!
_Ministers._ Think of that, now!
_Homaris._ All pre-concerted!
_Don Torribio._ Gathering shells is an innocent and even laudable
employment,—but it should be carried on on a safe shore, and not within
reach of hungry sea-monsters.
Every man—and more especially a king—ought to know what his house is
built on.
If your house happens to stand—not on a rock foundation, but on the back
of a sleeping whale, you must not dance too vigorously, or you will
probably wake the brute.
It is safer to swim about in the sea on the back of a shark, than to be
king of a famished people.
The conclusion of your dream I will interpret to you after the
grass-eating. Now it is your turn.
_King Bilbonzo._ This is really going too far! Our toleration has
reached its limits. Can you be wanting to sow discord between Us and our
beloved people? Out of our sight, impious liar!—this very moment!
_Hyacinthe_ (_the Poet-Laureate—seated next to the King_). Majesty!—look
out for your crown!
_King Bilbonzo._ Oh!—thanks! [_Sets his crown straight._]
_Don Torribio._ _Omen accipio._ How do you wish me to disappear, O King?
_Palaemon_ (_to a footman_). Fetch the lictors to remove this person.
_King Bilbonzo._ My lords, you will agree with me that a man like this
is very dangerous to the State.
_Homaris._ I had feared as much, Sire! He is a clever quack, and what he
sells is poison for the people.
_Lepidus._ But his knowledge was something wonderful.
_Homaris._ Tricks!—most likely there’s bribery at the bottom of it.
_Hyacinthe._ Or else atheistic magic.
_King Bilbonzo._ In any case, my Lord Palaemon, you ought to have taken
measures somewhat earlier to prevent his doing harm.
_Palaemon._ He shall be thrown into chains at once.
_Amenias_ (_4^{th} Minister_). It is really a case for capital
punishment.
_King Bilbonzo._ No—our delight is to show mercy. When the judges have
condemned him to death, we will commute the sentence into penal
servitude for life.
_A Footman._ Your Excellency!—the lictors.
[_Torribio has suddenly vanished during the previous conversation._]
_Palaemon._ Let this man be strictly confined.
_A Footman._ What man, your Excellency?
_Palaemon._ Here—what! Where is he?
_Ministers._ What! Where is he? Gone?
_King Bilbonzo._ This is unspeakably insolent!
_Amenias._ He was standing here when I last saw him.
_Palaemon._ He was standing here.
[_They search all over the room._]
_King Bilbonzo_ (to _Amenias_). What is that on the floor?
_Amenias_ (_picking it up_). A tuft of grass, Sire!
_King Bilbonzo._ This is infamous ribaldry.
_Lepidus._ It is very mysterious.
_Homaris._ Jugglers’ tricks! We have all been made fools of.
_Footman_ (_opening a door_). Breakfast is served, your Majesty!
_King Bilbonzo._ Come, my lords,—search no further! It is not worth
while. Follow me! [_He retires with dignity_.]
_Hyacinthe_ (_follows, improvising_)—
Shall hate and envy dim its lustre—
The crown on royal brows that glows—
And rob the People of their father,
And lead both parties by the nose?
La, la, la, la—no, never! no, never!
La, la, la!
[_Exeunt omnes, following one another in a solemn procession._
FREDERICK VAN EEDEN.
(_From the Comedy of “Don Torribio.”_)
THE DOMINIE.[3]
“It is a very serious matter,” said Gerrit Rond, the burgomaster, to
Kobus.
“Very serious, indeed,” replied Kobus, the _veldwachter_.[4]
“It is a disgrace to the whole parish!” continued the burgomaster.
“An everlasting disgrace!” repeated the veldwachter.
Then followed an ominous silence, in the course of which the
burgomaster, with gloomy countenance and wildly rolling eye, attentively
followed the movements of a fly which was leisurely walking about the
stately expanse of his waistcoat; while the veldwachter kept a watchful
eye on his superior’s features, that he might not fail to mould his own
accordingly. In the meantime, he knit his brows, and provided himself
with a half-expectant, half-threatening expression.
[Illustration:
“IT IS A DISGRACE TO THE WHOLE PARISH!”
]
At length the reverend head of Gerrit, the burgomaster, solemnly rose
upright, and his reflection opposite did the same.
“Kobus,” said Gerrit, “it _must_ be seen to.”
And Kobus replied: “It _shall_ be seen to, if your worship pleases.”
“Very good, Kobus; and I _do_ please—of that I assure you....”
“I think I’ve got something,” said Gerrit, with an astute smile, and
rubbed his nose with a civic forefinger, in a satisfied way.
“Ha!” cried Kobus, triumphantly.
“Yes, surely, ... surely, ...” said Gerrit, as though thinking
aloud,—still, astute, smiling, and rubbing his nose, ... “But let us at
least go over the whole thing once more—at least the main point.”
“Shall I tell your worship once more, exactly?” asked Kobus, with a
self-satisfied laugh.
“Well, yes, it will be just as well. I can then weigh the importance of
the whole matter so much better. Just go on,” said the burgomaster, with
the lofty attitude of one who is quite sure of himself, and can afford
to wait for anything, seeing that his resolution is already taken.
“I will therefore tell your worship, once more,” began Kobus, “that on
Saturday week—a fortnight ago to-morrow—Jan o’ the Wood came running
into my house with a face—with a face....”
“Like Balthasar Gerard’s,”[5] the burgomaster helped him out, with a
certain gloomy majesty befitting the dignity of his position and his
historical knowledge.
“That would be just about it,” said Kobus, with deep respect, and then
went on. “He rushed into my house with a face like—h’m, h’m—it’s sinful
to think of—what a face the man had! And first he dropped down on a
chair, and couldn’t speak a word—not a letter—your worship! My wife gave
him a glass of water, and she said, says she, ‘Come, Jan, just drink a
little, and then you’ll come to yourself again, and then you can tell us
what’s the matter.’ That’s what she said, your worship,—for them
women-folk are always so curious, and she was just on fire, I tell you.
Jan soon got his breath, and then it came out—how, that night—last
Saturday week, a fortnight ago to-morrow—two baskets full of pears had
been taken away from his trees—two whole baskets, your worship!”
Gerrit Rond, the burgomaster, the principal resident, and the respected
head of his parish, stroked his plump chin complacently, and looked at
his factotum, quietly smiling.
“Well; and what more, Kobus?”
Such imperturbable calm must surely conceal a great plan, thought the
veldwachter; and he was several seconds recovering from his
consternation. Then he stammered,—
“And ... and ... nothing more, your worship. I reported the matter to
you at once; I drew up the _procès-verbal_. But though I have done my
best to find out....”
The honest veldwachter completed his sentence by shrugging his
shoulders, extending his arms, and dropping them again,—illustrating the
whole pantomime by a face expressive of the utmost helplessness.
But now Gerrit Rond, burgomaster, the principal resident, and respected
head of the community, arose from his municipal arm-chair, and spake,—
“Kobus, I know it!”
Kobus listened in breathless excitement.
“Kobus,” the burgomaster went on, looking round him with vigilant eyes,
as though he suspected that pear-thieves might be hidden in the corners
of his sitting-room,—“Kobus, did he steal _all_ the pears?”
The veldwachter was silent, and looked questioningly at the burgomaster.
He could not make out what the latter was driving at.
“I mean,” explained the father of the citizens, “whether Jan o’ the Wood
has not got a single pear left on his trees?”
“Well; no, sir. Two baskets the rascal made off with; but how many
baskets there were to be had in that orchard, I don’t know. It’s quite
terrible the way Jan’s trees bear, and everything prime quality,
large-sized, and juicy. I think Jan’s father had them before him, and he
must have brought them....”
“That will do, Kobus,” the burgomaster interrupted his subordinate; “but
that’s not the point.... So the pears have not _all_ been removed? I
mean, by this, that the thief has not unlawfully possessed himself of
the _whole?_”
“Why, no, your worship.”
“Now, Kobus, look here.”
Kobus listened respectfully, understanding that the critical moment had
now arrived.
“My father, Kobus, was a man of sense, and when he had enjoyed anything,
he always used to say, ‘This peach tastes of more.’”
“Oh, yes!” exclaimed Kobus, as though suddenly enlightened,—whereas, in
truth, he was more puzzled than ever.
“And, look you, Kobus, the apple can never fall far from the tree. My
father was a sensible man; and I, too, say, ‘This peach tastes of more,’
and....”
Here the burgomaster looked through his half-closed eyelids with an air
of infinite sagacity, and added, slowly dragging out his words, one by
one,—
“... And—that—I suspect—the thief—will—say—too.”
“O-o-oh!” bellowed the veldwachter; “I understand—the thief will want
more pears. He will come back, and then we’ll catch him?”
The burgomaster looked at his factotum with a paternal air of
approbation.
“Kobus!” said he, “something may be made of you yet!”
“Does your worship think that?” cried Kobus, in an ecstasy,—and a rosy
prospect instantly appeared before his mind’s eye—chief agent in a large
town, commissioner of police, nay, perhaps,—but that he would not have
dared to say out loud for any money in the world,—perhaps, one day, even
burgomaster!
“But now to business, Kobus! This very night we will try to catch the
thief; and my name is not Gerrit Rond if we don’t succeed. We’ll hide in
Jan’s orchard, and when he comes we’ll collar him, and then....”
Here the burgomaster-detective pointed downwards. Under the tower of the
court-house there was a vault or cellar of masonry, which usually served
as a receptacle for old iron and thieves; the latter destination,
however, was unknown, save by tradition, for only the very oldest
inhabitants of the village dimly remembered an evil-doer being
imprisoned there.
Kobus then suggested that it might be as well to take his son Hannes
with him on their expedition, a suggestion which might have been
unkindly interpreted by outsiders, for there were unpleasant reports
current about the brave _garde-champêtre’s_ reluctance to pursue
criminals alone. The suggestion, however, found favour in the eyes of
the magistrate, as it would enable them to take forty winks while the
boy watched for the appearance of the thief. This being settled, Kobus
withdrew, to reappear at the appointed time that evening. But he had not
been gone long when a loud knocking startled the burgomaster out of an
incipient reverie.
“Come in!” he cried, somewhat ungraciously, and the opening door
revealed Kobus’s bearded face; but this time with so scared an
expression, and such wildly rolling eyes, that Gerrit turned rigid with
terror and, pale as death, held on to the back of his chair for support,
as he stammered,
“Wh—wh—what is it, Kobus?”
“_Burrgemeesterr_,” rolled out Kobus, hoarsely, making as much as
possible of the _r’s_, and putting his head round the door without
coming into the room, “the thief of the apples that were stolen from
Piet Stein a year and a half ago, and this thief of the pears....”
“The same,” sighed the burgomaster, struck with consternation.
“Your worship,” said Kobus, “it is a conspiracy! Shall we—should we—go
and ask the Dominie?”
But scarcely had Kobus uttered this fatal word than he darted out of the
door and up the street, and it was long before his mind’s eye had lost
sight of that frightful picture: the burgomaster, purple in the face,
and boiling over with indignation; and the voice of his superior
thundered in his ears with all the annihilating force of contempt.
“The Dominie!” was all he had said.
The village schoolmaster was an old man of sixty-three, who, ever since
his twentieth year, had stood, day after day, Sundays excepted, behind
the same desk, leading the peasants’ children from the spelling of s, p,
a—spa, to the four elementary rules of arithmetic. Every year a few left
him, being found ripe for forgetting at the plough-tail what they had
learnt in the schoolroom, and every year fresh aspirants for s, p,
a—spa, appeared on the scenes. So he had grown old at his work, and his
work with him. For he belonged to the pre-examination days—he was a
“_schoolmeester_,” not an “_onderwijzer_.” The new generation looked on
him rather as a curiosity, a touchstone of progress, a souvenir of old
times, than a living being, a wheel in the world-machine of the
nineteenth century. Other men of his age had gone with the stream, and
followed its capricious windings; he had landed on the bank, and
followed his own old path; his mind had rusted into the old groove, and
he could not extricate it.
He had already received hints that he ought to retire, to ask for his
pension, so as to make way for modern forces; but the idea of ceasing to
stand before his class and behind his desk was too strange to the old
man—too new!
So he remained on for the present, till his resignation should no longer
be a matter of choice.
The elder children were busy doing sums; the younger ones were being
attended to by the Dominie himself.
But how strange he was to-day! It sometimes seemed as if he heard
nothing of the lesson the children were droning over,—saw nothing of the
tricks the older ones were up to in the background,—as if, in fact, he
were thinking of something entirely different. He had such fits,
sometimes. How funny it was, now, when he dipped his pencil into the
inkstand, instead of a penholder, and, shortly afterwards, abstractedly
put it into his mouth! What a face he made when he found it out! The
whole school had simply yelled at the joke, and the Dominie had got very
angry, and put the whole lot of them in detention. Later, however, he
almost laughed at the matter himself, and allowed them all to go home.
Such foolish and absurd things he used to do every now and then; and the
reason for this was, as the burgomaster said, because the Dominie was
“an obstructive fellow,” and “not practical.”
And when the burgomaster said so, every one believed him, for the
burgomaster was considered a very clever man.
But, after all, the Dominie was cleverer still.
For, indeed, there were sometimes things that the Dominie himself did
not know,—of course, for no man can know everything. But, in those
cases, he always said, “I’ll just look it up.” And then he looked in his
books, and kept on looking till he found it; and he always did find it,
because he had such piles of books! For, after all, that was where
things were to be found—in books! For this reason the burgomaster was
not so clever as the schoolmaster; he had scarcely any books at all.
This was one cause of the burgomaster’s dislike. He was Gerrit Rond,
_the burgomaster_, the first man in the village; and the Dominie was
just the schoolmaster. And, naturally, the former could not endure being
looked on as less clever than the latter. But he did not utter this
opinion aloud; he sometimes needed the Dominie’s help in “just looking
up something,” and swallowed his dislike as best he could; but people
could see it all the same.
Yes, indeed! the Dominie was particularly clever!
Once it befell that Piet Stein’s son came home from the city, where he
had “studied” with a view to becoming assistant-teacher; and on that
occasion he had said, in the presence of his father, “All the Dominie’s
cleverness is worth nothing; he is antiquated, and doesn’t know French.”
Piet Stein, junior, was well acquainted with the French language; he had
just learnt it. But Piet Stein, senior, seized his promising son by the
collar, and dealt him a well-intentioned thrashing, “to knock these
new-fangled notions out of him once for all.”
For the schoolmaster was a knowledgeable man. He lived with his books,
and—which was less obvious to the eyes of the world—with his instruments
and his medicine-chest. For years past he had been practising on his own
account, and had acquired a certain medical reputation among the
peasants of the neighbourhood as well as within the village. He had, in
truth, treated several cases within the last few years with great
success; but it might be better not to inquire how many earlier trials
had failed. Then came the new ideas—the laws against unlicensed
doctoring were strictly enforced, and he received warnings from various
quarters, of which, however, he took no notice. He could not understand
why he might not try to lessen people’s sufferings, as well as other
men, who usually did not succeed any better than he. It had become to
him a passion, an aim in life, a vocation.
So he obstinately went his own way, in spite of warnings, till the
doctors, whom he injured in their practice, at last lost patience, and
prosecuted him. He was convicted and fined, and from that time his
medical career was over,—at least so it was universally reported. It
seemed strange, however, that now and then a sick person made a
wonderful recovery, without having been treated by the doctor.
Now, one evening it happened that old Klaas, the shepherd, was seriously
ill, and had asked for the schoolmaster. The Dominie had said “No,” but
he had meant “Yes”; for though no longer allowed to do any doctoring, he
could not keep from it. So he meant to wait till it was dark, and then
slip out unnoticed to Klaas’ cottage.
In Jan o’ the Wood’s orchard three figures were crouching down behind
three low dwarf pear-trees, and each of the three had his head full of
thoughts that were not those of his neighbour. The burgomaster was
chiefly tortured by the idea that on the good or ill success of the
evening’s undertaking depended the preservation of his official dignity;
for, seeing that he had enjoined the strictest secrecy on the
veldwachter, and his promising son and heir, the only question was which
of the two would most speedily spread abroad the whole story through the
village. But, over and above this, the respected head of the community
was trembling like an aspen-leaf, for before his mental eye there arose
a vision of a robber—yes, truly and literally, _a robber_,—a man with a
long beard, bristling hair, and bloodshot eyes,—a man who goes about
with jemmies and murderous weapons on his person, and—and—who might kill
you if you came in his way, you see!
The veldwachter was, before all things, eager to behold the heroic feats
of the burgomaster, for he was firmly convinced that the mere presence
of the great man was sufficient to compel the miscreant to run into the
snare. For terror there was _now_ no room in his martial spirit,—for,
after all, he had Hannes with him!
Hannes was a big sturdy chap, who at fifteen might well have been taken
for eighteen,—a fellow with fists like engine-buffers, and a face which,
for shrewd intelligence of expression, was about equal to that of a
sheep. Hannes was burning with impatience to hammer away at the
malefactor; hitherto he had only tried his strength on mere vagabonds,
but now he was to have the opportunity of measuring himself with a real
thief. That would be something to boast of!
Thus the three would-be thief-catchers sat in the greatest excitement
behind three of the smallest dwarf pear-trees that any one can imagine.
A considerable time elapsed, during which even the strained senses of
the triumvirate could perceive nothing which, in the remotest degree,
resembled even a fraction of a thief. At last Hannes’ patience was
exhausted, and with it his capacity for silence. “Dad,” he began in a
whisper, “if he comes, am I to take him by the throat and choke him, or
shall I punch his head till he falls down dead?”
“I don’t know,” replied the veldwachter, in an equally cautious whisper,
at least as low as his love for gutturals and sibilants would allow,
“I’ll just ask his worship.” Thus did Kobus, and repeated the gruesome
question to the burgomaster, thereby sending a shudder through the
latter’s limbs.
“Tell him,” said the heroic man to his heroic subordinate, who was
squatting between his superior and his son, “that he must seize him by
the legs, so as not to come within reach of his hands; the thief is sure
to have daggers and pistols to defend himself with if he is attacked.”
Thus spake the wise man; but the real reason for his caution was that he
felt there might be disagreeable consequences for himself if Hannes
received the thief in too heavy-handed a manner.
The veldwachter passed on the message in a whisper to his son:
“Hold him by the legs, Hannes!”
“All right, dad,” replied Hannes, though he did not understand why he
was to treat the criminal so gently. But the burgomaster had said so,—in
other words, the oracle had spoken, and so——
It was very quiet, in the dark, behind Jan’s pear-tree. The burgomaster
dropped his venerated head, and slept. When Kobus heard the low sound of
snoring beside him, he turned to his son, and said:
“Hannes, his worship is off; I think I’ll have a nap too; keep a good
look-out, and give me a push if you see anything wrong.”
“All right, dad,” said Hannes, and he sat bolt upright, and opened his
eyes still wider than before. But the duet at his side, the darkness all
round him, and the weariness in his eyelids, made him close them now and
then. He struggled bravely against sleep, but there was no one to help
him. And he was only fifteen, and it was so late and so dark, and Hannes
fell into a doze.
Now and then he was awakened for a moment or so by the uneasy thought
that he was the one who had to watch. On one of these occasions, he
thought he saw a dim figure pass right before him in this dark, and to
hear steps—hurried footsteps. He rubbed his eyes, and—yes—there was some
one carefully opening the gate and leaving the orchard.
Hastily Hannes awakened his parent, in the gentle manner prescribed and
told him, in a whisper, what he knew. The awful tidings were then
reported to the burgomaster, and a moment later the trio were on their
way to seek the thief, who surely, as the veldwachter supposed, was just
carrying away his booty. Hannes went first, the burgomaster followed,
and Kobus formed the rearguard. This order had been determined by the
burgomaster. “For,” said he, “as head of the community, I ought to have
the most protection.”
In this way the police force wandered aimlessly about for some time.
Hannes did not know for certain what direction the thief had taken after
leaving the orchard; and, besides, there was scarcely any light. It
really seemed as though the moon were taking upon herself to play at
bo-peep with the most worshipful the burgomaster, for she chose not to
show up at all. Yes, perhaps, indeed—oh! scandalous thought!—she was
making faces at the great man behind her thick curtain of clouds! Who
knows?—there are such queer stories told about the moon.
The expedition, then, returned to the orchard unsuccessful, and once
more took up its position behind the dwarf pear-trees. That the
miscreant might yet return seemed probable, as Hannes assured them that
he had indeed seen him carrying something under his arm, but not a large
sack or anything of that sort. He could not, therefore, have taken
_much_ with him. And they waited—waited—waited....
Meanwhile the schoolmaster had quietly gone on his way. The better to
escape observation, he did not take the nearest way, along the main
street, but went out into his back garden, opened a little gate which
led into Jan o’ the Wood’s orchard, struck right across the orchard, and
so reached a lane leading round to the other side of the village. Here
he turned into a wood, and, following a small winding footpath, came at
length to a lonely cottage, seemingly forsaken, hidden away among the
tall trees. Here he seemed a habitual visitor. At least he lifted the
latch without first knocking, opened the door, and found himself in an
apartment serving at the same time as bedroom and kitchen.
A close, heavy air, and an ominous stillness, seemed to oppress him as
he entered. But the Dominie was not easily daunted. He felt about till
he found a lamp standing on the table, and lit it. With the light, life
seemed to come into the dead silence of the room; at least a low moaning
was heard from a corner where there was a bedstead, and a broken voice
asked, “Who’s there?”
“It’s I, Klaas, the schoolmaster,” announced the visitor; and, bending
over the sick man, he went on, “How is it with you?”
“It’s all up, Dominie, it’s all up,” gasped the voice. “Oh, Klaas is no
great loss—not much; oh no!”
There seemed to be reason enough for such an estimate; at least the man
who lay there dying did not give the idea of one whose loss society
would feel very keenly. The flickering lamp-light showed the bed-place,
let into the wall like a ship’s berth, in an indefinite half-darkness,
except the head, on which a dull yellow gleam was cast. There lay, on an
unsightly grey, greasy bolster, a head that at first sight seemed more
animal than human. The thin face was made still more angular and hollow
by the strongly projecting cheek-bones, and the pointed chin with its
bristly beard. The upper-lip, and indeed the whole mouth, was almost
covered with stiff hair; the nose was broad, flat, and turned up; while
a quantity of lank, tangled hair fell over the projecting forehead and
deep-set eyes. But these eyes glittered fiercely, every now and then, in
their dark sockets, and then again looked anxiously, almost
entreatingly, at the schoolmaster.
The Dominie tried to answer him cheerfully. “Come, come, Klaas! What
foolish talk is this? You may not have been a king or a great man, but
you have been of use for all that. Shepherds are wanted just as much as
kings.”
“No, sir,” said Klaas, moving his head restlessly. “Every day so many
finer lights are blown out, and Klaas is only a rushlight. Oh, Lord,
yes!”
The old schoolmaster tried to comfort him, but Klaas still seemed to
have something on his mind.
He had stolen Jan’s pears a fortnight ago, he told the schoolmaster at
last.
The old man remained with him till a late hour, and then started
homewards by the same way as he had come.
“Father, father!”
“What is it, Hannes?”
“I hear the gate creak.”
“So it does.... Your worship, here he comes back again.”
“Really? Yes, I see him.... Kobus, stand firm, my man. Let Hannes hold
him fast by the legs. No, not yet—wait till he passes! Oh, do be
careful! Look out for his weapons!”
“Hannes, be ready!”
“I’m quite ready, dad.”
“Not before I speak, and then by the legs—do you hear?”
“Yes, dad. Hush now!”
—The shuffling of approaching footsteps in the grass of the orchard ...
suddenly a figure disengages itself from the darkness.—
“Now, Hannes, now!”
Hannes creeps forward along the ground, seizes the figure, according to
instructions, firmly by the ankles—a good pull—and the thief falls
forward at full length. Hannes seizes his wrists, and lets himself fall
flat on the top of his prey.
The veldwachter, for greater security, incontinently throws himself upon
his two predecessors; and the burgomaster crowns the human pyramid, and
the successful thief-hunt, by sitting down, with all his burgomasterly
weight and a heavy bump, upon the three others, triumphantly shouting
the while, “I’ve got him,”—which is answered by, “Oh my ribs, your
worship!” from the uppermost stratum, “What in thunder!” from the
midmost, and a smothered groan from the lowest.
“Hannes, have you got a hold of his hands—tight now?”
“Yes, your worship, but I can’t do anything myself like this.”
“Well, I’ll get up, but keep a good hold of him—do you hear?”
“All right, sir.”
The burgomaster arose. “Kobus, put the handcuffs on him at once. In
heaven’s name make haste about it then.”
The veldwachter bustled up from the ground, and set about securing the
prisoner as closely as possible. While he was thus occupied, and Hannes
was holding the persistently silent criminal, the burgomaster kept
walking round and round his captive in order to see what sort of a fish
he had got in his net. In this he would probably have been unsuccessful,
had not the moon, in a sudden caprice, shone out brightly once more.
When the triumvirate saw the pale face, paler than ever with the fright
and the cold moonlight, and perceived it to be the face so well known to
them, all their astonishment uttered itself in the simultaneous cry—
“The Dominie!”
The school was empty, and the children had a holiday, for the
Dominie ... was sitting in the vault under the tower.
Under the tower sat the Dominie, amidst pieces of old iron and other
rubbish. Light and air stole in shyly, in small quantities, through the
little, square, grated window, in which a single scrap of glass, dusty
and weather-stained, remained in one corner, to show there had once been
a pane. As the court-house was surrounded by a paddock, which again was
enclosed by a low wall, the sounds from outside only penetrated
indistinctly, as a vague murmur, into this chamber. Sometimes it was
quiet,—deadly still, there, especially of an evening, and then life came
into the place, for the rats and mice began their games. The Master was
an old man, and nervous, and he could not sleep much. He thought over
the whole matter in his wakeful hours, and it gradually became clear to
him that he had been arrested by mistake.... Klaas had stolen Jan van ’t
Hout’s pears, and he, the Dominie, had been taken for the thief
returning for a second load. But it would not be difficult to prove his
innocence. Only it was lasting a long time; he ought surely to have been
tried before now. Four days had passed without his hearing anything.
Even the veldwachter, who, as a rule, could not be with him two minutes
without wanting to relate some story or other, was now silence itself,
when he brought the Dominie his daily rations. What was the meaning of
this delay?
[Illustration:
“SITTING IN THE VAULT UNDER THE TOWER.”
]
Yes, the delay had well-founded reasons! The burgomaster had indeed
caught the fish, but he did not exactly know what he was to do with him.
It was a ticklish business. Was he to hand over the prisoner
immediately, without the form of a trial, to the authorities in town? or
was he first to hold an inquiry, and send up the _procès-verbal_ along
with the prisoner? Supposing the latter to be the case, how was he to
set about it? It was a most unfortunate circumstance that there had
never been any thieves in the parish, for now the burgomaster was most
certainly at his wits’ end. The secretary—a poor, infirm old man, almost
in his dotage—was consulted in vain. The same result attended a
conference with the “law-holders.”[6] Finally the burgomaster called
Kobus to his assistance. He reflected for some time, and said at last:
“Doesn’t it say in the communal bye-laws?”
“This case is one for which no provision is made in the _Gemeentewet_”
said the burgomaster, with admirable composure,—the truth being that the
greater part of the Gemeentewet was Greek to him, and that he had
gradually picked up, by practical experience, what knowledge he
possessed of his official duties. Kobus, however, was very far from
suspecting any such subtleties, and believed his superior implicitly.
His invention being now exhausted, he confined himself to remarking,
with a sigh, “If it hadn’t been the Dominie himself, now, we might have
asked him—he could surely have looked it up somewhere.”
Yes, that would have been too absurd. They could not have brought the
Dominie all his books in a wheelbarrow, and requested him to “look up”
information as to what was to be done with himself! No—that would not
do. But all at once an expedient occurred to Kobus. There was an old,
old man in the village—a grey-beard of ninety or more. Perhaps in his
young days there might have been such a thing as a malefactor in this
rural region. Yes, the idea was not such a bad one, and Kobus was sent
as a delegate from the government to this oracle of antiquity. In fact,
the old man had a suggestion ready. He remembered that some sixty years
ago an analogous case had occurred, and then the burgomaster had first
examined the culprit himself, and then sent him to town for trial. He
added, however, that the burgomaster on that occasion had not been quite
certain of what he ought to do. That, however, did not matter so
much—the precedent was there in any case. The schoolmaster then must be
examined; and, as Mulders had once been present at a trial in court, the
forms of justice presented no such great difficulty after all.
On the fifth day after his arrest, the schoolmaster was haled forth from
the dungeon under the tower, and—of course, heavily handcuffed—taken to
the council-chamber. That was an event. The whole village formed a long
procession, which accompanied the prisoner; and when he was taken
inside, his train remained hanging about the doors. Then followed a buzz
and clatter among the crowd, as though it were a swarm of bees, or a
duck-yard.
[Illustration:
“THAT WAS AN EVENT.”
]
“It’s too bad,” said a little old woman; “an old white-haired man like
that. What may not a man come to? Only yesterday he was teaching my
daughter’s children their lessons, and to-day the poor lambs are running
after their master, because he’s been in jail just like some nasty
vagabond. And I can’t believe it of him, do you know—anything but that.
He has always been much too kind to every one. I’m not the only one here
whom he has helped for nothing—nothing at all—without your having to pay
a cent for it.”
“Yes, but, mother,” began a rich farmer,—with a face and attitude in
which the most condescending amiability could not altogether hide the
lowest greed, and a stupid arrogant conceit,—“you must understand that
there are well-founded reasons—I say, _well-founded reasons_—for the man
to have been taken up—eh? That’s surely self-evident—eh? No one is put
into handcuffs without important reasons; there must be a ground for
such a motive—I say, _for such a motive_.” And then the mighty orator
looked round him with a “What do you think of me now?” expression, and
enjoyed his victory over the old woman. But the latter was not to be
driven from the field so easily.
“You go along with your French talk. I know nothing about that,—and yet
I think I know quite as much as you do yourself. But this I know, that
it doesn’t look well for you, of all people, to abuse the schoolmaster
anyway. Even though it were as clear as a post above the water that the
Dominie had stolen, _you_ ought to stand up for him! Do you understand
me—eh?”
The rich farmer understood quite well. When his youngest boy had been
lying ill some months ago, he had been too mean to send for a doctor,
though he could well afford it, and had called the schoolmaster to his
assistance. Then, as at other times, the Dominie had said “No,” to keep
up appearances, as he was not supposed to practise any more; but he had
thought “Yes,” and acted on his thought. And the rich farmer had paid
him nothing. This was why he now hurriedly turned away from this covert
attack, muttering something about “old creatures getting quite
childish,” but abstained from further contradiction.
But the old woman could not be everywhere at once to take the Dominie’s
part, and the conclusion of most conversations was this: “Yes, you see,
folks don’t call a cow piebald, when there’s not a spot about her.”
Suddenly, however, all voices were hushed before the reverently-uttered
magic formula, “The Burgomaster!”
The crowd parted to let him pass, and he went up to the council-chamber,
where the faithful Kobus, in his Sunday suit, was awaiting him. He was
already going to meet the burgomaster, in order to tell him that “they”
were all there; but the great man was looking straight in front of him,
as stiff as a poker, and making, in a direct line, for his official
chair, like a guest who, on being ushered in, looks neither to right nor
left, but makes straight for the lady of the house.
This was “the proper form.” Kobus was so impressed by this ceremonial
that he stared with open mouth and eyes, and remained immovable, like a
masculine counterpart of Lot’s wife. The burgomaster had elegant
manners, that he had.
“Are all present?” asked the burgomaster, suddenly.
Kobus awakened with a start from his ecstatic trance. “Yes, your
worship,” he answered, regaining his composure.
“Then the trial may begin,” said the President of the Court. “And you,
Veldwachter, do you caligraph it!”
“I—I don’t altogether understand, your worship.”
“Caligraph, Veldwachter!”
“Oh!—ah!—hm—yes, I don’t understand——.”
“Write it down, Veldwachter. Caligraphy—that is the art of writing, you
know.”
“All right, your worship.” Kobus sat down at a table, took up a pen, and
bent over a sheet of paper. But the paper was destined to remain
unsoiled. For, all of a sudden, the burgomaster looked round him, and,
probably struck by the emptiness of the room, inquired, “Veldwachter,
are all the witnesses present?”
“All the witnesses are present, your worship,” answered Kobus,
indicating, with a majestic wave of the hand, his solitary son Hannes,
who sat so forlorn, that, looking at him and the schoolmaster, it would
have been hard to say which was witness and which defendant; for the
Dominie had his handcuffed hands on his knees under the table, and you
would not have guessed from his calm features—pale and worn with the
fatigues of the last few days—that he was accused of any crime.
“But,” pursued Kobus, “your worship has just said something that gives
me an idea. Ought there not to be some other witnesses?”
“Other witnesses?”
“Yes, I mean witnesses to witness _for_ him, do you see? I mean to say,
Hannes sits here, for instance, to speak against—I mean against the
Dominie,—but ought there not to be some witnesses to speak for him as
well?”
The burgomaster began to think. This was a difficult question, one of
those ticklish and delicate problems, the solution of which forms the
principal _raison d’être_ of a burgomaster’s career. If only this
miserable trial had never begun! He cast a furtive glance at the
defendant. If only he could consult the Dominie, and ask him to look up
his books about the matter! But away with such humiliating thoughts! No;
better, if it must be, to manifest his ignorance in a more becoming way:
“Veldwachter, is that what they do in town? It was different in my
time.”
“They do it that way now, your worship.”
“Then we had better move with the times, and adapt ourselves to the new
usages. But where are the—the _for_-witnesses to come from?”
“Oh! there’s a whole crowd outside the door, your worship—perhaps you
might find one among them. And if there’s no one to be had—well, at any
rate, we’ve done our best to find one.”
“Go outside, then, and proclaim a summons, on my behalf.”
Kobus went and did so, wording the “proclamation” as clearly as he knew
how. But a deathly stillness was all the answer he received. For though
many a simple soul was honestly convinced of the defendant’s innocence,
and though here and there a solitary voice had been raised in his
favour,—to go in there, into the council-chamber,—_to stand before the
tribunal_,—that was more than those timid folk could undertake.
Suddenly, however, a shrill voice cried, “Well, if no one else will do
it, I will.” And the little old woman who had already taken up the
cudgels for the Dominie, forced her way hastily to the front of the
crowd.
“Look’ee there; Auntie’s going to speak,” cried various voices. Every
one repeated, laughing, “Auntie’s going to speak!” for under this name
the old lady was known to all the village.
Auntie cared neither for laughter nor tears, but went straight forward,
climbed the court-house steps, and then suddenly turned round, waved her
thin old arms, and cried as loud as she could, “You’re a pack of
cowards, the lot of you,—do you hear, you great loobies?” Then she
disappeared inside. And though she was a funny figure enough as she
stood there, no one thought of laughing,—they all felt the truth of
Auntie’s words too deeply.
[Illustration:
“YOU’RE A PACK OF COWARDS.”
]
Auntie was conducted inside by the veldwachter, and her eye immediately
fell on her client. The Dominie remained seated in the same attitude,
discouraged and dejected—deeply humiliated by the thought that, at his
age, with his aspirations and such a past behind him, he should have to
bow his head beneath the weight of a criminal accusation! The trouble
dimmed his thinking powers, and drove the blood through his veins at
lightning speed. What a hammering in his pulses—what a thumping in his
temples—what a rushing in his ears! He felt like a swimmer who has been
long under water, and finds it press more and more crushingly on him,
and hears its noise in his ears. That was the fever—the fever that was
rising higher and higher in his blood, and brought that unnatural flush
to his usually pale cheeks.
Auntie looked at the sad spectacle he presented, and her indignation
rose, and craved for immediate utterance.
“Burgomaster!” she began, “don’t you call it a shame that the Dominie——”
But her flow of words was immediately interrupted by the burgomaster:
“Silence! witness, this is not as it should be. You have come here to
give your evidence voluntarily, and to do this effectually all the forms
must be observed. Witness, what is your name?”
“Well, I never—my name! Just as though the whole village didn’t know me?
Come, come, Burgomaster, every one knew my name long before yours was
ever thought of; and do you want to pretend that you don’t know me? No,
man, that won’t do. All those grand manners won’t go down with old
Auntie. All the same, I can tell you plainly why the poor fellow could
not have stolen the pears; and so you are quite out of it, with all your
fine forms and speeches, do you see? Now just let me ask you, if he took
the pears, where did he leave them,—say?”
And Auntie placed her arms akimbo, and assumed an attitude which seemed
to say, “Your turn now—come on!”
But the opposite party remained passive. The burgomaster, as it
happened, was seized with a violent fit of coughing, which seemed as
though it could not come to an end. It was a pity, for, but for that,
surely, the wise man would have answered the conundrum with Solomonic
perspicuity. The veldwachter-clerk said, “Hm, hm—yes, yes,” and covered
his beard with his hand. The witness for the prosecution yawned with
_ennui_ and hunger. The defendant sat still, and looked at the old woman
with rigid eyes.
But all things come to an end, and so did the presiding judge’s cough.
However, he seemed to have coughed away all his judicial sagacity, for
he remained silent. Not so Kobus Mulders, who awakened from his reverie
after this fashion—
“Yes, yes,—where did he leave them? I only say, your worship,—where did
he leave the pears, if he stole them?”
“Oh, yes, that’s what I should like to know,” said Auntie, shortly, and
closed her lips with a look of firm conviction.
Another pause.
“Yes,” resumed Kobus, “he can’t have swallowed them all down at once.”
This joke appeared to him so inexpressibly funny, that he burst into a
loud hoarse laugh, which was echoed by no one except Hannes. But
suddenly the joker’s features became rigid, and he looked at every one
present with a face whose expression plainly said, “How is it possible
that I did not think of it before?” and exclaimed, “I know! Your
worship, the little chest that we found in Klaas’s cottage the day after
he died——”
“Well, Kobus?” asked the burgomaster, in great excitement—so much so
that he quite forgot to speak officially.
“It is the Dominie’s, and now I understand everything. The Dominie
_didn’t_ steal, and Auntie is quite right. It could not be, either. Just
listen. The Dominie has been at his doctoring again. He went to see
Klaas when he was dying, and forgot to take his medicine-chest away with
him when he left. I am quite sure it is his medicine-chest, because it
is the same thing I used to see in his hands in the old times, when
nobody minded his doctoring folks. And the time just corresponds. On the
day after we arrested the Dominie, I went to see Klaas, and found him
dead. It’s as plain—as—well, it’s quite plain!”
Every one had listened with the greatest attention, and the explanation
seemed to have made a deep impression on all. The Dominie, however,
seemed to feel it most. He suddenly started up out of his apathy, leaned
his handcuffed hands on the table, and tried to speak. Everything melted
into a dull roar inside his head—the light turned to scarlet—he had
fainted.
All of them hastened up to help him—Auntie foremost, in spite of her old
legs. Slowly he came to himself again, and then he tried to think. He
remembered what had happened, in a dim sort of way. What now? What
should he answer if they asked him whether Kobus’s supposition was
correct? It was—and yet, if he acknowledged that he had gone to Klaas on
that particular evening to give him medical help, then he would have to
expect for the future so strict a supervision of his forbidden practice,
that it would thenceforth be almost impossible to carry it on. And he
could not give it up—he could not, and would not. But to be looked on as
a thief! Oh, if he could only think—think quietly and calmly. But this
fever! this fever! No, it was his duty, his calling, and he must be true
to it, though he should be crushed by the contempt of the whole
world—the world he longed to do good to. And wildly, as a wave of
delirium swept over him, he said, “No! no! no! I didn’t do that! The
chest is not mine! I know nothing about it, and wish to know nothing—do
you hear? I am no doctor; I am only a poor schoolmaster! I am much too
stupid to be a doctor, and I have never done anything of the sort! I’m a
thief—a wretched thief—a thief!” He cried shrilly once more, with all
his strength, “A thief!” and let his burning head drop on his heaving
breast.
His hearers looked at each other. Not one of them now believed in his
guilt, and even in the burgomaster—who was only narrow-minded, not
bad-hearted—every hostile feeling now gave place to pity.
“Come, Dominie,” he said, laying his hand on the old man’s shoulder,
“come, you mustn’t make so much of it as all that. We all understand the
whole business now; and as for the medicine-chest, I forbid every one
here present to say one word about it!” At these words the burgomaster
looked round him with such a solemn air of command, that Kobus cast down
his eyes, and Hannes shuddered with sheer reverence. But the great man,
mindful of his duties as presiding judge, went on—“Now, defendant, you
are acquitted; you may go.”
But Auntie flew up in a storm of indignation. “What! go? My patience,
me! Burgomaster, don’t you see the poor soul can hardly sit in his
chair? Come, Hannes, you great lout, what are you loafing about there
for, you great long booby, you? Run out, and tell them to send some
menfolks to carry the Dominie home. Quick now!”
This classic oration produced a visible impression on Hannes, and,
before long, he came back with several men, who carried the schoolmaster
away, Auntie walking behind, and saying, from time to time, “Take care!
take care!” When it became known outside that the Dominie’s innocence
was established, every one set up a loud cry of joy.
Inside, however, the burgomaster and Kobus were looking at each other
with serious faces. “I haven’t written down anything, with all the
confusion,” said Kobus. The burgomaster considered. If the matter were
reported in town, he would probably get well laughed at for his mistake.
And what about the forms in which such a narrative, if reported, would
have to be clothed? No; it was best to put the whole thing aside, and
say no more about it.
“Veldwachter, it seems to me that this matter is not now of sufficient
importance for us to communicate it to the judicial authorities of the
_parquet_; so you may go too.”
Without understanding half of this speech, Kobus was able to catch the
burgomaster’s drift,—the matter was at an end. So he went home,
reflecting how frightfully learned the burgomaster was.
C. K. ELOUT.
_MY HERO._
I was a boy of twelve or thirteen, and, just like other boys of that
age, full of life, mischief, ideals, and illusions.
A good-for-nothing little scamp out of school, I was, under the master’s
eye, a queer mixture of the genuine mischief-loving boy and the zealous
pupil. If I found no attraction in the dry science of arithmetic and the
rules of grammar, all the more did I feel attracted by the history of
all nations in general, and ours in particular.
Yet not altogether; it was only the warlike Spartans and Romans, our own
crusading knights, and the fierce and enterprising Gueux,—in short, only
those whom I looked upon as heroes who could arrest my attention.
Frequently it vexed me that my lunch-slice of bread and butter did not
consist of black, coarse bread; sometimes I felt a deep disdain for my
clothes, so different from those in which the Roman legions marched to
victory; all peaceable merchant-vessels were an abomination to me,—I
knew but one ideal—to be a hero.
What I understood by a hero was not quite clear, even to myself,—only
this was certain, that no one could be a hero unless he had won many
great battles over stronger adversaries, or had blown up his ship in
order to save the flag, or ended his glorious life covered with wounds
in the breast (never in the back, of course!). In short, my idea of a
hero was somewhat complicated; but this much was certain, that a great
hero ought to be able to show a large number of wounds and scars, and
that his bravery should be equalled by his generosity.
I wished to be a hero myself, but as I quite understood that I was too
young for the position at present, my great desire was, at least, to see
and know a hero.
I sought everywhere for this superior being, and thought at last that I
had found my ideal in our new “odd man,” who had been a soldier, and had
a large scar on his cheek.
From this one outward and visible token of his bravery, I argued that he
must have more hidden about his person, under his clothes. These wounds,
alas! I could never hope to see, as he did not live in the house, but
came every day to clean boots and run errands.
I was, however, firmly convinced that they existed. The only drawback to
his greatness was the fact that he had both his arms and no wooden leg.
I would much rather it had been otherwise, but managed to content myself
with his many unseen wounds.
I was still seeking an opportunity of asking him how and when he had
become a hero, when I was suddenly bereft of my illusion.
Our kitchenmaid was beforehand with me.
One day, when I had furtively slipped out to the kitchen, in order to
question Frans, I heard Mie, our maid, say—
“I say, Frans, have you been in the wars, that you have such a mark over
your face?”
Then he replied—
“In the wars! I believe you! We’ve nothing more to do with wars in this
country, now! No,—when I was leaving the service, I treated my chum one
night. But he got drunk and outrageous, and chucked me through a window,
so that I cut my face open. No—I didn’t get it in the wars—and jolly
glad of it, too!”
I stood thunderstruck—the tears rose in my eyes.
No wounds on his breast! Even the scar was a delusion and a snare. I no
longer believed in living heroes. They no longer existed.
But I was going to be a hero all the same. And till I was able to
re-introduce the breed, I would content myself with the dead heroes of
the past.
[Illustration:
“I HAD FURTIVELY SLIPPED OUT TO THE KITCHEN.”
]
But there were so many of them—and I wanted a special hero all to
myself. Where should I find him?
De Ruyter was a hero, killed by the enemy’s shot—but I had nowhere read
that he had many wounds.
Bayard!—but I knew so little of him—and besides, he was not a Dutchman.
Cæsar—Napoleon—Blücher!—but how about the wounds?
Besides, every one knew that these were heroes; and I wanted one for
myself—for my own special worship—not one of the universally famous
ones.
My search, however, was not to be fruitless long. I found my hero in the
following way.
There were to be drains laid down round the old church in our city; and
the ground being dug up for that purpose, a number of skulls and bones
were found in the black earth.
All the boys of the school went to look as soon as they could get away,
and it may be supposed that I did not remain behind. We were all
inspired with a frenzied enthusiasm for relics of antiquity. We grubbed
about in the earth of the opened graves, to find coins, pots, or even
potsherds if we could get nothing else. We envied the town workmen, who
were allowed to keep on digging and finding all day long; and scarcely
had it struck twelve when we flew to the Kerkplein, to see what these
greedy persons had left us, and to discover anything that might have
escaped their search.
But we found nothing—neither did the diggers. Most of the boys,
therefore, gave up the search—I, alone, did not. I was seeking a dead,
unknown hero,—while they were looking only for coins and nicknacks. I
knew for certain that I should find something, when there were not so
many eyes on the watch, and therefore I remained away from school one
morning in order to go to the old churchyard.
For a long time nothing at all had been found—not even bones or
mouldering boards; so that all the other boys too—those who did not
belong to our school—had grown tired of coming.
Luck, however, was with me!
On one particular spot, at some distance from the church, pieces of
skeletons again began to be dug up. The workmen examined the earth to
see if it contained anything of value, but found nothing. My eager eye,
however, spied among the clods a lump of a different colour. I loosened
the earth from it, and found, to my great joy, a flattened bullet.
That was a discovery!
I turned over the heap of earth, and thus came into possession of six
bullets, and a little copper plate covered with earth and rust.
The bullets!—My hero was found!
Reverently I picked up some bones which had been thrown aside, and
carefully packed the remains of my hero in my school satchel.
My hero!—a real hero now!—not an imaginary one, like Frans, the odd man.
When I came home, in a tumult of joyful excitement, I secured my
treasure safely in my play-box, to which I had a key. And then I had my
hero safe—all to myself!
At dinner, I looked round triumphantly, and felt the deepest disdain for
my parents and sisters. They had never made such a discovery! They could
not even understand what it is to possess the very remains of a hero—the
hero himself! I scarcely ate anything for pride and joy, till my mother
said—
“Why, Con, you’re not eating. Are you not well?”
I could only stammer a few words, and then thrust a whole potato into my
mouth in order to prove my appetite, which, happily, reassured my
mother.
As soon as dinner was over, I darted to my own room to assure myself
that I had not been dreaming, and that my hero existed in very truth.
The bones and bullets, and the little metal plate, were there still.
I contemplated them all once more, with a look full of love and
reverence, and went downstairs again, so as to arouse no suspicion.
Never had I been a better-behaved boy than on that evening. I played
with my little sister as nicely as possible; I was obedient as I had
never been before,—all for fear that some unlucky circumstance might
lead to a discovery of my hero on the part of my parents.
At last it was time to go to bed. At last I was alone with the sacred
relics of the man who had stood six bullets, without reckoning the
innumerable wounds—to be taken for granted—on his breast!
I gazed at the bones, brown and dirty as they looked—at the flattened
bullets, and rusty bit of metal, with deep reverence. The plate probably
bore his name; but if so, it was illegible with the dirt. Should I clean
it? I burned with eagerness to know his name, and felt half inclined to
do it; but desisted, thinking that, being rusty, and covered with earth,
it would prove its age much better than if it were bright and polished
up like new.
At last, after long contemplation of my treasures, I locked them up, and
put the key under my pillow, for fear of burglars. Once in bed, however,
I could get no sleep. All sorts of ideas relating to my hero crossed and
recrossed my brain.
In the first place, I resolved to make a secret of him. It is a glorious
thing to have a secret all to one’s self—and such a secret!
It was settled, then—no one was to see or hear anything of him. I alone
was to possess my Hero, and be able to worship Him.
Then I began to wonder who he could have been, and when he had lived,
and where he had fought and died.
It was quite clear to me that the six bullets represented but a small
part of his wounds, for it was not possible that he had been killed on
the field of battle by the sixth of those bullets. I knew that the
fallen are always buried on the field of honour. Therefore he must have
died of other wounds,—probably sword-cuts, lance-thrusts, or the
like.... Then I fancied all sorts of biographies for my hero.
I should have liked best of all for him to have been a Crusader; but I
was forced to give up that idea, seeing that in those days there were no
guns, and therefore no bullets.
I therefore resolved to seek in more modern times.
A Water Gueux slain in fight? That, too, would not do. _They_ were
wrapped in a flag, and with a “One, two, three—in God’s name,” let down
into the sea.
I weighed all possible cases—to reject them again immediately.
At last I hit upon the following, which satisfied me pretty well:—My
hero had fought in Napoleon’s wars, and was for his valour promoted by
the great Emperor to the rank of general. In all battles he had been
foremost, and many a wound bore witness to his courage. Napoleon had
even chosen out a kingdom for him; when fortune changed, and all nations
rose to free themselves from the power of the great conqueror.
Then my hero had left his place in the army, and his exalted offices,
and had ranged himself under his country’s flag to serve her as a
private soldier.
After giving numerous proofs of courage, he was so severely wounded at
the battle of Waterloo,—where he defended the colours of his regiment,
single-handed, against a large number of the foe,—that he felt his end
approaching. And when he knew that the victory was won, he dragged
himself home to his native town to die.
His funeral was a splendid one, and the fallen hero was buried in a spot
apart from others, who were not thought worthy to be near him, even in
death.
This last circumstance I added, after long consideration, to explain the
isolated position of my hero’s grave.
Another difficulty, however, presented itself. Why was there no monument
erected to him?
The solution of this question cost me no little trouble. In our church
there were two splendid monuments, with beautiful Latin verses on them;
and the men who slept under them were of far less importance than my
hero. But here, too, there was an explanation. My hero himself had said
on his deathbed that he did not wish for a monument, but preferred to
rest simply under the green grass;—his name would live well enough
without one!
This, however, raised a new difficulty. I had never heard of any hero
buried in the former burying-ground close to the church. Happily,
however, I remembered to have read somewhere that “ingratitude is the
world’s reward.”
He was forgotten!
That grieved me deeply; but I determined with myself to revive the
memory of his name, when I should be somewhat older, and could write in
the papers, and become a member of the Useful Knowledge Society. Then I
would tell people how great my hero had been, and how ungratefully the
world had treated him. Till then, he should remain my secret.
Of course I had adorned him with all sorts of chivalric qualities. I had
seen him in my thoughts as the protector of helpless women, as the
avenger of wrong; I had seen him risk his life at the command of his
superiors, and in order to win one look from his lady.
And I had ended by endowing him with the crowning grace of modesty. Of
this I was not a little proud. I knew for certain that all the other
boys’ heroes would be brutal and arrogant, and set upon getting
monuments for themselves.
Mine, however, was modest ... and his reward was oblivion.... Yes—till I
should arise ... _then_ my hero should be greater than all others.
Happy that now I knew _all_ about my hero, youth and excitement were too
much for me, and I fell asleep.
Next morning I arose, no longer a boy—not even a man. I was a great man.
I had a task before me. I must give back to my hero his just fame and
honours.
I had even assumed a new manner!—marbles and suchlike games were now
beneath me,—and I thought the other boys uninteresting and childish.
They, on their part, soon found that I had become tiresome and pedantic,
and asked me if I had come in for a fortune, and was now too much of a
swell for them. I only laughed, and wrapped myself once more in my own
glory.
This lasted a few days, and then I began to find out that the solitary
enjoyment of glory and a secret was not so great a pleasure as I had
thought. Happily I had two bosom friends—Wil and Ed.
I resolved, after many heart searchings of heart, to share my wealth
with these two. After I had sworn them to secrecy, and also exacted a
solemn promise that they would not endeavour to appropriate my hero to
themselves, I told them of my discovery, and all I knew of him,—for what
I had myself imagined now seemed like truth to me. I enjoyed their
evident jealousy, and, still more, their admiration and reverence for
me.
“But, Con,” said Wil at last, “what is the hero’s name, really?”
I stood aghast. I had never thought of that! But they shall never exult
over me because I did not know the name of my own hero. So I mentioned
the first name that came into my head—“Jan Liller.”
[Illustration:
“AFTER I HAD SWORN THEM TO SECRECY.”
]
Happily, they believed me.
From that day forward there was a constant whispering among us, a
mystery in our conversation, even on the most unimportant subjects,
which drove all the other boys wild with curiosity. But we revealed
nothing. We had even determined, for fear of discovery, never to speak
of my hero otherwise than as “L. J.”—even when we were alone. J. L.
seemed to us much too dangerous.
Sometimes little boys were sent out to listen to us, under pretence of
carrying on their games in our neighbourhood. But we were on our guard,
and only talked all sorts of nonsense when the small spies were within
hearing. Thus my secret did not leak out. Yet we could not be silent
altogether.
In school, when the master told us about the great men of our country,
from Claudius Civilis to William the Silent, we smiled pityingly, and
said to each other, afterwards—
“L. J. could have done better than that!”—or, “They ought to have tried
L. J.; he could have taught them something!”—and the like—so that we
began to be called “L. J.’s.” But we took great care that no one should
find us out, and were very proud of our secret.
I say _our_ secret,—yet, after all, it was really mine, for I had shown
the bullets, the metal plate, and the bones neither to Wil nor to Ed.
They thus only knew the half—and no more than I had thought fit to tell
them. The finest and most important part of all was unknown to them. Of
course they acted as if they had been _au fait_ in the whole thing; but
they were nothing of the sort.
At home, my changed behaviour began gradually to attract general
attention. I had assumed a mysteriousness of demeanour, from which my
father—judging from long experience—argued that there must be some
special piece of mischief on hand.
As I frequently remained lost in thought, and no longer cared for games
as I used to do (I thought them childish since the discovery of my
hero), my mother came to the conclusion that I was not well; while my
little sister, of course, was as curious as a girl can be. Therefore the
three, each for his or her own reason, were constantly at my heels. I
soon noticed this, and it was no small hindrance to my doings and
projects.
I scarcely dared to produce my hero, for fear some one should come to my
room unawares and surprise me in the midst of my relics, and so discover
my secret.
My plans, more especially, were in danger!
I wished—as a homage to the glorious Jan Liller—to make an elegant
little casket, lined with precious bits of silk, plush, and lace, to
preserve therein his precious relics, and the glorious evidences of his
heroic existence. I intended to make the fretwork casket myself,—but I
durst not do it in the general sitting-room. Whenever I could, I stole
away to my own little room, and went to work there. Once I was surprised
by my mother when very busy; but when she saw my work, she pretended not
to have noticed anything. My conscience reproached me bitterly; for I
understood that my dear mother had thought I was working at a present
for her approaching birthday.
But, for the moment, my hero took precedence of everything. I hoped to
be able to buy something for my mother’s birthday, trusting to the ready
aid of my father’s purse.
On a certain day, when I was out for a walk with my father, he suddenly
said to me, “Well, Con, is the digging in the Kerkplein all over? I have
not been there for some time. I suppose you have been there to see
whether anything in your line has been turned up?”
Did my father suspect anything? and was he fishing?
I answered evasively.
“I have not been there since last week.”
[Illustration:
“DID MY FATHER SUSPECT ANYTHING?”
]
That was true—for just a week ago I had found my hero—and after I had
found him, I was satisfied. The charm of rooting about among the graves
had vanished. There was nothing more to find now.
“I only thought,” said my father, jokingly, “that you had found a
treasure—you are so mysterious lately. Say, my boy, have you grown rich,
and are you going to keep your money all to yourself?”
“I have never found anything, father,” I stammered, full of shame at the
lie, and yet full of satisfaction at my courage—in daring to tell a
falsehood to save my hero from discovery.
Happily my father changed the subject, by asking me if I had any present
in view for mother’s birthday. To be honest, I had to answer no, for my
hero had taken up all my thoughts and energies. But just as I was
thinking what to say, a great, a glorious idea rose up in me. What could
be a better present for my mother than my hero?
At the sacrifice of my secret,—of my own discovery,—I would surprise her
with the revelation of my find, and share my hero with her! It was a
hard struggle, but, once resolved, I could say with cheerful assurance,
“Yes, father, I have something very, very nice!”
“That’s good, my boy!” said my father, as he patted me approvingly on
the shoulder. “Do your best to make it so, for your mother deserves it.”
Since the old churchyard had been mentioned, I was eager to find out if
my father knew anything about my hero. Therefore I asked, with as
careless an air as I could assume—
“Say, father, who used to be buried in that place round the church?”
“Why, my boy, I don’t know. It must be at least fifty years since that
burying-ground was used. When I came to live here the new cemetery was
already opened, and I really do not know who was buried in the old
place.”
“But, father, did you never hear of _any_ one that was buried there?”
“No,” said my father; but, after thinking a little, he went on: “Yes, I
do, though! they buried Kees Van Assen there. I heard so the other day
from Notary Van Tefelen.”
Could that be my hero? It might well be, why else should the old
burying-ground have been mentioned at the notary’s?
Surely, then, he must have been a great-uncle or distant cousin of that
odious Alfred, whom we always called “the Muff,” because he never would
join our games for fear of getting bruised and scratched, or soiling his
clothes and hands.
“Was Van Assen a hero, father?” I uttered the words with difficulty.
“A hero, my boy? No, certainly not. No, quite the contrary!”
“A coward, father? I thought as much.”
“Indeed, and why?”
“Because that stupid boy of the minister’s is Van Assen too, and he _is_
a coward!”
“That does not follow. This Van Assen was not in any way related to the
minister’s family. At least I believe not. But he was not a coward, he
was far worse. He was a traitor to his country. He betrayed the town to
the French.”
“And what did they do to a low fellow like that?” I asked, full of pain
and indignation that a countryman of mine could have betrayed his native
town to the enemy.
“At first, nothing; for at that time he was protected by the French. But
when they were gone, his fellow-townsmen razed his house to the ground,
and he was shot.”
“Then he was buried in the churchyard?”
“Well, yes; because his family was a rich and distinguished one, they
consented to bury him in the churchyard; but, of course, it was done
without show or splendour. I know no more about it.”
“Don’t you know in which corner he was buried?”
“Yes, the corner by the baker’s shop.”
Now there were two corners of the churchyard which had a baker’s shop
near them. Near one of them, I had found my hero; but he was called Jan
Liller, and not Van Assen! I resolved never more to buy tarts or buns in
the corner where the traitor was buried,—that was accursed from
henceforth. We had been in the habit of going there, because we got far
more for our money than elsewhere.
It now at once became clear to me that this baker knew of the traitor’s
neighbourhood, and was afraid of losing his customers unless he sold his
goods very cheap!
I had not thus gained much information by my inquiries. Only I had found
a new point of comparison, my hero _versus_ Van Assen! Jan Liller was
dearer to me than before, now that I could contrast him with a
contemptible Van Assen! My hero had become greater than ever!
As soon as I reached home, I ran to my own little room, in order to gaze
my fill on his relics—to steep my soul in his greatness.
On the stairs I felt for my key.
What was that? It was not in my pocket! I had not lost it—I was certain
of that. Then I must have left it sticking in my box, and in that case
my secret—my hero was lost!
A terrible fear overcame me. My steps dragged on the stairs. With a
sinking heart I opened my door,—my presentiment had not deceived me!
There stood my little sister before the open box!
“You horrid girl—what are you doing with my things? Keep off!” I
screamed, when I saw my secret revealed.
“But, Con! you had left the key in the lock, and I just looked in!”
cried my sister, terrified.
[Illustration:
“DASHED THEM ON THE GROUND!”
]
“Yes—it’s just like girls—always bothering about things that don’t
concern them. You’re always meddling with everything, and spoiling other
people’s things!”
“Oh, Con! don’t be so angry! I only just wanted to look! And, just
see,—I’ve been cleaning up this dirty little brass plate that was
inside. I’ve made it look quite nice—and there’s some writing on it.”
At the same time she thrust the now glittering brass plate into my
hands.
I looked at it.
Everything seemed to turn round with me. Everything was black. I could
see nothing but the glittering yellow plate, and the name engraved on
it:—
KEES VAN ASSEN,
1813.
I dropped the brass plate, seized the bones and the bullets out of the
box, and dashed them on the ground.
There lay my hero!
CONRAD VAN DER LIEDE.
_NEWSPAPER HUMOUR._
To keep apples from spoiling, they should be placed in a cool room in
the house occupied by a family with eight children.
* * * * *
_Florist._ “Look at the blush on these roses, sir.”
_Bachelor_ (_with a look at his purse_). “I see. They must be blushing
at the exorbitant price you charge for them.”
[Illustration:
FLORIST: “LOOK AT THE BLUSH ON THESE ROSES, SIR.”
]
* * * * *
DOMESTIC MORALITY.
“You have not been looking sharp, Bet; the butcher has given you more
bones than meat again.”
_Bet._ “Well, I told him so at the time. I said, _if it was for myself I
wouldn’t take it_.”
* * * * *
_Actor._ “When I was last acting here, the public were so enthusiastic,
you can’t imagine. Why, they insisted on _carrying_ me back to the
hotel, when I left the theatre.”
_Critic._ “Man, man, you don’t mean to say you were so far gone as
_that?_”
* * * * *
_Patient._ “Doctor, I think I have had an attack of the gout.”
_Doctor._ “Stuff and nonsense! if you had really had one, you couldn’t
_think_—you’d know it.”
* * * * *
“Father,” inquired a small boy, “what does a ‘Paradise’ mean?”
“A Paradise, my son, is the corner by the fire when your mother has gone
to stay with her friends for a few days.”
* * * * *
A HARMLESS INSECT.
_Traveller._ “Waiter, how can you give me soup like this?—there’s a fly
in it.”
_Waiter._ “Oh! _that_ won’t hurt you—it’s quite dead.”
* * * * *
A lady having engaged a new man-servant, answering to the name of
Joseph, told him that she would always ring once for him, and twice for
her maid.
A short time after this, she rang the bell, but Joseph failed to appear.
She grew impatient, and pulled the bell-rope again. The maid entered.
“I did not ring for you; I wanted Joseph. Why does he not come?”
“Joseph,” replied the maid, “is sitting by the fire, reading Madame’s
paper. When Madame rang the first time, he told me to look out, for he
should not wonder if you were to ring again. And when Madame did so, he
turned to me, and said, ‘See? that’s for you.’”
* * * * *
“Why, ma’am,” said the housemaid, when she heard that her mistress had
been very unwell during the night, “why didn’t you tell me when you felt
ill?”
“I didn’t want to wake you, you had been working hard all day, and——”
“Oh! that’s nothing; you might have called me all the same. I sleep so
sound that you would never have waked me.”
_A RASCALLY VALET._
_A room in a hotel. Tables and chairs are covered with portmanteaus,
carpet-bags, clothes, &c. On a table (L.) is an open jewel-case,
(R.) a sofa; in the background a bed. Frans (Jonker Van Bergen’s
man) is discovered half-reclining on the sofa, smoking a cigar._
_Frans_ (_sings_).
“Mon maître est un filou,
Et moi j’ n’ suis pas bête, la, la....”
That was indeed a barbarous idea—leaving me at home. “Charité bien
ordonnée commence par soi-même,” as we used to say at Paris. My
gentleman’s gone out a-courting, and I may just sit and grumble in these
confounded lodgings! He hasn’t the smallest grain of feeling. Why
couldn’t he remember that while he’s busy making love to his silly
cousin, and flattering his cracked old aunt,—that is, making fools of
both of them,—I might, in the meanwhile, very appropriately amuse myself
with the maid!
Pretty little thing, that Sophie! Just a little bit _bête_, still—but
that will come all right in time—I’ll educate her fast enough. We
haven’t been to Paris for nothing. I had views on her already, when we
were here eighteen months ago. She was then a mere child, and I had not
yet seen Notre Dame and the Pont-Neuf. In point of fact, come to think
of it, I was still very young, and not _au fait_ about life. I can
clearly remember getting quite confused when the postman’s flaxen-haired
daughter scolded me for ... come, Frans, let those things rest ... she’s
at rest herself.... How could I help it, if the girl was so gone on me?
Why didn’t her father take better care of her? What is a father for, if
not to look after his daughter?
What a difference, when I think of those days! Confused! ashamed!—why, I
don’t know the meaning of the words. The only thing I’m ashamed of now,
is that I ever had the _faiblesse_ to be ashamed of anything. And now
that, thanks to my education in the _guinguettes_, I have become quite a
_jeune homme accompli_,—now that I might have begun a nice diversion
with the _suivante_ of my master’s intended, ... now I’m got rid off
with a gruff, “Frans, stay and look after the room!”
He’ll talk in a different tune when he finds he needs me again to get
him out of some scrape or other. Then it is, “Frans, dear Frans, save
me; I don’t know what I’m to do!” Frans is good enough for that. But
besides this, _au fond_, it’s unjust to leave me here indoors. A man is
a man, and has reason and freewill. Jonker Van Bergen goes out courting.
So we see that beings with reason and freewill do go courting. But I too
am a man; I have freewill and reason—therefore I ought to go out
courting too. That is clear and undeniable.
Glorious logic! Precious philosophy! Invaluable gift of Heaven, which is
scattered with generous hand at Paris. Beloved nurse of all that ...
that....
And with all that I’m sitting here indoors, like Job, on his ancient
sofa. It is annoying; it’s very annoying! It’s the most annoying thing
in the world! It could not possibly be worse; it’s _ennuyant_,
_étouffant_, _embêtant_!
[_Jumps up angrily, and walks backwards and forwards, smoking._]
I’m curious to know whether he’ll get through with his business, and
succeed better than last year. The devil grant he may! Otherwise it’s
all up with him—all up—and he’s ruined! If he hasn’t made his
lady-cousin his own, with all that belongs to her [_goes through the
gestures of counting money_], within a month, he’s a dead man!
Physically dead, financially dead, civilly dead,—dead in every possible
way! Dead to _chambertin_, _baronfayol_, and champagne; dead to the
_bouillotte_ table; _dead pour tout ce qui porte un jupon ...
enfin_—burst up!
This wouldn’t really matter so much if these gentlemen hadn’t the
disagreeable habit of dragging down every one about them in their fall.
[_Makes a wry face._] The cheques! the cheques!
I am anything but _à monaise_, as we used to say at Paris. We have only
a month before us. Before that time we must have money to pay up, or the
whole thing will go smash. And then he’s quite capable of saying that it
was I who forged the cheques. Then come examinations and
cross-examinations, witnesses _à charge_ and _à décharge_; reply,
duplicate, triplicate, or whatever they call it; and the end of it is
that the President puts on the black cap—grim fashion that!—and has a
sentence read out, in which poor Frans is very badly used on the score
of ... complicity!
I might indeed get hold of a lawyer who has studied the _circonstances
atténuantes_, as we used to say at Paris; but what’s the good, when the
stupid bench don’t understand them? Civilisation is at such a low ebb in
this land of ours. Quite otherwise over there. I attended a trial in
France ... a woman who had committed the _sottise_ of hacking her child
to pieces, chopping it up small, and cooking it ... what further could
you have? It would have been a bad look-out for her in this country.
Over there, she simply had to take the precaution of providing
_circonstances atténuantes_, ... and she got off all right. That’s what
I call philanthropy—civilisation! Just look for civilisation _here_!
there’s nothing of the sort. Everything is taken ill here. If your
scales or your weights are not quite right, they take it ill of you! If
you call a man a thief or a scoundrel, in the friendliest way in the
world, and can’t produce your proofs on the spot, they take it ill of
you! Just as if those were not the biggest scoundrels of all against
whom nothing can be proved! If you happen to swear falsely, they take
that ill too! Why, not long ago I heard of a man undergoing very
unpleasant treatment in public, because he—it seems incredible—because
he had set his own house on fire! Stupid nation this! Not the faintest
notion of the universal rights of mankind! The house belonged to him;
what business was it of people’s what he did with it? Why shouldn’t he
make a bonfire of it as soon as smoke this “light brown”? (Good cigar,
too!) Yes, they say, but ... his _next-door neighbour_! Stuff and
nonsense! Am _I_ not to illuminate, because somebody else prefers to sit
in darkness? If my next-door neighbour has cat’s eyes, he had better go
and live somewhere else.
No, no,—that delicate feeling,—that tact,—that talent for making black
white with all the facility in the world, and without fear of
contradiction,—and above all, the glorious _circonstances
atténuantes_,—_all these_ you find only in France!
Splendid invention, those _circonstances atténuantes_! They are the
lightning-conductor of the Procureur du Roi’s wrath, as we used to say
at Paris. They are galvanism applied to the Code Napoléon. They are ...
in short, they are anything you please.
Oh, pleasant France! beloved France! When I say France, I mean Paris.
Paris, with its _bals-musard_! Paris, with its _rendezvous_ on the
Boulevards and in the Bois de Boulogne! Paris, with its _limonadières_,
_fruitières_, _bouquetières_, and all other _ières_!
[_Begins to recite, with exaggerated action._]
“O France! O precious land! O paradise o’ the world!
I greet thee, though the marsh and mud ... marsh and mud....”
... well, never mind; I shall hit it some other time. How is one to find
a rhyme to “world”? I ought to have begun differently. But what I mean
is, that if ever I find myself mixed up in this _fâcheuse affaire_ of
the cheques, I shall at once make my native country a present of my
citizenship, and take shares in France. Then I shall have the right of
being attended to by a French court, take a few _circonstances
atténuantes_ with me, and Frans is all right—quits the court without a
stain on his character!
A greater fool than that young Huser I never saw in all my born days.
Who ever heard of a man letting himself be ill-treated in the place of
another? I never could understand that story. The imbecile! I wish I
knew where to find him; I should go to him, and say, “Huser, my dear
boy, we’ve made a mistake again about a signature or two; do make
yourself responsible for the error—there’s a good fellow.” I believe,
upon my soul! the man would be fool enough to do it over again. I can’t
explain the matter, but I dare swear that Huser, in spite of his sour
face, was the most faithful chum in the world. I would bet something
that he had been brought up at Paris, or at least had a French nurse or
a Swiss _bonne_. Sacrifices like that it would be vain to look for
elsewhere ... [_A knock at the door._] Ho, hey! _entrez_.
[_Sits down on a chair in the middle of the stage, stretching his
legs straight out in front of him._]
Look here now, Frans, you must represent your master, the noble and
honourable gentleman, Jonkheer Karel Bernhard Anton Jozef Delmare Van
Bergen Van Wiesendaal! (_Raises his voice._) _Entrez!_
_Enter_ GENERAL VAN WELLER, _in undress uniform, with a riding-whip in
his hand_.
_Frans_ (_without looking round_). Who’s there?
_Van Weller._ Look round, and perhaps you’ll know.
_Frans._ I’m just like Louis Napoleon’s knights—I do well, but I don’t
care to look round.[7]
_Van Weller_ (_looks round with displeasure, then approaches and gazes
fixedly for a few moments at Frans_). No, you are not he. You are too
low-looking a fellow to be my nephew. Who are you?
_Frans_ (_without changing his position_). In the first place, or, as we
used to say at Paris, _primo_, I must request you to allow me to express
my thanks for your very flattering opinion with regard to my
physiognomy; _secundo_, it would be the proper thing for you to do me
the favour of informing me of _your_ name.
[Illustration:
“ENTREZ.”
]
_Van Weller._ Insolence personified!—my nephew cannot be far off. (_To
Frans._) My name is Jan Weller. Who are you?
_Frans._ I don’t know.
_Van Weller._ It is surely your place to know.
_Frans._ Alas! who in this corrupt age does know himself? At Ephesus, it
was written——
_Van Weller._ That does not concern me, or you either. What is your
name?
_Frans._ That’s another matter. My late master used to call me....
_Van Weller_ (_impatiently_). Well?
_Frans._ ... when he was in a good-humour, “You vagabond!”
_Van Weller._ Pretty! very pretty! If you keep up this game much longer,
I shall be tempted to write that name on your back with my horsewhip!
_Frans._ Don’t do that, please. It would cause confusion, as it is not
my name at present.
_Van Weller_ (_smiling_). Well, tell me your name, then?
_Frans._ Girls who don’t know me call me “Angel,” or something similar.
Others,—of earlier date,—“scoundrel, wretch, miscreant,” and I don’t
know what all ... mostly words that are not to be found in the
_Dictionnaire de l’Académie_.
_Van Weller._ Tell me, in the devil’s name, who you are, fellow!
_Frans._ My mother used to call me Levi....
_Van Weller._ Well then?
_Frans._ Yes, but ... that is not my name. She only called me so,
because there was a Jew of that name who sold vegetables down our
street, and I could imitate him so well.
_Van Weller._ It is enough to exhaust any man’s patience! Speak out,
once for all, in whose rooms am I?
[ANDRIES _puts his head in at the door_.]
_Andries._ Are you here, General?
_Frans_ (_springs to his feet_). General? Your obedient servant!
_Van Weller_ (_to Andries_). Come in! [_Enter Andries._] Ask this fellow
his name. If he does not answer briefly, and to the point, as soon as I
give the word “March!” you take him by the collar and throw him out of
window.
[_Andries salutes, turns on his heel, and marches up to Frans. Frans
approaches the bed._]
_Van Weller._(_to Frans_). What are you going to do?
_Frans._ With your permission, General ... I have always been a lover of
military exercises, but being only a civilian I am not at all well up in
window-throwing drill, and so, I thought, a couple of pillows on the
pavement....
_Van Weller._ Andries, bring the fellow here!
[_Points to the floor with his riding-whip. Frans escapes Andries
who walks toward him with a stiff military step._]
_Van Weller._ Quick march! Seize him, and bring him here!
[_Sits down. Andries seizes Frans, and drags him roughly to the spot
indicated, but in such a manner that Frans stands with his back
to the General._]
_Van Weller._ Right about face!
[_Andries turns Frans round by the shoulders, forcing him to face
the General,—then takes a step backward, and remains standing at
attention._]
_Van Weller._ (_throws the riding-whip to Andries_). Take it! Now,
attend! When I say “Out!” you begin to thrash him till the word is given
to stop. (_To Frans._) What is your name?
_Frans._ I have already told you, sir, that my mother—
_Van Weller._ Out!
[_Andries lays on with the whip._]
_Frans._ No—no—oh!—my name is Frans Varel, General!
_Van Weller._ Leave out the “General!” for the future. And the “oh!”
also. Answer briefly what I ask you—no more, no less. What is your
profession?
_Frans._ Valet, or rather secretary, to——
_Van Weller._ Enough! Who is your master?
_Frans._ Jonkheer Van Bergen.
_Van Weller._ Just so, that must be the right man! Has he any other name
besides Bergen?
_Frans._ My master’s full name is Jonkheer Karel Bernhard Anton Jozef
Delmare Van Bergen Van Wiesendaal. (_Aside._) Oh! how miserably I’m
representing him!
_Van Weller._ How old is your master?
_Frans._ I think he is twenty-eight.
_Van Weller._ The same! the same! How long have you been in his service?
_Frans._ We grew up together.
_Van Weller._ Then you knew his father?
_Frans._ Certainly. It was he who used to call me “vagabond,” when——
_Van Weller._ That is not what I am asking. How long is it since the old
gentleman died?
_Frans_ (_considering_). Fifteen or sixteen years.
_Van Weller._ Did he die of an illness?
_Frans._ He certainly did not die of health.
_Van Weller_ (_impatiently_). Speak out—what did he die of?
_Frans._ Of ... of ... an exaggerated sense of honour.
_Van Weller._ Speak plainly, fellow, or I’ll give the word! Relate what
happened shortly before his death.
_Frans._ Shortly before his death....
_Van Weller._ Well—be quick!
_Frans._ He was still alive.
_Van Weller_ (_angrily_). Out!
[_Andries lays on with the whip._]
_Frans_ (_quickly_). Stop!
_Van Weller_(_to Andries_). Why are you not thrashing him as I told you?
You hear him trying to make a fool of me!
_Andries._ The word was given to stop, General.
_Van Weller._ He gave it, not I!
_Andries._ There was nothing about that in the orders, General.
_Van Weller._ I am in sole command here, of course. Now speak, you
scoundrel, quickly! _Out_——
_Frans._ Oh, sir! I’m beginning! The next day——
_Van Weller._ What? What day? I know nothing yet!
_Frans._ Monsieur Socrates also knew nothing. The recognition of this
fact is the source of all wisdom, General. I am telling you the story in
my own way, beginning at the end. I belong to the school of M. Dumas and
M. Sue.
_Van Weller._ Don’t wear out my patience any longer, fellow! Relate
consecutively what took place on the last day of Mr Van Bergen’s life.
_Frans._ He got up at half-past four in the morning, and put on his
socks and boots. I did not see this, but I am induced to believe it, as
he appeared, a little later, with his boots and spurs on. It is thus a
fair inference that he had just put them on, unless, like M. Charles
Douze, he had been sleeping in them—in which case....
_Van Weller._ Are you quite incorrigible? Don’t tell me the story like
that!
_Frans._ Am _I_ to blame? _N’est pas conteur qui veut._ I did not
profess to be a good story-teller, General.
_Van Weller._ Silence! I ask you for the last time whether you are
willing to relate, in a proper manner, what you know of the affair?
_Frans._ About Charles Douze? He was born——
_Van Weller._ Out!
[_Andries strikes Frans with the whip, several times._]
_Frans._ Ai! ai!—oh! General!—I’ll tell you everything!
_Van Weller._ Stop! (_To Frans._) Now go on, and think of your back.
_Frans._ The old gentleman had come back from an assembly at Court, the
evening before, very much put out. They said he had had a quarrel, and
was to fight a duel next day. I only know this by tradition, as you may
say, because I and the young master were under arrest, locked up in the
summer house, because we had stolen apri——
_Van Weller._ Never mind the apricots, and tell me about the duel.
_Frans._ Well, then—my master must have slept very badly that night.
This, too, I only know by way of tradition; and since tradition
represents the border-land between the dark region of myth and the
daylight of history——
_Van Weller._ Out——
_Frans._ Ow!—wait—listen! Next morning he went out at five o’clock, and
came home at half-past six, mortally wounded. He had a bullet in his
left breast, whence I infer that he had been shot. But I cannot with
certainty——
_Van Weller._ Silence! Who was his adversary?
_Frans._ That I do not know. The coachman who drove the master out,
said....
_Van Weller_ (_impatiently_). Well?
_Frans._ Said he did not know either.
_Van Weller_ (_stamps his foot_). Did your master die soon after?
_Frans._ Yes—at half-past one that afternoon ... as near as I can guess.
For, you see, as the young gentleman had fastened a frog to the pendulum
of the big clock that stood in the hall——
_Van Weller._ To the deuce with your frogs and your clocks! Answer
me—did any one come to see Bergen before his death?
_Frans._ Yes; three officers, one of them a major.
_Van Weller_ (_aside_). Ah! that was Huser. (_To Frans._) What happened
then?
_Frans._ They were admitted to see him, but the servants were sent away.
But as I have always been very fond of tragedy scenes, I managed to peep
through the keyhole; and I saw that the Major fell on his knees beside
the bed, and cried. The kneeling was very well done ... his _contenance_
was simply perfect ... I was all attention. Old Mr Van Bergen held out
his hand to him, and said——
_Van Weller_ (_rising quickly_). That is just what I want to know—go on!
_Frans._ That he was thirsty.
_Van Weller_ (_sits down again, as if disappointed_). That’s not what I
meant. Go on!
_Frans._ They gave him something to drink. Then he sat up in bed, and
put his arms round that officer. “Let us part in peace,” he said, “_sans
rancune_!” The officer kept on crying, and said, “Can you ever forgive
me, Bergen?” The master smiled, and said, “Gladly! gladly!—_sans
rancune_, dearest——”
_Van Weller._ Well—dearest _what?_
_Frans._ I couldn’t catch the name. And I never saw that Major again. I
heard that he died about six months later.
_Van Weller_ (_aside_). It must have been Huser—not a doubt about it!
(_To Frans._) And then? What happened next?
_Frans._ The wounded man asked one of the officers to call his little
Charles—that was the young master, who was still in the summer-house—_I_
had got out.... The young gentleman came up to the bed, and, instead of
being pleased at getting out sooner than he expected, he began to cry
too.
_Van Weller._ Go on, go on!
_Frans._ After being silent for some time, the master said to the
Major——
_Van Weller._ Go on, do, fellow! I’ve been waiting for that about an
hour!
_Frans._ He said,—“Don’t distress yourself over my death. It was in fair
fight. My fate might have been yours. Only—be a father to my poor
Charles!”
_Van Weller._ What next?
_Frans._ The Major began to sob again, and cried, “I swear to you I
will!” Then Baron Van Bergen smiled pleasantly, held out his hand to him
once more, and died. [_V. W. remains lost in thought._] It was a
touching scene, General. The old gentleman died almost as naturally as
M. Furneau of the Théâtre Royal. I should have been quite overcome with
emotion if the other two officers had possessed any knowledge of the
stage. They seemed to be novices, who had never been in Paris. Not the
faintest idea of tragic action—they didn’t even wring their hands! Of
course that of itself gave them a stupid attitude——
_Van Weller._ Will you hold your tongue? How was it that you never saw
this officer again?
_Frans._ They said in the kitchen that he was abroad with his son, and
that when he came home he was going to take Master Charles with him. But
he never came back.
_Van Weller._ And his son?
_Frans._ I never heard anything about him.
_Van Weller._ Have you ever seen him?
_Frans._ Never.
_Van Weller_ (_aside_). I think the fellow is lying. (_To Frans._) Did
you ever know a man by the name of Huser?
_Frans._ Huser? Yes, very well indeed. He was the young master’s
greatest friend. Or rather—for they weren’t exactly friends—he was ...
he did ... he gave ... well, I never quite knew what to make of that
Huser.
_Van Weller._ Now we’re getting near it! What became of Huser?
_Frans._ H’m!—nothing much! ... he did not turn out anything to boast
of, General. He was careless,—he was fast ... that is to say, he wasn’t
exactly that. He gambled ... at least, no, he never gambled. But ... in
short, I don’t know anything about it. All I know is, that he came to
smash in the end.
_Van Weller_ (_aside_). Poor Gustav! poor boy! (_To Frans._) Go on, man,
tell me all you know.
_Frans._ He had a difference of opinion with the Procureur du Roi, as we
used to say at Paris. He had been imprudent—(_whispers_)—forged
cheques!—people took it ill of him,—and—you know the law, General!
_Van Weller_ (_aside_). Poor boy! (_To Frans._) But how was that
possible? Was he in debt?
_Frans._ On the contrary, his father had left him plenty of money, and
he lived very economically.
_Van Weller._ And he did not play, you say?
_Frans._ Never. He had old-fashioned notions on that head.
_Van Weller._ Was he, perhaps, given to courting?
_Frans._ Oh! no—he was too stiff and solemn for that. He always looked
sulky and discontented. He was a tiresome sort of fellow. I think, even,
that he used to make verses.
_Van Weller._ And he was your master’s friend?
_Frans._ No, and ... yes! He was always with us, and at our rooms. He
always helped the young master when he had the chance; but afterwards he
used to give it him like blazes.
_Van Weller._ Strange, very strange! And how long ago is that?
_Frans._ Four years.
_Van Weller._ What was your master doing then?
_Frans._ Nothing.
_Van Weller._ How? I thought he was at the university.
_Frans._ Well—studying, and doing nothing—that comes pretty much to the
same thing.
_Van Weller._ And this Huser?
_Frans._ Before that _fâcheux évènement_ I spoke of, he was studying
too. I think he wanted to be a lawyer....
_Van Weller._ Silence! Nothing but what I ask you! Is your master a good
sort of man?
_Frans._ He might certainly be better.
_Van Weller._ Silence! You deserve a good thrashing. He is a bad servant
that speaks ill of his master. If I ask you any question that you would
injure your master by answering, then you are to hold your tongue. Do
you understand? I don’t want to make any traitors. Remember this
carefully, or I shall give the word. Did your master play high at the
university? [_Frans is silent._] ... So—he’s silent ... therefore our
young gentleman _did_ play ... therefore he is betraying his master by
his silence.... Out!
[_Andries strikes him._]
_Frans._ Oh! my dear good gentleman, what _am_ I to say? No, no, the
young master never gambled.
_Van Weller._ He lies! Yes—I forgot to say that if you don’t tell the
truth, I shall give the word too. Did your master gamble at the
university? Out!
[_Andries again raises the whip._]
_Frans_ (_points to the window_). Fire! fire! for heaven’s sake!—save
yourselves! ... fire!
[_The General hastens to the window. Andries remains rigidly at his
post. Frans runs to the door._]
_Frans._ I should have done that sooner. (_With a low bow._) General,
your humble servant.
[_Exit._
_Van Weller_ (_returning from the window_). I see nothing, absolutely
nothing. Where is the fellow?
_Andries._ He’s run away, General.
_Van Weller._ Why didn’t you hold him?
_Andries._ That was not in the orders, sir.
_Van Weller._ The scoundrel has been making a fool of me! Never mind—I
know enough for the present. Do you know him, Andries?
_Andries._ Yes, sir, he’s a good-for-nothing fellow.
_Van Weller._ Of course—like master, like man!
_Enter_ SOPHIE, _with a note_.
_Sophie._ You here, Andries? (_Looks at General V. W._) Who’s this man?
_Andries._ Hush—sh!
_Van Weller_ (_to Andries_). Silence! (_To Sophie._) What do you want
here, my girl?
_Sophie_ (_looks hard at him_). I have a note for young Mr Van Bergen’s
man. (_To Andries._) Hasn’t Frans been here? Surely this is the
gentleman’s room? He said number four, and——
_Van Weller._ Just give me that note.
_Sophie._ Are you Mr Van Bergen’s man too?
_Van Weller._ Yes. Give it here.
_Sophie_ (_to Andries_). Will it be all right if I give it to this man?
[_Andries does not answer._] Good gracious! what’s the matter? Why are
you standing there as glum and stiff as if you were on parade?
[_Tries to seize his hand, but he pushes her gently back._]
_Andries_ (_nodding towards the General, who is watching them with an
air of amusement_). Eh!
_Sophie_ (_shakes him by the arm_). Do speak! What is it?
_Andries._ Eh!
_Sophie._ Has _he_ made you like that? (_To Van Weller._) What does this
mean? I don’t like it. It doesn’t suit me at all. May I ask you, for the
last time, to tell me what it means? [_Van Weller laughs heartily._]
Still better! He thinks he’s making a fool of me. [_Turns to Andries and
shakes his arm again._] Andries, Andries, do speak, or I shall be angry!
_Andries_ (_under his breath_). Do be quiet! It’s the General!
[Illustration:
“ENTER SOPHIE WITH A NOTE.”
]
_Sophie._ Oh! (_Turns to Van Weller._) Please, sir, may I ask why you
wouldn’t let Andries go out on leave the other day? That was not nice of
you. I’d——
_Van Weller_ (_to Andries_). Who is this pretty child?
_Andries._ She’s Mam’zelle Sophie, Freule Van Wachler’s maid.
_Van Weller._ Why, that’s fortunate! (_To Sophie._) Well, and how is my
sister Koosje?
_Sophie_ (_surprised_). Your sister Koosje, sir?
_Van Weller._ Yes—Mevrouw Wachler!
_Sophie_ (_curtseys_). Very well, sir. (_To Andries._) Think of that—I
never knew that the mistress’s Christian name was Koosje. Why, that’s a
name any one of us might have!
_Van Weller_ (_to Andries_). Are you in love with this charming
creature?
_Andries._ With your permission,—yes, General.
_Sophie._ _That’s_ nice of you, Andries! _I_ never asked any one’s
permission. And supposing the gentleman were to say, No?
_Van Weller._ Well, well,—you may make your mind easy,—I won’t say No!
(_To Andries, calling him aside._) Something has just occurred to me. I
don’t want that rascal to tell his master that I have been questioning
him. Does he care about...? [_makes the gesture of drinking_].
_Andries._ Yes, General.
_Van Weller._ And try to persuade your sweetheart to stay here a little.
I should like to talk to her.
_Andries._ Yes, General. (_To Sophie._) Just give your note to the
General, Sophie, and answer him nicely if he asks anything, and be as
pleasant and polite as you can. Remember, he can let me off on leave!
[_Salutes, and turns to go, but comes back._]
_Van Weller._ Well—what is it now?
_Andries._ Am _I_ to be drunk, too, General?
_Van Weller._ No need for that! March!
[_Exit Andries._
_Sophie._ Do you wish to take the note, sir?
_Van Weller._ Just lay it down here.
_Sophie._ But I think there’s some hurry about it. The young gentleman
said I was to bring a key back with me.
[_Van Weller takes the note, and reads it, with gestures of
astonishment. Looking round, he sees the casket. He goes up to
it, and stands still, lost in thought. At last he takes the key
out of the lock and gives it to Sophie._]
_Van Weller._ There’s the key, my girl. You have done your errand
well—so go now—just go.
_Sophie._ But Andries said you wanted to talk to me.
_Van Weller._ Yes ... no ... it’s hardly needed now.... Or....
(_hesitating_) How are things going, Sophie?—is there to be a wedding
soon?
_Sophie_ (_confused_). Yes—if Andries....
_Van Weller._ I’m not speaking of Andries now—I mean in the Van Wachler
family.
_Sophie._ Ah! I think there will, indeed! for the young lady has three
lovers.
_Van Weller._ That’s enough to begin with. I had only heard of one. And
who are they?
_Sophie_ (_counts on her fingers_). First, Jonkar Van Bergen,—then the
music-master, Holm,—and the third is old Mr Buys.
_Van Weller._ What do you say?—a music-master?
_Sophie._ Oh, don’t laugh at him, sir—he’s such a good man! It’s only a
pity that he’s always so sad.
_Van Weller._ And why do you think he is one of the young lady’s lovers?
_Sophie._ Why—because Mr Van Wachler said so himself.
_Van Weller._ Surely you misunderstood him, my good girl.
_Sophie._ Why so? For my part, I should prefer him to Jonkar Van Bergen.
Mr Holm is less merry and cheerful, but then one can see that he has had
his troubles. They say he is a prince, who has for some reason or other
turned music-master,—but I’m not sure of that.
_Van Weller._ And Jonkar Karel?
_Sophie._ Jonkar Van Bergen is—but please don’t say I said so, sir—I
don’t think he is to be trusted. This morning, he had been talking to
Madame about the young lady and Mr Holm—Madame is very much opposed to
the music-master....
_Van Weller._ That I can well believe!
_Sophie._ Well ... he put his arm round her neck and kissed her, and
when she was out of the room he made fun of her, though she had just
been calling him “_charmant garçon_.” Later on, I heard him say, “Just
as silly as ever! She’ll choke with her affection some day!” Now, do you
call that a man to be trusted, sir?
_Van Weller._ No, not exactly. [_Chucks her under the chin._] But old
Buys now?—how did you come to think of him?
_Sophie._ I don’t quite understand how it is. I never used to notice
anything. He is nearly as old as you, sir—and one can’t love a man like
that, can one?
_Van Weller_ (_with a start_). Ah!
_Sophie._ I mean love like—love as one——
_Van Weller._ Yes, yes, I understand. I’ll make you a present of the
explanation.
_Sophie._ Well—I know nothing about it—but, the other day, when I went
up to her sitting-room—now don’t say I told you, sir!
_Van Weller._ No, no—just go on.
_Sophie._ She was sitting on his knee, and he kissed her.
_Van Weller._ Well, I’m surprised at my niece!
_Sophie._ Oh! don’t think any harm of her, sir! The three lovers is the
only thing, and I don’t think the worse of her for that! If I were a
man, I’d want to be her lover too,—I’m sure I would!
_Van Weller_ (_aside_). I think I must be on the track. (_To Sophie._)
Look here, can you hold your tongue?
_Sophie._ Yes—when I’ve nothing to say.
_Van Weller._ When you get home, don’t mention having seen me. I have
just returned from Java, and want to surprise the family. Give young Mr
Karel the key, and say you had it from Frans.
_Sophie._ But—that would be a story.
_Van Weller._ Did you never tell a fib in your life?
_Sophie_ (_after thinking a while_). Only once—when Andries asked me
whether....
_Van Weller._ All right, my child. Say whatever you like.
_Sophie_ (_coaxingly_). Please, sir, if Andries asks for leave——
_Van Weller._ He shall get it! If I were Andries, and had a sweetheart
like you, I should have deserted long ago!
[_Exit Sophie._
_Van Weller_ (_alone_). I shall find him—I must find him!—on my soul I
will find him. [_Starts, as if remembering something._] That note!—there
was something about Huser in it. [_Takes it up and reads._] “Frans, lock
the casket at once,—I forgot it. There are letters from Huser in it that
concern us alone. Send me the key.” Why is he so anxious to keep these
letters secret, as if the existence of the State depended on the
publication of a student’s correspondence? I left the box open—but it’s
not honest, Weller! [_Walks up and down, as if in doubt._] It’s not
honest. But, Gustaf!—perhaps it will help me to trace him! I _will_ read
them! [_He goes up to the box, takes out some papers, looks at them, and
lays them aside. At last he comes to one which he appears to
recognise._] That’s Gustaf’s hand. [_Sits down, reads, and seems much
disturbed. At last he jumps up._] Andries! Yes, my presentiment did not
deceive me! Oh! my noble boy, where are you? Gustaf! Gustaf! But that
scoundrel—that Karel Van Bergen,—who, Heaven mend it! calls himself my
nephew. I must see him! He shan’t have that girl of my sister’s, though
she were ten times as much of a coquette, and had twenty lovers instead
of three! She would still be too good for him! Andries!
_Enter_ FRANS, _intoxicated_.
_Frans_ (_sings_).
“Mon maître est an filou
Et moi j’ n’ suis pas bête ... la ... la....”
Ah! good-morning! good-morning! _Mon maître est un filou._ Oh, yes! but
we’ve had _circonstances_, splendid _circonstances_—to begin with.
_Van Weller._ Andries!
_Frans._ Andries is a good fellow, a downright good fellow—but just the
least bit _bête_. Never been to Paris, sir? Are you coming to Paris?
_Allons mourir pour la patrie._
[_Approaches the General._]
_Van Weller_ (_pushes him away roughly, so that Frans falls on the
sofa_). Lie there, beast! Andries!
_Frans_ (_muttering_). _Mon maître est un filou...._ [_Falls asleep._]
_Enter_ ANDRIES.
_Van Weller_ (_stamps his foot_). Where the devil have you been all this
time, fellow? Get the horses—at once—I must see the king immediately!
[_Exit Andries._] My poor boy shall be righted, or they shall never hear
the last of it!
MULTATULI.
(_From_ “_The Bride in Heaven_.”)
_DROOGSTOPPEL INTRODUCES HIMSELF._
I am a coffee-broker, and live at No. 37 Lauriergracht. It is not my
custom to write novels, or any such thing; so it was a long time before
I made up my mind to order a couple of reams of paper and begin the work
which you, dear reader, have just taken up, and which you ought to read
if you are in the coffee business,—or, in fact, if you are anything
else. And not only have I never written anything which was in the least
like a novel, but I don’t hold with even reading anything of the sort,
because I am a man of business. For several years past, I have been
asking myself, what is the use of such things? and I am perfectly amazed
at the impudence of poets and novelists in palming off upon you things
which have never happened, and, for the most part, never can happen.
Now, in _my_ business,—I am a coffee-broker, and live in the
Lauriergracht, No. 37,—if I were to send in to a principal (a principal
is a man who sells coffee) an account containing only a small part of
the untruths which are the main point in all poems and romances—why, he
would at once go to Busselinck & Waterman. (Busselinck & Waterman are
coffee-brokers too; but it is not necessary for you to know _their_
address.) So I take good care not to write any novels, or send in wrong
accounts. I have always noticed that persons who let themselves in for
that kind of thing generally get the worst of it. I am forty-three, and
have been at the Exchange for twenty years, so that I have every right
to put myself forward when a man of experience is in demand. I have seen
plenty of firms fail in my time! And usually, when I examined into the
causes of their failure, it seemed to me that they must be sought for in
the wrong direction given to most people in their youth.
_I_ say, “truth and sound sense!” and that I stick to. The mistake comes
in, in the first place, with Van Alphen;[8] and that in his very first
line about the “dear little creatures.” What on earth could induce this
old gentleman to call himself an adorer of my little sister Truitje, who
had sore eyes; or of my brother Gerrit, who was always biting his nails?
And yet he says that “he sang these verses, compelled by love.” I used
often to think, when I was a child, “Man, I _should_ like to meet you,
just for once—and then, if you refused me the marbles I should ask you
for, or the whole of my name in chocolate letters” (my name is Batavus),
“then I should consider you a liar.” But I never saw Van Alphen. I think
he was already dead when he used to tell us that my father was my best
friend. I thought far more of Pauweltje Winser, who lived next door to
us. And that my little dog was so grateful for kindness! We never kept
dogs, because they are dirty.
That is the way children are brought up; and, later on, come other lies
again. A girl is an angel! The man who was the first to discover that,
never had any sisters of his own. Love is bliss! One is going to fly,
with one object or another, to the end of the earth. The earth has no
ends; and, besides, love is madness. No one can say that I do not live
happily with my wife,—she is a daughter of Last & Co., coffee-brokers. I
am a member of _Artis_,[9]—she has a shawl that cost ninety-two
florins,—and yet there was never any question between us of a foolish
love like that, which insists on living at the very end of the earth!
When we were married, we made a little tour to the Hague, she bought
some flannel there, and I am wearing under-vests made of it to this
day,—but love never drove us out into the world any farther than that.
Thus, it is all madness, and lies together!... It is not verses alone
that seduce the young into untruthfulness. Just go into the theatre, and
listen to the falsehoods that are being spread abroad there! The hero of
the play is pulled out of the water by some fellow on the point of going
into the bankruptcy court. Then he gives the fellow half his fortune.
That cannot happen! Not long ago, when my hat was blown into the
Prinsengracht I gave the man who brought it back to me twopence, and he
was quite satisfied. Of course, I know I should have had to give
something more if it had been myself that he pulled out, but certainly
not half what I possess. Why, it is quite clear that, on this principle,
one need only fall into the water twice to be ruined! But the worst of
it is, with such things represented on the stage, the public gets so
accustomed to all these falsehoods, that it thinks them fine, and
applauds them. I should just like to throw a whole pit full of such
people into the water, and see whose applause was sincere. I, who hold
by the truth, warn every one that I am not going to pay so high a
salvage for the fishing up of my person. Any one who is not satisfied
with less, may just let me stay where I am. On a Sunday, however, I
should pay rather more, because then I wear my gold watch-chain, and my
best coat.
Yes! the stage ruins many—still more than the novels. It looks so well!
With a little gold tinsel and paper lace, things can be made so
attractive. For children, that is to say; and for people who are not in
business. Even when they want to represent poverty on the stage, the
picture given is always a false one. A girl, whose father has gone
bankrupt, is working to keep the family. Very good! There she sits,
then, sewing, knitting, or embroidering. But just count the stitches
that she takes in the course of the whole scene. She talks, she
sighs,—she keeps running to the window,—but she does not work. The
family who can live on such work as this, must have few wants indeed! Of
course a girl like this is the heroine. She has thrown several villains
down the stairs. She continually calls out, “Oh! my mother! my mother!”
and thus represents virtue. What sort of a virtue do you call that, that
takes a year to finish a pair of woollen socks? Does not all this give
people wrong ideas about virtue and working for their living?
[Illustration:
“AND HE WAS QUITE SATISFIED.”
]
Then her first lover—he was formerly a clerk at the copying-book, but
now a millionaire—suddenly comes back and marries her. Lies again. A man
with money will never marry a girl from a house that has failed.... And
then—virtue rewarded! I have had plenty of experience in my time; but
still it shocks me terribly when I see truth perverted in this way.
Virtue rewarded! Isn’t it just like making a traffic out of virtue? It
is not so in this world, and a very good thing it is that it is not.
Where is the merit of being virtuous, if virtue is to be rewarded? Now,
I am as virtuous as most people, but do I expect to be rewarded for it?
If my business goes on well,—which, in fact, it does;—if my wife and
children keep in health, so that I have no worry with the doctor and
chemist;—if, year by year, I can put away a little sum for my old
age ...;—if Fritz grows up a good man of business, so that he can step
into my shoes when I retire and go to live at Driebergen, ...—well, if
all these things are so, I am quite content. But all that is a natural
result of circumstances, and of my attention to business. I don’t ask
for any special reward for my virtue.
That I am virtuous, is quite evident from my love for truth. This—next
to my attachment to our orthodox belief—is my ruling passion. And I
should like the reader to be quite convinced of this, because it is my
excuse for writing this book.
A second passion, which rules me quite as much, is my devotion to my
business. And it is these two which have caused me to write this book. I
am now going to explain how this happened.
MULTATULI.
(_From “Max Havelaar.”_)
_DROOGSTOPPEL PAYS A CHARITABLE VISIT._
Droogstoppel had undertaken to publish a volume selected from the MSS.
of his old schoolfellow Havelaar—_alias_ “Sjaalman,”—who had returned
from the Indies in great poverty. He was preparing it for the press
with the help of his son Fritz and his German clerk Stern. He soon
found that the work involved difficulties.
Besides the difficulty of selecting and arranging what was necessary out
of such a mass of materials, there were constantly occurring in the MSS.
words and expressions which Stern could not understand, and which were
new even to me. They were mostly Javanese or Malay. Moreover, many
abbreviations were used, which were difficult to decipher. I saw that we
needed Sjaalman, and as I do not think it good for a young man to pick
up undesirable acquaintances, I was unwilling to send either Stern or
Fritz. I took with me some sweets that had remained over from our last
party,—for I am always one to think of things like that,—and I set out
to look for his abode. It was not a very brilliant one,—but there is no
such thing as equality among people, so how can they all expect to live
in the same sort of houses? He says something of the same kind himself
in his essay on “Claims to Happiness.” Besides, I don’t think anything
of people who are always discontented.
It was in the Langeleidsche Dwarsstraat, in a back-room upstairs. The
ground floor was occupied by a second-hand dealer, who sold all sorts of
things—cups and saucers, furniture, old books, glass, pictures by Van
Speyk, and I don’t know what else. I was terribly afraid of breaking
something; for in such a case the people always charge you more than the
things are worth. A little girl was sitting on the steps, dressing her
doll. I asked her whether Mr Sjaalman lived there. She ran away, and
presently her mother came.
[Illustration:
“A SECOND-HAND DEALER, WHO SOLD ALL SORTS OF THINGS.”
]
“Yes, he lives here, sir. Just you go upstairs to the first door, and
then up the next floor to the next door, and then another flight of
stairs, and then you can’t miss it. Mijntje, just run up and say there’s
a gentleman. Who shall I say is asking for them, sir?”
I told her I was Mijnheer Droogstoppel, coffee-broker in the
Lauriergracht, but that I would announce myself. I climbed up as high as
they had told me, and heard a child’s voice singing inside the door on
the third floor. I knocked, and the door was opened by a woman—or a
lady. I really did not quite know what to make of her; she looked very
pale, and tired, and the look in her face made me think of my wife on
washing-day. She was dressed in a long white shirt or jacket, without a
waist, that hung down to her knees, and was fastened in front with a
black pin. Under this, instead of a proper skirt or petticoat, she wore
a piece of dark flowered linen, wound round her several times, and
rather tight at hips and knees. There was no trace of folds, width, or
fulness, such as there ought to be in any decent woman’s dress. I was
glad I had not sent Fritz, for I thought her costume very indelicate;
and what made it still stranger was the ease with which she moved—as if
she felt quite comfortable like that. The creature seemed quite
unconscious that she did not look like other women. Moreover, she did
not seem in the least embarrassed at my coming. She hid nothing under
the table, and did not push the chairs about, or do any of the things
you always see people do when a respectably dressed stranger comes in.
She had her hair combed back like a Chinese, and fastened behind her
head in a sort of twist or knot. I have heard since that her dress was a
sort of Indian costume, which they call _sarong_ and _kaabai_ out there,
but I thought the whole thing very ugly.
“Are you Juffrouw Sjaalman?” I asked.
[Illustration:
“A LONG WHITE SHIRT OR JACKET.”
]
“Whom have I the honour of speaking to?” she said, in a tone that seemed
to convey that I ought to have said something about _honour_ too.
Well—I don’t hold with compliments. A principal is a different matter,
and I have been in business long enough to know what I am about; but I
didn’t think it necessary to use much ceremony in a third-floor back. So
I said, without more ado, that I was Mijnheer Droogstoppel,
coffee-broker, Lauriergracht, No. 37, and I wanted to see her husband.
Well—and why should I have made any more fuss about it?
She offered me a rush-bottomed chair, and took a little girl on her lap,
who was sitting on the ground playing. The little boy, whom I had heard
singing, looked full at me, and stared at me from top to toe. He, too,
did not seem in the least embarrassed. He was a little chap of about
six, as queerly dressed as his mother. He had on a wide pair of
knickerbockers that did not come down to the knees; and his legs were
bare from there to the ankle. Very indecent, I think. “Have you come to
talk to papa?” he asked, in a way which showed me at once that his
upbringing was not at all what it ought to be. But because I did not
quite know what attitude to take up, and also wanted to talk a little, I
answered, “Yes, my little fellow, I want to talk to your papa. Do you
think he will be coming in soon?”
“I don’t know; he’s gone out to look for some money to buy me a
paint-box.”
“Hush, my boy,” said the woman. “Play with the pictures a little, or
with your Chinese puzzle-box.”
“Why, you know the gentleman came and took all the things away
yesterday.”
So that was the way he spoke to his mother—h’m! ... and there had been
“a gentleman,” it appeared, to “take everything away.” ... Cheerful
visit, this! The woman, too, did not look in good spirits; she turned
away and wiped her eyes, when she thought I could not see her, as she
put the little girl down on the floor beside her brother. “There,” she
said, “now play with Nonnie a little.” An extraordinary name for a
child.
“Well, Juffrouw,” I asked, “do you expect your husband in soon?”
“I cannot say for certain,” she answered.
At this the little boy suddenly left his sister, came up to me, and
asked,
“Sir, why do you call mamma Juffrouw?”[10]
“Why, what then, youngster?” said I, “what ought I to say?”
“Why ... just like other people. The Juffrouw lives downstairs—she sells
saucers and tops.”
Well—I am a coffee-broker—Last & Co., Lauriergracht, 37—there are
thirteen of us in the counting-house, and, if you count Stern, who gets
no salary, fourteen. And yet my wife is simply called _Juffrouw_; and
does any one expect me to go and say _Mevrouw_ to _that_ person?
Certainly not. Every one ought to keep his place; and what’s more, the
sheriff’s officers had been there the day before, and taken away the
furniture. So I thought it quite the proper thing to say _Juffrouw_, and
stuck to it.
I asked why Sjaalman has not come to my house to fetch back his parcel.
She seemed to know all about it, and said that they had been away—at
Brussels. He had been writing for the _Indépendance_ there, but had been
obliged to give it up, because the paper had so often been refused
admission into France on account of his articles. They had returned to
Amsterdam a few days since, because Sjaalman had heard of a situation
there.
“At Gaafzuiger’s, I suppose?”
Yes, that was the name. But it had come to nothing, after all, she said.
Well, I knew more about that than she did. He had dropped the bound
volume of _Aglaia_, and he was lazy, pedantic, and in bad health ...
just so; that was why they discharged him.
She added that he meant to come and see me one of these days,—perhaps he
was even now on his way to my house,—to ask me for an answer to the
request he had made to me.
I said that he could come when it suited him, but that he was not to
ring the bell, because that gives the servant so much trouble. If he
waited a little, I told her, some one would be sure to come out sooner
or later, and he could go in then. And then I departed, taking my sweets
with me, for, to tell the truth, I didn’t like the look of things at
all. I did not feel at my ease there. Why, a coffee-broker is not a
crossing-sweeper, or a street-porter, I should think; and I am sure I
look respectable enough. I had on my fur-lined overcoat, and yet she sat
there as calmly, and talked as unconcernedly to her children, as if she
had been alone. Besides, she seemed to have been crying, and if there is
anything I cannot put up with, it is discontented people. Besides, it
was chilly and unsociable in the place,—I suppose, because the furniture
had been taken,—and I like a room to look cosy and comfortable. As I was
going home, I thought I would try and keep on my old clerk Bastiaans a
little longer,—because, after all, I don’t like turning a man into the
street.
MULTATULI.
(_From “Max Havelaar.”_)
_APHORISMS._
I think so much of Heine that I am glad I never met him.
Two people are never at the same moment equally angry with one another.
The assertion that we prefer other work than that given us to do,
frequently implies a dislike to any work whatever.
* * * * *
Two left-hand gloves do not make a pair. Two half truths do not
necessarily constitute a truth.
* * * * *
A horseman once fell from his horse, and since then every one who is
thrown calls himself a good rider.
* * * * *
Every one has thoughts. Only with a few persons does the _thought_
become an _idea_. Still fewer are those who know how to reproduce the
form and colour of their ideas. And to those who do, people continually
say, “Just what I was thinking!” Just so—except for the outline—except
for the colour—except for the light and shade. That is—except for a
great deal.
* * * * *
He who has gone farthest astray is best able to find the right road. I
do not say that much straying is necessary to know the way. Nor yet that
every one who has gone astray knows it.
* * * * *
When a swift runner breaks his leg, the crawlers have a _bal paré_.
[Illustration:
“TWO PEOPLE ARE NEVER AT THE SAME MOMENT EQUALLY ANGRY WITH ONE
ANOTHER.”
]
* * * * *
Take one piece of advice. Don’t be advised by any one.
* * * * *
Between soul and speech lies the length of a trumpet. I think—I almost
believe—that few trumpets are as short as the Dutch.
* * * * *
In the hospital at Amsterdam a sailor was to have his leg amputated. The
professor—I mean Tilanus—took it off for him. The man calmly smoked his
pipe, clenched his teeth now and then, but kept the upper hand of the
pain.
Professor T. admired his spirit, and spoke in praise of it while he was
putting on the bandages.
Suddenly the courageous patient gave a yell. The Professor had pricked
him with a pin.
“How! _you_ calling out like this? You, who just now——”
“That’s true; but look here, Professor, _the pin was not in the
bargain_!”
The sailor was right.
* * * * *
Professor Z. was a friend of Apothecary Y.’s. He invited him to tea one
day by means of a note, which got lost.
The note was picked up by a man who knew the signature, and deciphered
the rest. He read it as a prescription for convulsions in cattle.
Moral: Not a day passes but the public surprises me with a reading of my
writings which is still wilder than the interpretation of Professor Z.’s
note.
MULTATULI.
_OF SELF-DEPRECIATION._
Now I am going to tell you how humility came into the world.
_Pygmee_ was small of stature, and liked looking over other people’s
heads. In which he was seldom successful, because he was so very small.
He went on a journey to look for people smaller than himself, but he
could not find them. And his longing to look down on them became more
and more intolerable.
At last he came to Patagonia, where people are so tall that even the
children just born look down on their fathers.
_Pygmee_ did not like this—in other people. But in his despair of
finding any smaller than himself, he bethought himself of a plan. He
invented a virtue, which proclaimed as its first principle, “_Whosoever
is taller than Pygmee must stoop till he comes within Pygmee’s line of
vision_,”—and the novelty made its way. All the Patagonians became
virtuous. When any one, by walking upright, sinned against the “first
principles” of Pygmee’s virtue, he was punished in a peculiar way. Every
one who was bowed down and virtuous jumped up and caught him round the
neck till his head reached the level of Patagonian good conduct. And the
man who was strong enough to carry all Patagonia on his shoulders,
without becoming virtuous, was set in the pillory, with a collar round
his neck, and a word inscribed thereon in the Patagonian tongue, which,
being literally translated, signifies—
“THIS MAN MADE HIMSELF OBNOXIOUS TO PYGMEE.”
People have tacitly agreed, however, to express it in our language
by—“_Pride_.”
MULTATULI.
_OF EDUCATION, WITH PRACTICAL ILLUSTRATIONS._
... I am positively forced to tell you that I think Dominie Pennewip’s
lot might have been counted an extenuating circumstance had he been
convicted of eight deadly sins at once.
I have noticed that a considerable number of great men began their
careers as swineherds (see all biographical dictionaries); and it seems,
therefore, as if this employment called out the elements of all the
qualities needed to govern men—or to enlighten them. Which is not quite
the same thing....
... As for comparing human beings and pigs, let the reader remember the
connection between coal and diamonds, and every one will be
satisfied—even the theologians!
But, since making this observation on the splendid prospects which await
any one who has spent his tender youth in the society of the grunting
coal-diamonds of the animal kingdom, I have several times thought it
strange that, in the biographies of great men, there should be so few
examples of ex-schoolmasters. For, after all, all the elements which
seem to constitute a pig-pasture the nursery of genius are abundantly
present in the schoolroom.
The reverse process frequently occurs. Every day we see exiled princes
giving instruction to idle youth. Dionysius and Louis Philippe are not
the only ones; and I myself have attempted to teach French to an
American. Which proved impossible.
If elective monarchies should come into fashion again, I should like to
see the people’s choice confine itself, by preference, to persons who
had studied mankind from models in miniature, just as one learns
geography from portable globes and atlases. All virtues, inclinations,
passions, errors, misdeeds,—all points which have to be studied in human
society,—are found in a small and comprehensive scale on the benches of
the school; and the boasted diplomacy of many a statesman only amounts,
when looked at carefully, to the tricks of which our Machiavels of three
feet high make the warp and woof of their tactics.
The schoolmaster’s profession is not an easy one; and I have never
understood why it is so poorly paid, or, since it seems that this is an
inexorable law of nature, how it is that people are always found to fill
it, instead of drawing the same pay as drill-instructors, and showing
soldiers how to load their guns, which is less perplexing to the mind,
and gives you more fresh air, with oxygen in it.
Or else, I should prefer to be a minister. For the latter has to do with
people who are quite at one with him as to the matter in hand, and come
and listen to him of their own free choice; while the teacher has to
keep up a constant fight with reluctance on the part of the pupils, and
also with a highly dangerous set of rivals, in the shape of tops,
marbles, and paper dolls—not to mention sweets, changing teeth, scarlet
fever, and weak mothers.
Pennewip was a man of the old school,—at least so he would appear to us
if we saw him now-a-days, in his grey coat, long waistcoat, and
knee-breeches with buckles, the whole figure crowned with a brown wig,
which he was constantly pushing hither and thither, and which was always
curled just so at the beginning of the week—if there was no rain in the
air. For curls cannot stand damp; and it was on Sundays that the man
came with the curling-tongs.
Yet the _old-fashionedness_ is, perhaps, only relative. Who knows
whether it was not counted new-fangled in its day; or how soon the same
thing may be said of us. However that may be, the man was addressed as
“_meester_,” and his school was called a _school_, and not an
_institution_. In his school, where, according to the simple fashion of
the time, boys and girls sat side by side, you learned—or you could
learn, if so minded—reading, arithmetic, writing, the history of your
own country, psalm-singing, wool-work, knitting, marking, and religion.
All this was in the ordinary curriculum; but any pupil who particularly
distinguished him or herself by talent, application, or obedience,
received, over and above, lessons in verse-making,—an art wherein the
soul of Dominie Pennewip greatly delighted. He “finished” the boys to
the point of complete fitness for “acceptance”;[11] and, with the help
of his wife, brought the girls the length of a sampler, with a red text
on a black ground, or a spitted heart between two flowerpots. Then their
education was complete, and they were quite fit, if so minded, to become
the grandmothers of our present generation of citizens.
* * * * *
The school was empty, and the forms looked as though the pupils had left
all their weariness behind them there. The map of Europe looked
ill-temperedly down on the pile of copy-books, next to which lay the
quill pens, worn down to the gums, so to speak, in the pot-hooks and
hangers which have opened the gate of access to all learning so long
that the memory of man goeth not to the contrary. The difficult sum in
fractions was still visible, in all its glory, on the blackboard; but
yet, the school was no school; its spirit had fled—it was a corpse.
Yes, the informing mind had departed with the children. For that these
carried about with them a large quantity of the above article shall
speedily be made evident.
It was the great day on which Dominie Pennewip was to judge of the
fruits of his pupils’ poetic genius. There he sat. His much-moved wig
shared in the emotions which filled him on reading the poems; and we
will be indiscreet enough to look over his shoulder, so as, in our turn,
to be touched by impressions of never-sufficiently-to-be-appreciated
artistic enjoyment.
Wig to the right, and at rest.
TRYNTJE FOP, ON HER CAP.
“My name is Tryntje Fop,
I have a cap on my head atop.”
“Not bad; but—let us see—yes, that is better. The superfluous words, ‘on
my head,’ weaken the impression of the whole.”
He scored through the superfluous words, and now Tryntje Fop has simply
a cap on, without a head.
“This is the sort of terse and concise style I like.”
Wig somewhat to the left.
LUCAS DE BRYER, ON OUR COUNTRY.
“Fatherland, cake, and almonds also,
In the moonlight I a-walking go;
Cake, Fatherland, and brandy-wine,
I go a-walking in the moonshine.
Five fingers have I upon my hand,
In honour of our dear Fatherland.”
“Melodious,” said the master; “it runs quite melodiously. And there is
depth in the cake and the brandy, with the Fatherland in between them.”
Wig to the right.
LYSJE WEBBELAAR, ON HER FATHER’S TRADE.
“The cat fell downstairs to-day;
My father, he sells pota-
Toes and onions.”
“Original; but I do not like her dividing the word potatoes.”
Wig to the left.
JANNETJE RAST, ON A WEATHERCOCK.
“He stands on a chimney, all soot below,
And shows the wind the way it must blow.”
“This is not quite accurate; for, strictly speaking——, but, as a
poetical license, it may pass.”
Wig to the front.
GRIETJE WANZER, ON A CATERPILLAR.
“The little caterpillar, without fear,
Jumps round upon the trees, both far and near.”
“Descriptive poetry. There is a certain boldness in the idea of the
caterpillar fearlessly jumping about.”
Wig at rest.
LEENDERT SNELLEMAN, ON SPRING.
“In the spring all is bright and gay;
My brother’s birthday is in May;
But now he has chilblains on his feet.
So we’ll praise the spring, as it is meet.
Then we’ll go for walks together,
And look for eggs at Easter.”
“It is a pity that the rhyme is so very careless. His ideas are really
uncommon, and well developed. The transition to the egg is quite
characteristic.”
Wig pushed down to the back of his neck.
KEESJE, THE BUTCHER’S SON—EULOGY OF THE DOMINIE.
“My father has killed many an ox with his knife,
But Master Pennewip is still in life.
Sometimes they were lean, and sometimes fat,
And he wears a wig underneath his hat.”
The wig was pushed to one side—very far to one side.
“H’m—strange—what shall I say about it?”
The wig went back again to the extreme right.
“What have I got to do with the oxen?”
The wig protested, with some impressive movements, against all such
bovine relationships.
[Illustration:
“WIG PUSHED DOWN TO THE BACK OF HIS NECK.”
]
“H’m—could that be what these new-fangled writers call _humour?_”
The wig was drawn forward to Dominie Pennewip’s eyebrows, which denotes
doubt.[12]
“I must take that boy in hand one of these days.”
The wig came to anchor on the zenith, by way of expressing its
satisfaction at the Dominie’s intention of taking Butcher’s Keesje
seriously in hand.
LUCAS DE WILDE, ON RELIGION.
“Religion’s a good thing indeed,
Of which all people have great need.”
“The fundamental idea is correct and beautiful,” said Pennewip, “but it
ought to have been further developed.”
The wig nodded assent.
TRUITJE GIER, ON MRS PENNEWIP.
“The path of virtue she does show,—
Who would not gladly with her go?
And at odd moments, as is fit,
She teaches us to darn and knit.”
The wig gave a leap of joy, and its curls embraced one another. The
master could not refrain from calling his wife to share in the enjoyment
of Truitje Gier’s effusion, which was pasted on a piece of cardboard,
and hung up above the mantelpiece in honour both of the poetess and her
subject....
LOUWTJE DE WILDE, ON FRIENDSHIP.
“Friendship is a good thing indeed,
Of which all people have great need.”
The wig did not appear quite satisfied. Lucas de Wilde’s “Religion” was
brought to light, and placed for comparison beside Louwtje’s
“Friendship.”
“H’m ... well ... it might be possible. Instances do occur of the same
idea springing up simultaneously in two different minds.... It might ...
or could ... be so....”
WIMPJE DE WILDE, ON ANGLING.
“Angling is ...”
“How! What is that?”
Yes, indeed! there it was—
“Angling is a good thing indeed,
Of which all people have great need.”
The wig was in perpetual motion; it seemed as though it too were taking
part in the angling operations.
Master Pennewip hastily turned over the papers he had not yet examined,
sorted out the productions of the whole Wilde family, and ... yes,
indeed! Mietje de Wilde, Kees de Wilde, Piet and Jan de Wilde, declared,
with touching unanimity, that religion, friendship, fishing, dreaming,
cauliflower, and conjuring are good things indeed, of which all people
have great need. It was an overwhelming flood of good things and human
need!
What was an honest wig to do? It did the best thing that could be done
under the circumstances, and more cannot be required of any one. After
perceiving the fruitlessness of its efforts to find out any difference
between fishing and friendship, conjuring and dreaming, cauliflower and
religion, it behaved as though the matter did not concern it in the
least, and assumed a neutral position, with an air, on the part of its
little curls, of looking forward with interest to the sequel—as the
reader is no doubt doing.
[Illustration:
“ANGLING IS A GOOD THING INDEED.”
]
LEENTJE DE HAAS, ON ADMIRAL DE RUYTER.
“He climbed to the top of a tower,
And twisted ropes on the same;
Then he went to sea in a vessel,
And was crowned with eternal fame.
“He did great deeds and glorious,
And overthrew Sallee;
The States named him victorious,
Our hero of the sea.
“Then to marauding England
He went in wrath so dire,
The same he, most intrepid,
Besieged and set on fire.
“How many Christian captives
He freed from slavery’s chains!
Then Netherland’s valiant warriors
Broke all his window-panes.
“For terror of all traitors
What time he sailed the sea,
His title it was ‘Daddy’—
His wife was ‘Granny,’ she!
“He gave the Lord the glory,
A Christian life he led,—
Then got he through his garments
A bullet, and was dead!”
The wig clapped its curls applaudingly. It seemed delighted. Alas! the
joy of such a wig does not last long. This, too, was soon to——But we
will not anticipate.... We shall know only too soon.
“WOUTER PIETERSE—THE SONG OF THE BRIGAND.”
“Hey! What’s this? And Virtue—where is Virtue?”
[Illustration:
“ADMIRAL DE RUYTER.”
]
Dominie Pennewip could not trust his own eyes. He turned the sheet over
and looked at the back, to see if the Virtue he had given Wouter as a
subject was hidden there.
Alas, alas! there was no trace of virtue in Wouter’s composition.
Poor wig!
Yes—poor wig! For after having made it to undergo what no wig ever
underwent before,—after having tugged, plucked, ill-used, and tormented
it to an extent which would have taken more than the imagination of the
whole De Wilde family to conceive,—Dominie Pennewip tore it from his
head, doubled it up between his convulsively clenched hands,—stammered,
“Heaven and earth! Gracious goodness! where in nature did he pick that
up?”—banged it down on his head again, clapped his venerable
three-cornered hat atop of it, and flew out of the front door like a man
possessed. He went straight to the Pieterses’ house.
Juffrouw Pieterse, Wouter’s mother, had been entertaining a few of her
friends and neighbours at a “little evening,” with tea and cake.
“Good evening, Juffrouw Pieterse; I am your obedient servant. I see you
have company,—but——”
“Don’t mention it, sir! Just come in and sit down!... Will you take a
cup with us—sage-milk?”
“Juffrouw Pieterse,” replied the master, solemnly, “I did not come here
to drink sage-milk!”
“But please sit down, Dominie——”
It was not easy, under the circumstances, but the ladies shifted their
chairs a little, and the Dominie was finally installed in his. He was
coughing with overwhelming seriousness. He looked round on the company,
drew out a roll of papers, pulled his wig to one side, and spoke:
“Juffrouw Pieterse! you are an honest, respectable woman,—and your late
husband—sold shoes——”
Juffrouw Pieterse cast on Juffrouw Laps a glance of vindictive triumph.
“Yes, sir, he did!”
“Don’t interrupt me, Juffrouw Pieterse. Your deceased consort sold
shoes. I have had your children at my school, from the time when they
were _so_ high, to their confirmation. Is not that true, Juffrouw
Pieterse?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, somewhat uneasily, for she began to be
frightened at the impressive solemnity of Pennewip’s tone. “Yes, that’s
true, Dominie!”
“And I ask you, Juffrouw Pieterse, whether you, so long as you, through
the means of your children, have had anything to do with my school, have
had any complaints—I mean, well-founded complaints, Juffrouw Pieterse—to
make of the way in which I—with the help of my wife—have given your
numerous offspring instruction in reading, writing, arithmetic, Dutch
history, psalm-singing, sewing, knitting, marking, and religion? That is
what I ask you, Juffrouw Pieterse.”
A ghastly silence. The neighbour in the back-room downstairs, who had
repeatedly complained of the noise during the evening, had every reason
to be satisfied.
“That is what I ask you, Juffrouw Pieterse,” repeated the Dominie,
putting on the _pince-nez_, which was considered antiquated in those
days—destined, as it was, to become the height of fashion some decades
later.
“But, Dominie——”
“No buts, Juffrouw Pieterse. I ask of you—or I ask you,—for it is quite
allowable, Juffrouw Pieterse, in this case, to omit the preposition,—I
ask you if you have any complaints to make—I mean, of course,
well-founded complaints—of the instruction given by me in reading,
writing——”
“Goodness, no, Dominie!—I have no complaints; but——”
“Is that so? No complaints? Well, then, I declare to you—— Where is your
son Wouter?”
“Wouter? Why—oh! he went out, so he did! Hasn’t he come in yet, Trui?
Wouter is out for a walk, Dominie, with the little Hallemans—very
nicely-behaved children, Dominie,—and they live——”
“Eh! what?—with the Hallemans, is he?—the Hallemans who go to the French
school? oh! indeed—yes! So it’s from the Hallemans he learns such
things—it must be——... loose morals ... utter depravity ... the French
school...! Well, in short, Juffrouw Pieterse,—I say that your son——”
“Eh?”
“I tell you that your son Wouter——”
“Well—what has Wouter been doing now?” asked Juffrouw Laps, rejoiced,
pious person that she was, at the new misdeed she was to hear of.
Just as Pennewip was about to open the indictment, there was another
ring at the bell,—and the unfortunate delinquent entered the room.
“Juffrouw Pieterse,” Pennewip began, “my school is known as a good
school even so far off as Kattenburg[13]—do you hear that, and
understand it?”
“Oh yes, Dominie!”
“I repeat it,—well known; and more especially so on account of the good
moral tone which prevails there,—I mean, of course, in my school.
Religion and virtue are put foremost. I could show you verses on such
subjects that—but I will pass over that for the present. Let it suffice
you to know that my school is known as far as ... what do I say?—I have
even taught the son of a resident in Wittenburg,[13]—a block-maker he
was—and once, indeed, I was consulted in writing as to what was to be
done with a boy whose father lived no nearer than Muiderberg!”
“Very good, Dominie!”
“Yes, Juffrouw Pieterse! I am still in possession of the letter—which I
could show you if I chose; the man was a sexton, and the youth had
fallen into a sad habit of drawing unseemly figures on the
tombstones—but just on that account—I mean for the sake of the religion
and virtue for which I am so well known—I feel it my duty to take this
opportunity of informing you that I do not choose to see the good name
of my school ruined by means of that good-for-nothing rascal of a son of
yours, who stands there!”
Poor Wouter was aghast. That sounded very unlike the appointment he had
been dreaming of—brigand-in-chief to the Pope of Rome,—which, however,
he no longer desired, having thought of a different position which would
suit him better.
His mother was about to proceed to what she called “_her_ religion,” and
administer chastisement on the spot, in order to satisfy the Dominie,
and show him that, in her house, too, religion and sound morals had the
first place. But the schoolmaster thought it better to inform the
company what was toward, and thereby bring the culprit to a deeper sense
of his delinquencies.
“Your son, Juffrouw Pieterse, belongs to the class of robbers,
murderers, and fire-raisers!” ...
No more than that!
“Gracious goodness! Merciful justice! What next! Oh! my gracious
patience! How is it possible? What human beings have to endure!”
Something like this—for I will not answer for textual accuracy—was the
flood of exclamations which overwhelmed the ten-year-old robber,
murderer, and fire-raiser. Poor Wouter!
“I will read you a piece in his own handwriting,” said the Dominie, “and
any one who, after this, can still doubt the utter depravity of this
boy——”
The whole company promised with one voice not to doubt it. The poem,
indeed, which Master Pennewip thereupon proceeded to read, was of a kind
which rendered doubt on that head very difficult; and I myself, though I
have chosen Wouter as my hero, shall not find it easy to convince the
reader that he was not so bad as would appear from his atrocious—
SONG OF THE BRIGAND.
“With my sword—
On my steed—
And my helmet on head,
Ride at them! The foeman’s skull cloven in twain,—
And forward!—”
“Christian souls!” cried the whole company, “is he mad?”
“And forward!—
And never draw rein
Along the high-road,
The brigand’s abode,—
With a thrust and a blow;
Drive back the Dragoons—the Viscount’s laid low!” ...
“Dear heavens above us!” moaned Wouter’s mother, “what in the world has
this Viscount done to him?”
“For the spoil”—
“Look at that now,—for the spoil!” said Juffrouw Laps, “_I_ always
say,—they begin with a Bible, and then——”
“And the spoil
Is my bride.”
“Did ever any one hear the like?—his bride! Why, the boy’s only just
cutting his second set of teeth!”
“And the spoil
Is my bride,
Bought for mine own with the sword at my side——”
“With the sword at his side!!”
“And the spoil is my bride,
Bought for mine own with the sword at my side.
Like a feather I bear her right into the hall,
To the grotto——”
“Gracious patience! what does he want in a grotto?”
“As swift as the wind
I ride on with my prey,—
And I heed not her weeping—her groans are my joy,
What delight!——”
“Mercy on us! does he call that delight? It makes me go cold all over!”
“Then again
Up and down,
East and west through the land!”
“There he goes again!”
“Then again
Up and down,
East and west through the land,
Here a villa to raze—there a convent ablaze—
With rifling of treasure:
My pleasure!——”
“The devil must be in the boy ... his pleasure!”
“And then we are gone!—
Ride on! ever on,
New adventures to seek—
My path it is marked by the steel and the fire—
On, on, ever on, let me hasten—nor tire,
My vengeance to wreak!”
“Gracious goodness! what can they have done to him?”
“For revenge is the task
He would ask—
The king of the wood——”
“Is the boy mad? I’ll king him!”
“For revenge is the task
He would ask—
The king of the wood—
Who alone, against all, his sceptre holds good——”
“What sort of a thing is that?”
“Who alone, against all, his sceptre holds good,
And his banner of might!—
Up! Hurrah!
Who will come to the fight?”
The company shuddered audibly at this invitation.
“Up! Hurrah!
Who will come to the fight?
We will spare no creature that ever was born—
Now we’ll hang all the men——”
“_Lodderyn!_[14] Trui! you see I——”
“We’ll hang all the men, and the women——”
“Lodderyn! lodderyn! lodderyn! Trui!”
“And the women shall mourn,
For our joy and delight!”
“Our joy and delight!” repeated Pennewip in a sepulchral voice,—“our joy
and delight!... He ... does ... these ... things ... for ... his ...
delight!”.
The whole company was near swooning. Stoffel’s pipe had gone out. But
Wouter had a sort of passive strength in his nature; and when his mother
had thrashed him enough to secure her own return to consciousness, he
lay down, not altogether discontented, in his corner of the back room,
and soon fell asleep, to dream of Fancy.
MULTATULI.
(_Ideen._)
_GOING INTO BUSINESS._
The plan of “going into business” was quite attractive to Wouter.
Perhaps because he did not quite know what it meant. He asked his
brother Stoffel about it.
“Well—don’t you understand _that_? ‘In business’ means the same thing
as—as being a merchant.”
“But what shall I have to sell? And how shall I know what people want?”
“Oh, you must not imagine that you will have to go about with a
peddler’s pack, and ring at people’s front doors to know if they want to
buy anything. You’re a stupid; you never will understand anything. ‘In
business,’ you see, means—it means——”
Stoffel began to stammer. He was not the first to stumble over a
definition—and will not be the last. But there are few who, in such a
case, have an ally at home to help them out.
“How can you always talk such nonsense, Wouter?” cried his mother.
“There’s Stoffel, now, explaining everything to you so clearly, and
there you are again making out you don’t understand. Who in the world
ever told you that you would have to go about the street with a pack on
your back, like an oilman or a _mersan de la perreplu_?[15] Is that what
I have brought you up for, and made you take the highest place in the
school? You are an ungrateful child. What is the good of your knowing so
much, and being able to make such fine letters, with curls and
flourishes to them, if you must insult your own mother?”
Readers who care anything for justice, will find it strange, and perhaps
unfair, that Wouter should have been overwhelmed with this flood of
reproach. Unfair? Certainly! But—strange? Why, no! I solemnly affirm my
accuracy in depicting a certain manner of carrying on a controversy, of
which Juffrouw Pieterse was unquestionably mistress.
But now, supposing Wouter had, in all humility, remarked that he had
given no occasion for the above sermon? Well, in that case he would have
been overwhelmed with a second lecture on the far-reaching and infamous
wickedness of being in the right, which, indeed, under certain
circumstances, _is_ a fault—and a bad one.
MULTATULI.
(_Ideen._)
_TWO PARABLES._
A Professor of Ichthyology was delivering his lecture. The students were
listening—well, pretty attentively as students go—not to mention
students of _Ichthyology_.
“The carp, gentlemen, the carp——”
Then followed some facts about the carp.
“Now the carp, gentlemen, as I was saying——”
At that moment a carp came swimming into the lectureroom. How the beast
did it, considering how dry it was there, does not concern us. The poor
students had suffered from drought for ever so long,—and, after all, a
carp is no better than a student.
“There he is himself!” they cried, with one voice.
So they left the professor in the lurch with his lecture on the carp,
and went to look at the carp for themselves. Now I think this quite
right and natural on the part of the students. But I wish we could do
the same, and try to look at men—and women too—for ourselves, instead of
listening to somebody’s dicta about Man!
MULTATULI.
(_Ideen._)
[Illustration:
“AM I NOT JUST LIKE PLATO?”
]
_THERSITES AND PLATO._
Plato once had a bad cold—so bad that it was evident to every one.
Thersites imitated his way of coughing, and said:
“Am I not just like Plato?”
However, this was not the worst—any man is free to ask a question. The
worst of it was that thousands upon thousands of people immediately
replied, “Just so. Hurrah for Thersites, the new philosopher!”
The man founded a school on the spot. And, therefore: _Cave_, _caveto_,
_caveto_, _cavete_, _cavetote_, _caveunto_!
MULTATULI.
(_Ideen._)
_EGOTISM._
“You talk a great deal about yourself,” say many who never get talked
about, either by themselves or other people. “This is against the tone
of good society.”
“I advise you to seek better society than mine.”
“You talk a great deal about yourself——”
“Yes. Would you prefer me to speak of you, ... or your cat, ... or your
dog, ... or your ass?”
Do you wish that? Well, content yourself, I have often done so, but you
did not know it at the time, because you are always confusing yourself
with your neighbour’s donkey. Your neighbour has also been complaining;
he says that I have been all the time talking about _your_ donkeys.
Compensation! The donkeys themselves have never complained, the good,
dumb beasts.
“You talk a great deal about yourself——”
“Yes. I want to be honest.”
“You talk a great deal about yourself——”
“Yes. I am my own latest love. I had loved long, and often, and
ardently, before _that_ love was born. But now that it does exist, ...
and is the last....”
“You talk a great deal about yourself——”
“Yes. If it wearies you, what hinders your exchanging me for the
_Aglaia_? What hinders your becoming a subscriber to ‘The Life,
Fortunes, and Business of the Kappelman Family’—in one vol., cloth
gilt?”
“You talk a great deal about yourself——”
“Quite so. When you do what Havelaar did, and the rich young man in
Matthew xix. did _not_ do, I will talk about you.”
MULTATULI.
(_Ideen._)
_THE STORY OF CHRESOS._
Chresos lived in Bœotia. By profession he was mayor of a little village,
whose name I do not know, neither can I tell you how he had strayed into
Bœotia, since his family belonged to Athens—nay, I think he was even
related to Alcibiades, who was a Frenchman born too soon. Chresos was a
good sort of man, and lived contentedly. He looked after his village as
well as he could, and amused himself, in his spare hours, by playing on
the lute; but he only did this at home, and never annoyed any one with
his music.
And, behold, there came robbers, who ill-treated the inhabitants of the
village over which Chresos had authority. He laid aside his lute, and
tried to drive the robbers away; but he was told that he ought not to
have done this, because the robbers were under the protection of the
magistrates in the capital.
Chresos did not believe this, because it seemed to him too bad to be
credible. He continued to resist the robbers, and, their force being too
great for him, he sent a messenger to Thebes, to ask for help.
Instead of help, he received for answer, that he was an unworthy mayor,
and entirely incompetent to fill any office in Bœotia. He did not
attempt to deny this. After having advised his villagers to have
patience, he left the place with his wife and children, taking nothing
with him but his lute. His house was occupied by a new mayor, who, it
may be supposed, was less unworthy, in the opinion of the Theban
magistrates, and who, also, seemed to be on very good terms with the
very robbers whom the stupid Chresos had wanted to exterminate. At any
rate, there were no more complaints of violence, although the robbers
still remained in the neighbourhood.
With difficulty, Chresos obtained access to the Areopagus, and related
what had happened to him. He pointed to his family, who were perishing
of want—through a misunderstanding on the part of the magistrates; for
he still thought that the whole matter arose out of a misunderstanding.
I have already told you that he was not really a Bœotian by birth. This
was why he held such mistaken opinions.
But the Areopagus took no notice. Chresos asked his wife to have
patience, which was not necessary, and consoled himself by playing the
lute. He was no great musician, but there is something peculiar in the
playing of a father who sees his family starving; this was why they
listened to him, not because Chresos played well. There was something
that tickled coarse ears. There were many coarse ears in Bœotia.
When they said, “Well played, Chresos; go on,” his hand fell limply
down, and the tears stood in his eyes at the thought that this undesired
praise was the price of his children’s hunger.
Yet he played from time to time, because he could do no other. And his
family bore their hunger patiently.
Again and again he appealed to the Areopagus. At last he received the
following answer:—
“The Court of Areopagus, &c., having heard the complaints of the
ex-mayor Chresos as to the outrages in the village of——, &c.
[Illustration:
“HE PLAYED FROM TIME TO TIME.”
]
“Having likewise heard his request for a decision between him and the
Theban magistrates, &c.
“And whereas the said Chresos declares that he and his family are in a
position of great distress, in consequence of a misunderstanding which
induced the said magistrates to take the side of the robbers who
plundered the village,
“And whereas, moreover, many witnesses declare that they have heard the
said Chresos playing on the lute,
“In pursuance of, &c., &c.,
“The sentence of the Court is, that the said Chresos continue playing on
the lute, and pay all costs.”
The Areopagus had been bribed,—and its name was HOLLAND.
MULTATULI.
(_Minnebrieven._)
_THE FAIRY TALE THAT FANCY TOLD WOUTER._
FANCY’S FAIRY TALE.
Wouter had found out that he was a prince. His princedom lay in the
region of the moon ... no, much farther off than that.
This is how he came to it:—
Long before the beginning of this story,—yes, very, very long ago, there
was a Queen of Spirits, just as in _Hans Heiling_. Her name was A—OO.
She did not live in a cave, as did the one in _Hans_, but held her court
far above the clouds, which is more airy, and also more fitting for a
queen.
She wore a necklace of stars, and a sun was set in her signet-ring.
When she went out, the nebulæ flew up like dust, and she scattered the
firmaments with a stroke of her fan.
[Illustration:
“HER NAME WAS A—OO.”
]
Her children played with planets for marbles, and complained that they
were so hard to find when they rolled away among the furniture. This
made Prince Upsilon—the queen’s little son—very cross, and he kept
asking for some other kind of toys.
The queen had a box full of Sirii given him, but in a little while these
too were lost. But that was Upsilon’s own fault. He ought to have taken
better care of his playthings. People did what they could to content
him. But whatever was given him, he kept calling for something
else—something more and bigger. This was a fault in the little prince’s
character.
His mother, who, as Queen of Spirits, was a very sensible woman,
understood that it would be a good thing for the youngster to get
accustomed to _doing without_ for a little. So she said that Upsilon was
to be left without any playthings at all.
This was done. They took away everything from him,—even the comet with
which he and his little sister Omicron were playing at battledore and
shuttlecock.
Prince Upsilon was of a passionate temper, and so far forgot himself as
to say something very disrespectful about his mother.
Princess Omicron, too, led astray by his example (for nothing is more
ruinous than bad examples), angrily threw her battledore at the
Universe. Which was not nice in a little girl.
Now in the kingdom of Spirits there was a law that whoever lost sight of
the respect due to the Queen, or threw anything at the Universe, should
be punished for the same by a temporary loss of all rank and dignity.
Prince Upsilon became a grain of sand.
After having behaved well for a couple of thousand years, he received
the joyful tidings that he was promoted to the rank of a tuft of moss.
In this capacity he kept his duty in mind, and did everything that a
good moss tuft ought to do. And on a certain morning he awoke as a
polype.
This happened about the time when human beings first began to prepare
their food by means of fire.
He built one or two continents, and in about two thousand years’ time he
was rewarded for his zeal by being changed into a shrimp.
In this position, also, no one had the slightest reason to complain of
his conduct, and in due course he was transferred to the class of
sea-serpents.
He amused himself, innocently enough, by playing at hide-and-seek with
the sailors, but did no one any harm; and some time afterwards he
received four feet and the rank of mastodon, with the privilege of
disporting himself on shore.
With philosophic calm he adapted himself to his new circumstances, and
occupied himself with geological observations. A few million ages
later....
When I speak of ages, it must be borne in mind that all this time taken
together was only a short quarter of an hour in the land of Spirits, ...
or rather that it was absolutely nothing. For _time_ was invented for
the convenience of mankind, as we give spelling-books to children. For
Spirits, _then_, _now_, and _in the future_ is exactly the same thing.
They comprehend _yesterday_, _to-day_, and _to-morrow_ in one
glance,—just as we read a word without spelling. What _was_ and _shall
be_, _is_.
The Egyptians and Phœnicians knew this very well, but we seem to have
forgotten it.
A few million years later, then, he rose to the rank of an elephant;
and, a spirit-minute or so after that,—that is ten years, I mean human
years this time—before the beginning of my story, he was transferred to
the class of human beings.
What he had done amiss, as an elephant, I do not know.
But, FANCY had said, if he did not want to be put back another step,
instead of being shortly restored to his rank as a prince of Spirits, he
must look to his ways as a human being; not make any more verses about
brigands, or sell any more Bibles; and then, why, perhaps it might come
to pass.
Alas, he would have to put up with Juffrouw Pieterse’s not wearing a
train. “That,” said Fancy, “is so, and can’t be helped.”
Fancy appeared to be a sort of maid-of-honour of Wouter’s mother, who
came to visit him in his banishment, so as to cheer him up a bit, and
tell him to take courage, for the temporary punishment that had fallen
to his lot did not mean that people had ceased to love him.
She promised to come and see him from time to time.
“But,” Wouter had asked, “how is my little sister?”
“Your sister has been punished too—you know the law. But she is a dear
child. She is submitting to it patiently, and promises to do better in
the future. In the beginning she was a bubble of air, and conducted
herself irreproachably as such. Then she became a moonbeam, and in this
capacity also no one had any fault to find with her. She shone so that
it was a pleasure to see her, and your mother had need of all her
strength of mind to keep from granting her a respite. So she was soon
promoted to be a perfume, and filled the Universe to such a degree that
she gave us a headache. This happened about the time when you were
beginning to eat grass. Then she became a butterfly. But your mother
found that this was not a suitable position for a girl, and therefore
soon changed her into a constellation—see, there she is—below us.”
Wouter looked for Omicron, but could not find her.
It often happens that we miss something because it is too big.
“See,” said Fancy, “there—to the right—no—rather farther
off—there—there—the Pole Star. That’s her left eye. You can’t see the
right, because she is stooping after Orion, her doll. She is holding him
on her lap and playing with him.”
Wouter now saw her clearly, and cried “Omicron! Omicron!”
“No, no,” said the maid-of-honour, “that won’t do, prince. The queen
expressly directed that your confinement was to be on the cellular
system. It is only as a great favour that you two are shut up within the
same universe. When your brothers spoilt the Milky Way some time ago by
letting floods loose over it, they were put very much farther apart.”
Wouter was greatly grieved at this. He would so have liked to kiss all
those stars, with the doll in their lap, which were his little sister.
“Oh! Fancy,” he cried, “do let me be with Omicron!”
Fancy said neither yes nor no. There was something in her manner as if
she were thinking over the possibility of bringing a very difficult
matter to pass.
But Wouter, taking courage from her hesitation, repeated his prayer:
“Oh! let me be with my little sister. I don’t mind if I have to eat
grass again, or build continents. I will do my very best at it, if I may
only be with Omicron!”
It seems as though Fancy were afraid to promise what might be out of her
power, and, at the same time, that it pained her not to be able to give
the promise.
“I will ask,” she whispered; “and now....”
Wouter rubbed his eyes ... he was standing on the little bridge over the
canal.
MULTATULI.
(_Ideen._)
_HALF-AN-HOUR AT THE HAIR-DRESSER’S._
FARCE.
I.
FOURNICHON, _the hair-dresser, discovered in his shop, busy finishing a
lady’s chignon_.
_Fournichon._ There ought to be a machine invented to make our work
easier, ... say, some simple arrangement in which you throw in a handful
of hair on one side and take out a _perruque perfectionnée_ on the
other. I shall certainly bring up my son as a mechanician, and entrust
him with the invention of this indispensable machine. Let me see, whose
turn is it now? Ah! Mevrouw Priddeau,—_a chignon à la sauvage_, of at
least three kilos? ... _Mille tonnerres!_ I am quite out of black hair!
Hi! Pierre!
[_He sends his assistants to purchase the necessary supplies; almost
immediately after his shop is hastily entered by two students,
Charles and John, who drop into chairs, as though completely
exhausted._]
_Fournichon_ (_rising_). How can I serve you, gentlemen?
_Charles_ (_gasping_). A glass of water, if you please.
[_Fournichon supplies them both, and goes on._] How you startled me,
gentlemen! to rush in breathlessly like that! Yet it’s not the season
for mad dogs!
_Charles._ If it had only been a mad dog!
_Fournichon._ Surely no tiger has broken loose from the Zoological
Gardens?
_John._ If it had only been a tiger!
_Fournichon._ Come, come, I shall not make myself uneasy. You have been
up to some mischief, haven’t you? You were pursued by the police, and
you saw no other refuge but the hospitable establishment of _M.
Fournichon, Coiffeur des Deux Sexes_. Now, am I not right?
[Illustration:
FOURNICHON, THE HAIR-DRESSER.
]
_Charles._ Yes, that’s it,—the contemptible wretch ... the
scoundrel! ... The same low cad who got me in for three weeks’ solitary
last year. Far worse than the maddest dog, or the most savage tiger!
_John._ The fellow never will learn to understand that a couple of
rix-dollars are worth far more than his so-called official honour, which
involves him in the constant risk of incurring a thrashing.
_Fournichon._ But what has happened, after all? Surely, gentlemen, you
did not come running here in such haste to tell me that you got into
quod last year?
_Charles._ What has happened? Nothing, strictly speaking ... but a whole
lot _may_ happen.
_John._ And that must be prevented,—and that is why we have come to seek
comfort, counsel, and help from the hospitable Fournichon.
_Charles._ I’ll tell you all about it. We were just coming quietly and
comfortably from lecture together, when we passed a baker’s shop, when
the servant girl was just washing the windows. John took it into his
head that we might lend a hand, and I seized a pail of water, intending
to throw the contents at the window, when the pail itself slipped from
my hands, and flew right through the plate-glass window into the middle
of the currant-buns and cakes! Unhappily, the aforesaid incorruptible
policeman just happened to be in the neighbourhood, so that he caught us
red-handed, and we had to make good use of our legs to escape being
locked up at once.
_John._ You will understand that we did not intend any mischief,—it was
a harmless joke, which turned out badly.
_Fournichon._ Of course. And not only so, but there was provocation on
the baker’s part. If he had chosen another time of day to have his
windows cleaned, it could not possibly have turned out so. In any case,
there are plenty of extenuating circumstances, and I don’t understand
why you gentlemen should have such a violent objection to a day or two
under lock and key. That happens often enough, and young gentlemen don’t
usually think so much of it.
_John._ That is true, but to-day is an extraordinary occasion. We were
going to the fancy-dress ball to-night, and should be very sorry to miss
it. So you see us in a fearful scrape, with a gendarme at our heels, and
you must help us. [_A ring at the bell._] What’s that?
_Fournichon._ I don’t know; we shall see in a minute. [_Steps are heard
coming up the stairs._]
_Charles._ John, get out of sight. [_They hide._]
_Pierre_ (_entering_). Sir, Vrouw Krullemie has just sold her hair this
morning for seventy-five cents.
[_The students come out again._]
_John._ Bother your Krullemie! Say, Fournichon, if your visitors are in
the habit of dropping in unannounced after this fashion, we are not
altogether safe here.
_Fournichon._ Well, look here, gentlemen, you suggested an idea
yourselves. Your costumes for the ball must be quite ready by this time;
why don’t you disguise yourselves in them?
_Charles._ A fine lark! In the first place they are not here....
_John._ That would matter less, for we might send for them, but we could
scarcely show ourselves in the streets in them.
_Fournichon._ How so?
_John._ Well, I was going to appear as the Avenger of Innocence.
_Charles._ And I as the Four Seasons.
_Fournichon._ You are right, that would never do; but I have another
proposal to make. I too intend going to the ball, and have had costumes
made for myself and one of my friends, which will no doubt suit you
better. You can have those, and give us yours.
_John._ All right, if they are better suited to the purpose than ours.
_Fournichon._ Oh! just perfect! You shall see. [_Opens two chests in the
foreground, and takes out costumes. These should be so made as to be put
on, on the stage, without much trouble._] We were going as an old lady
and her granddaughter. The dresses are very simple, and I think they
will do admirably.
[Illustration:
“I AM QUITE LOST IN THIS CAP.”
]
_Charles._ Done! I accept that. Now, quick! before any one has time to
surprise us.
_John._ Say, Charles, will you be the grandmother?
_Charles._ All right, and you the girl.
_Fournichon._ Don’t make any mistakes; the crinoline belongs to this
skirt.
_Charles._ I am quite lost in this cap.
_Fournichon._ You must have a wig on first.
_John._ Just look here, Fournichon, this dress isn’t long enough.
_Fournichon._ Why, of course, you’re only in short skirts as yet.
_John._ Ah! is that it?
_Charles._ John, don’t I look charming?
_John._ Quite enchanting! If you were my grandmother, I should certainly
fall in love with you.
_Charles._ Where’s my wig?
_Fournichon._ Here are plenty, just choose one for yourself.
_John._ These curls are what will suit me. [_Puts on the wig, and a
round straw hat on the top of it._]
_Charles._ This grey one will just do for me. [_Puts it on, and then the
cap._] Now, I’m ready! Sapristi! How hot it is. There’s the bell.
_John._ Good gracious, now we’ve got it!
_Fournichon._ Quiet now; sit down before it’s too late.
_Charles._ What’s the good of that? our voices will betray us.
_Fournichon._ You must not talk. Just you trust to me, and it will be
all right.
II.
CHARLES _and_ JOHN _seated at a table, with their backs to the other
actors. Enter_ BOM DE SAC, _the police agent, fuming and swearing_.
_Bom de Sac._ When I was with the First regiment, and was three times
wounded in two battles.... Ah! good-morning, Mr Hairdresser ... three
times wounded,—it would never have happened to me to let two scoundrels
escape. Never!
_Fournichon._ What’s your pleasure, Mr—Mr——
_Bom de Sac._ Bom de Sac, if you please—with the Third regiment—in four
battles, five wounds.
_Fournichon._ Does M. Bom de Sac want his hair cut?
_Bom de Sac._ Many thanks, I always do that myself. I learnt that with
the Fourth ... when I was six times wounded in five battles. But, sir,
that is not the point at present. I was just going to say that this
morning two scoundrels——
_Fournichon._ Scoundrels?
_Bom de Sac._ Scoundrels, or students, whichever you like to call them.
_Fournichon._ Well, and what did they do?
_Bom de Sac._ Just imagine, sir. I was at the baker’s, and the maid was
standing on a ladder outside cleaning the window, when two
good-for-nothing vagabonds came up, took up a pail of water, and threw
it at the girl, and the girl fell right through the window in among the
currant-buns!
_Fournichon._ Not killed, I hope.
_Bom de Sac._ No, the buns had broken her fall. But I was out of the
house in a flash, and after the fellows. _Sacré nom de guerre!_ if I
could still run as I could when I was in the Fifth ... and wounded seven
times in six battles ... they would never have escaped me! But they are
here!
_Fournichon._ Have a glass?
_Bom de Sac._ If you please. [_Drinks._] Thank you. I am told they came
into this house, and if so, they’ll have to come out, sir!
_Fournichon._ Here! How is it possible? You are quite free to search the
room if you like. These ladies are my grandmother and my cousin.
_Bom de Sac_ (_seeing them for the first time, salutes_). Ah! _Honneur
aux dames_, as we used to say in the Sixth. I hope you won’t mind,
ladies.
_Fournichon._ You need not give yourself the trouble of speaking to
them. The old lady is stone deaf, and won’t understand a word, and she
watches over her granddaughter so carefully that she cannot bear to see
a gentleman speak to the girl, because she cannot hear what he is
saying.
[Illustration:
“SACRE NOM DE GUERRE!”
]
_Bom de Sac._ Well, where in the thunder can they have got to? I was
quite certain of finding them here.
_Fournichon._ And I am quite certain you will do no such thing. [_Looks
out of window._]
_Bom de Sac._ But—_nom de nom!_—how is it possible?
_Fournichon._ Just look here, Monsieur Bom de Sac, could these be the
gentlemen that have just passed laughing? Both of them have white hats.
_Bom de Sac_ (_rushing to the window_). Where?
_Fournichon._ Ah! what a pity! they have just this moment gone round the
corner towards the Botermarkt.
_Bom de Sac._ White hats, you say? The devil!—that must be they, and
they shan’t escape me this time. [_Exit._] It’s not for nothing that I
had ten wounds in nine battles when serving with the Eighth.
_Charles._ Bad luck to the fellow! he has made it warm for us!
_John._ If it had lasted any longer, I am sure I should have made some
remarks on my own account. If some one else comes, we really must find
some other place, for I really can’t sit still so long in these blessed
skirts.
_Charles._ Shall we stand up then?
_John._ Why not. [_Jumps on one of the chests._] Look here, I’ll bet you
anything you like I can stand half-an-hour like this without moving.
Don’t I look like a waxwork figure of summer?
_Charles._ The devil you are! [_Gets on the other chest._] And I winter,
to match.
_Fournichon._ Splendid, gentlemen, it couldn’t be finer. Just stand
still like that. [_A ring at the bell._]
_Charles_ (_getting down_). Preserve us!—now we’re in for it.
_John._ No, Charles, stick to your post.
_Charles._ I can’t possibly stand still all that time.
_Fournichon._ It won’t be necessary. Just stand in any easy attitude,
and you can change your position quietly from time to time, without our
tiresome visitor becoming aware of it.
_Charles._ Well, I’ll see what I can do. [_Climbs up again._]
_Fournichon._ Hush! he’s coming!
_Enter_ MEIJER.
_Meijer._ Good-day, Monsieur Fournichon. Good-day, ladies. (_To
Fournichon._) Why are you laughing?
_Fournichon._ At your taking those waxworks for ladies. Ha! ha! ha!
_Meijer._ Waxworks, you say! How astonishingly lifelike! It’s true,
though, it would be a queer position for living beings to stand in.
_Fournichon._ Well done, are they not? It is an allegorical
representation of winter and summer.
_Meijer._ Very pretty, very pretty indeed! You hair-dressers have always
something curious on hand.
_Fournichon._ That’s to say, sir, they are not my property. They have
been sent to me to look after the _coiffures_, and they are to go to
London,—to Madame Tousseau’s museum.
_Meijer._ Oh, indeed!—indeed! Well, art has made great strides.
_Fournichon._ Great strides, sir! You’re quite right there. Just feel
now—elastic as india-rubber—quite like a human being.
_Meijer._ Wonderful! wonderful! But I am in a hurry—can you shave me?
_Fournichon._ Certainly, sir, sit down! [_Gives him a chair between John
and Charles, but rather more towards the back of the shop. Goes on
shaving him, and talking at the same time._] Your barber, sir, does not
know his business. Your skin and complexion are quite spoilt.
[_John changes his position._]
_Meijer_ (_starting up_). Good heavens!
_Fournichon._ No need to be uneasy, sir; there is nothing really
dangerous.
_Meijer._ No, that’s not what I was thinking of,—but that doll of
yours—the summer one—is moving!
_Fournichon._ Oh! that is nothing surprising—perhaps I stepped on the
floor rather heavily. You must know these figures are full of steel
springs inside, and the slightest vibration makes them move. Just look
now!
[_Stamps on the floor. John and Charles immediately change their
positions._]
_Meijer._ Ah! thank you for your explanation. I really never should have
understood it.
[_Sits down again, and Fournichon goes on shaving him till he has
finished. Meijer rises._]
_Meijer._ Thanks. Can you give me change?
_Fournichon._ I’ll go and get it.
[_Exit. Meijer goes to look at the waxworks._]
_Meijer._ They _are_ curious, though! I have often seen waxworks before,
but never so graceful, so lifelike as these. Whenever any one stamps on
the floor, they move. [_Stamps—John and Charles again change their
attitudes._] Just look at that! how pretty! Once more! Sublime! And
that’s the way they keep on! [_Stamps again, and continues to do so,
faster and faster—John and Charles changing their position with every
stamp; but at length they begin to grow tired of it—they jump down from
their pedestals, seize Meijer, and hold him fast, saying_, “You rascal!
this is too much of a good thing!” _They strike him, and push him out at
the door—losing their wigs in the struggle—after which they burst out
laughing, and drop exhausted into their chairs. Enter F._]
_Fournichon._ Gentlemen! what have you been up to now? Such an infernal
row I never heard before! You’ll wake all the babies in the
neighbourhood.
_Charles_ (_laughing_). Oh! the conceited blockhead!
_John._ The worshipper of waxwork groups!
_Fournichon._ Well—where is he? What have you done with him?
_Charles._ We have put him out at the door as quietly and deliberately
as possible.
_Fournichon._ Well—and why?
_John._ Because he bored us too much. He was so delighted with the
mechanism of the figures, that we might have kept on dancing till
to-morrow morning if we had not put an end to the business ourselves.
_Fournichon._ And what about your coiffures?
_Charles._ Why, that’s true! What can have become of them!
_Fournichon._ Oh! good heavens! here they are, lying on the ground like
any old rubbish! [_Picks them up, along with the hat and cap._] Just
look!—they are not worth a cent now!
_John._ Oh! just put the things away—we don’t want them any more,—and if
they’re spoilt, we’ll pay for them.
_Fournichon._ In that case, sir, it doesn’t matter. [_Lays everything on
a table. The bell rings._] Hé! who’s that now?
_Charles._ It doesn’t matter to me who it is. Any one may come who
likes—I’m not going to act in this farce any longer.
_Fournichon_ (_looks through the door_). Look out, gentlemen—it’s the
agent—Bom de Sac!
_John and Charles_ (_springing up_). That fellow! No! that will never
do! [_They sit down at the table, as before, and put on their
headdresses, but without seeing that they have taken the wrong ones,
John putting on the grey wig and cap,—Charles, the curls and round straw
hat. Bom de Sac heard speaking outside the door_:]—No, _sacré nom de
nom_! Mijnheer Meyer has lent me a hand. What are people thinking of? It
was not for nothing I was wounded eleven times in ten battles, with the
9th Regiment. They are here—I’m certain of that! [_Enters._]
_Fournichon._ Search as much as you like, sir, but remember, if you
please, that, in the presence of ladies....
_Bom de Sac._ Of course, of course! I always said, “_Honneur aux
dames_.” [_Looks at the ladies and salutes, then takes a step backward
in amazement._] _Sacré nom de guerre!_
_Fournichon._ What’s the matter?
_Bom de Sac._ Have I come to my age—not to speak of twelve wounds in
eleven battles—to let myself be fooled like this?
_Fournichon._ I don’t understand you.
_Bom de Sac._ No, perhaps not. But I understand how it is possible for
these ladies to have changed heads at a moment’s notice. Look here! [_He
takes off the wigs._] The young lady is getting grey, and the
grandmother is going backwards to her childhood. Come with me, now,
gentlemen—I arrest you both!
_Fournichon._ Your own fault, gentlemen. I wash my hands of the whole
business.
_Charles._ We have a word to say to that, John.
_John._ Certainly.
_Bom de Sac._ Gentlemen, conspiracies or plots in which more than one
person are concerned are forbidden by law. Will you come with me, or
not?
_Charles._ I suppose we shall have to.
_John._ Do you want us to come with you as we are?
_Bom de Sac._ Just as you like, gentlemen. I arrest you, and that is all
my share in the business. The rest does not concern me.
_Charles_ (_whispers to John, then continues aloud_). Just listen,
Monsieur Bom de Sac,—though we find it very unpleasant to have fallen
into your hands, we are not children, and we are quite capable of
understanding that there is nothing for it but to give in. But just let
us change our clothes first—we’ll give you our word of honour not to go
out of the door without letting you know.
_Bom de Sac._ Very good! We have been young, too, you see. Just go on,
gentlemen. If you give me your word, that is enough. [_While he goes on
talking to Fournichon, John and Charles take off their costumes and tie
Bom de Sac’s coattails to the table._] Yes, Mr Hairdresser, when I was
with the 11th, and had been wounded thirteen times in twelve battles,
then I thought to myself,—it’s quite enough, Bom de Sac, you have done
quite enough for your country; you’re growing old—and a soldier may be
too old. I was then brigadier, and understood that it was getting time
for me to make room for another. So I came home to my old mother ... I
married a young wife....
_Charles._ ... and received, in thirteen battles....
_Bom de Sac._ Ah!—are you ready, gentlemen?
_John._ At your service, my worthy sergeant of police! We are quite
ready, and now warn you that we are about to leave. [_Charles and John
go out by the door at the back of the stage, arm in arm, saying, as they
go._]—_Bon soir._
_Bom de Sac._ Wait—I’m coming with you! _[Tries to go, but finds himself
fastened to the table._] Bad luck to them! are they going to give me the
slip after all?
_Fournichon._ I see a good chance of it. Look here, Monsieur Bom de Sac,
you have, in far too many battles received more than too many wounds to
be anything like a match for these young fellows. They have been sharper
than you,—so you’ll have to acknowledge yourself beaten, and e’en let
them alone. By the time you get outside the door they will be far beyond
your reach.
_Bom de Sac._ You’re right enough there, so I shall keep the whole
matter to myself, and wish them a pleasant evening.
_Anon._
_IN THE LITTLE REPUBLIC._
It was in the smallest Republic of our Continent—Altenet—rich in mines
of zinc. It lies, like a tiny wedge, between the great German empire,
the small kingdom of Holland, and the still smaller one of Belgium.
Seldom has a stranger set foot here; few know the district even by name;
only a single encyclopædia makes mention of it; the atlases have
forgotten it,—nay, it has even been forgotten by the political world.
When the separation between Belgium and Holland took place in 1830, the
representatives of the various powers could not come to any agreement
over this little piece of ground. It was therefore resolved to declare
it “neutral territory,” till a later Congress should find a better
solution to the problem.
The old schoolmaster of the neighbouring village of Oppenaken always
asserted that the learned politicians assembled at the aforesaid
Congress had been too drunk to know what they were doing. If his
listeners looked at him incredulously, or began to laugh, he would
indignantly ask, “Don’t you believe me? Then I’ll prove it!” And then he
would fetch an atlas, open it at the map of the Netherlands, and,
following with his finger the boundary of our provinces of Limburg and
Brabant, continue—“Just look at this line here how it goes—first to the
left, then to the right—here crooked, then slanting—then again forward
for a bit, then backwards—one minute straight, and then again with a
great bend—isn’t it just like the line a tipsy man would take in
walking?”
In the year 1866 another European Congress took place; but it seemed as
though the gentlemen taking part in it had not recovered from the
effects of the drinking bout attributed to them by the Oppenaken
schoolmaster, for this time Altenet was forgotten—forgotten for good and
all.
[Illustration:
“TOO DRUNK TO KNOW WHAT THEY WERE DOING.”
]
Thus the Altenetters lived on, independent of all foreign domination.
The miners continued to extract zinc from the ground, and pile it up in
the great waggons which transported it to other countries; the peasant
ploughed his field and reaped his grain; the wind might be heard sighing
in the clumps of trees on the hill-tops, the brook rushing and murmuring
between the rocks, and the lark singing high in air—and what could you
want more?
The government of the little Republic was entirely in the hands of the
burgomaster, Willem Drikus Bloemstein, a broad-shouldered man of portly
presence, red-haired and red-bearded, fully conscious of his own
importance, and loyally supported in all his works and ways by the elect
of Altenet, who were associated with him as Councillors.
It was quite an earthly Paradise—a little Eden full of peace and
happiness! Here was no such thing as strife or hatred, for parties had
no existence, and life offered no opportunity for insult or injury on
political grounds. The taxes were not high, and there was no standing
army, so that no one thought it necessary to hold meetings in order to
discuss the advantages and disadvantages of compulsory service. The only
measure taken for the defence of the country was the weekly drill of the
rural rifle corps; and though no one was forced to take his place in its
ranks, yet every right-minded man of Altenet felt it his duty to place
himself under the orders of General Bauer—on working days an energetic
mine-superintendent.
Suddenly this happy state of things was disturbed.
A tiresome man—a German politician—had discovered the above-mentioned
negligence on the part of the statesmen of Europe, and pointed out to
the Government of his country that here was an opportunity for
gratifying its well-known love of annexation. The high and mighty
Reichstag took the hint, and resolved to proceed to a speedy settlement
of the still unsolved question of the division of Altenet.
A storm of indignation swept through the whole Republic. The head of the
State, honest Bloemstein, immediately summoned all the members of the
Council, in order to consult as to ways and means of averting the
threatened misfortune, and the summons was obeyed by every one.
They were all assembled. Klessens, the rich brewer; young Holzert, an
ugly little man, whose bow-legs were a continual challenge to any poodle
who had learned to jump through a hoop, but whose shrewdness and clear
insight into things were praised by every one; the just-mentioned Bauer,
the commander of the rifle corps; Marbaise, the landlord of the “Lump of
Zinc”; and Conrads, the wealthy farmer.
“What’s got to be done?” was the question addressed by Bloemstein to the
notables of Altenet.
“It seems to me we ought to write the Prussian a civil letter, telling
him not to trouble his head about us,” was the opinion delivered by
Klessens, after coughing and clearing his throat for some time.
“You stupid fellow!” replied Bauer, pulling in an impressive manner at
his thick moustache, “do you think the insolent dog of a Prussian will
care anything for a civil letter? No, my boy, you don’t know him yet;
_au contraire_, we ought to show him we’re not afraid.”
“Why, then! there _will_ be war!” was timidly interjected by Conrads.
“Very well then! there will be war!” The rest nodded assent.
“But that will surely be a great-to-do,—couldn’t we wait at least till
the crops are in?”
“We won’t wait a moment! I shall march with the Rifles to-morrow, right
along the Prussian border, and then the miserable wretches can see that
we’re not afraid of them!” and Bauer banged the table with his fists.
“That’s not nearly enough,” suggested Marbaise; “the custom-house
officers might forget to write to the Emperor about it, and as long as
he doesn’t know it, it all goes for nothing.”
“We ought to write to him ourselves, and not civilly,—no, indeed!—but as
impudently as we can; and you must sign the letter, Bloemstein, just as
if you were a king yourself, and put under it ‘Wullem the First,
President of the Republic of Altenet.’”
[Illustration:
“BAUER BANGED THE TABLE WITH HIS FISTS.”
]
“Wullem, Wullem! why, there are so many Wullems,” was the opinion of the
man addressed; “the Dutch one is called so, and the Prussian too.
‘Wullem!’—it’s so common.”
“But you have another name, haven’t you?” asked another Councillor.
“Yes, of course,—Drikus.”
“Very well, then,—Drikus the First. What do you think of that?”
“Well, well,” muttered Klessens. “‘Drikus the First, President of the
Republic of Altenet’; it doesn’t sound bad, not bad at all.”
“Wouldn’t it be still better to say, ‘President of the _Independent_
Republic’?” added the warlike Bauer.
“We might do that,” was the general verdict.
“But then we ought to be called Ministers,” suggested Conrads.
“Of course!” chorussed the rest.
“In that case, I suppose I shall be Minister of War?” asked Bauer.
“Certainly.”
“And I of Agriculture?” asked Conrads.
“Very good, too.”
“Marbaise for Finance.”
“And whom shall we have for Home Affairs?”
“It seems to me that wouldn’t be a bad thing for you, tailor,” put in
Bloemstein, addressing Councillor Holzert.
“I have no objection,” replied the latter; “but I’d just like to say
something too.”
“Councillor Holzert will now address the meeting.”
A sudden silence fell on the assembly; all were straining their ears to
hear what thoughts had arisen in the tailor’s shrewd brain. Speaking
slowly, and emphasising every word, he began,—
“We must have stamps made—big stamps, with your head on them,
Bloemstein; and then we’ll send a letter, with a stamp like that on it,
you understand, not to the Emperor of Prussia, but to Bismarck, because,
after all, he’s the fellow that does everything; and you must write in
that letter, just to rile him, that we are going to let all the priests
and Jesuits he has driven out come freely into our country.”
“But only on condition that they brew no beer,” interrupted the brewer,
Klessens.
The tailor made believe not to have heard this interested remark, and
ended his speech with the question, “What do you think of _that_ idea?”
“Bravo, bravo!” cried all; and “You’re a sharp lad; you’re a clever
fellow,” added the chairman of the meeting, as he passed his hand
complacently over the head whose portrait was shortly to be sent to the
Chancellor of the German Empire.
“We haven’t done yet,” continued Holzert; “we have still to find out how
we’re going to put your head on the stamps,—with a beard, with a
moustache only, or without anything at all.”
“Why, you do think of everything, tailor!” observed Marbaise.
Bauer declared that there could be no two opinions on the point—“With a
moustache, that’s quite military,” and, as he spoke, he twisted the ends
of his own.
“But I don’t think it would look very well—a red moustache,” objected
Marbaise.
“Why, what does that matter? You can’t see it in the picture,” returned
Conrads. “Bismarck has a white one.”
“I don’t quite know whether you’re right,” began Holzert again; “just
look at Napoleon,—I mean the great Napoleon,—he’s got nothing, no beard
and no moustache, and yet he sent the Prussians to the right-about, time
and again; but what do you think about it yourself, Bloemstein?”
“Well, what am I to say to you? A beard is not respectable, and I shall
have mine shaved off; then we can see if the moustache alone looks well;
and if that is not the case, I’ll have that taken off too.”
All thought this an excellent idea.
“Don’t get shaved here, though. You’d better have that done at
Aix-la-Chapelle, and then you can get yourself taken at the same time
for the stamps.”
“Among the Prussians? Never! as long as I live. I’ll never help them to
earn a cent,” thundered Bloemstein.
“In Maastricht, then,” suggested another.
“All right. I’ll have it done on Monday. Has any one anything more to
say to the meeting?”
They looked at each other, but no one broke the silence.
“No one’s got nothing, then?”
“Just wait a minute,” cried Conrads. “You ought to have a crown,
Bloemstein.”
“A crown?—that’s expensive.”
“Nonsense; have one made of brass, and well polished up, then it will
shine just as if it were gold.”
“Then we ought to have Ministers’ uniforms. I’ll make them as cheap and
as quickly as possible,” said the tailor-Minister; “and then I’ll make a
long cloak for you, Bloemstein.”
“If the gentlemen will allow, I’ve something more to say,” said
Marbaise.
“It’s Marbaise’s turn to speak.”
“We ought to forbid all Altenet girls marrying Prussians.”
“What about my Marieke, who’s courting with the Prussian doctor?” was
Bloemstein’s terrified reply. “What a set-out my daughter will make—and,
above all, my wife, when I tell them that.”
“Then you must just say that our country doesn’t permit it,” and the
whole assembly nodded in token of assent.
“Oh, Lord!” groaned the unlucky President; “it’s the hardest thing you
could ask me to do.”
“Our country! the Republic! the Independent Republic!” cried the others,
wagging their heads hither and thither, shrugging up their shoulders,
and holding out their hands with all their fingers extended in air.
[Illustration:
“BOTH WALKED ON IN SILENCE.”
]
Here the weighty deliberations came to an end; and thereupon the
President and his Ministers slowly proceeded homewards.
Holzert escorted the newly appointed ruler to his dwelling. For a
considerable time both walked on in silence. At last the tailor spoke:
“Bloemstein,” he began, “if your Marieke is not to marry the Prussian
doctor, ... in that case ... I’d like to have her. I always had a liking
for the girl; but I couldn’t say anything; ... but now I’m Minister of
the Interior, ... that sounds fine, eh? ... that’s something.... I think
perhaps it might do.”
“Why, my good fellow, I’ve nothing against you. You always were a clever
chap, and you’ve shown it again with those stamps. It would be a good
enough idea; ... but—Marieke! and then my wife!”
“But, after all, you’re the master. Why, you’re the king of everything
in the place! You must put on a bold face, and stand firm!”
“Very well, lad, I’ll try.”
With wrathful strides, his head well thrown back, and his hand resting
on the front of his ample waistcoat, Bloemstein entered his own house.
Marieke sprang to meet him, embraced him cordially, and then said,
“Father, I’ve just had a letter from Heinrich, he’s coming to dinner
with us to-morrow.”
“I’m very sorry, child; but this marriage with the Prussian doctor can’t
come to anything. I’ve another husband for you. You’re to marry my
Minister of the Interior.”
“Whom do you say I am to marry?”
“My Minister of the Interior.”
“Who’s that?”
“Mr Holzert.”
“The crooked tailor! what a joke! I didn’t know you could be so funny,
father!”
“It’s no joke; it’s quite serious, Marieke!” and he recounted all that
had taken place at the meeting.
Marieke, however, was not convinced. “I won’t have him!” she cried, and
stamped her little foot on the ground;—“and if you say I must, I’ll
never marry at all!—there! ... I’ll go and tell mother about it!”
Bloemstein did not await the arrival of his better half. Under pretext
of urgent business, the ruler of all Altenet, except his own house,
hastily escaped up the street, and did not return home till late in the
evening.
On the following day—it was Sunday—all Altenet was clean turned upside
down.
Bauer had summoned all his riflemen, as soon as high mass was over, and
they assembled in full uniform at the tavern kept by the Minister of
Finance.
In a vigorous and pithy speech,—which he had been thinking over all
night,—he explained to his troops the danger which threatened the
country.
His manly language carried his audience with him. The shout, “We’ll
conquer or die!” raised by the Minister of War, was loudly echoed by
every one; and in order still further to raise their courage, they all
added, “Another drop all round!” which was poured out by the Minister of
Finance in his shirt-sleeves, and with fingers trembling with emotion.
“And now,” yelled Bauer, “we’re going to make a military march along the
Prussian frontier, and then all that _canaille_ can see that we’re not
afraid of them. Marbaise—you with the drum, your eldest boy with the
accordeon, and the other with the trumpet in front,—you three are the
band. Then you, Ummels, with the flag; and you, Gradus, with the bird;
and then we, the people!”
However, it was a considerable time before all of them had left the
tavern and taken up their positions.
They were a peculiar-looking troop, of about a hundred and twenty men;
mostly broad-shouldered fellows, though not tall—a kind of build common
to most miners. They wore all possible costumes, of all sorts of
colours; check trousers and black coats—blue blouses, long, short, new,
or half-worn;—suits of cloth, wool or linen—here and there a hero
marching in _sabots_. The majority were armed with old-fashioned
bell-mouthed blunderbusses; some, the tallest of the lot, were provided
with double-barrelled fowling-pieces, which at once branded them as
poachers.
[Illustration:
“CAUSED THEM TO GO THROUGH ALL POSSIBLE MANŒUVRES.”
]
All, however, had the same head-covering—a green cap, with yellow
braid,—and all had wooden pipes in their mouths. The flag matched the
caps—white and yellowish green. The place next to the flag was occupied
by the silver bird, hung round with all the gold and silver medals worn
by the Altenetters in shooting competitions.
“Look out!” cried Bauer, who, in token of his exalted position was hung
round with a string of small silver plates of different shapes and
sizes, and who, besides, showed his superior dignity by smoking, not a
pipe like the rest, but a cigar of immense length and thickness, which
had cost him two cents and a half.
All placed themselves in position.
“Right-about-face, and along the cinder path to the Prussian frontier.
Band, advance!”
They advanced, with drum beating and accordeon chirping. Just in full
view of the German officials, who had come out to ascertain the cause of
the approaching noise, Bauer called a halt. Then he caused them to go
through all possible manœuvres, shoulder arms, port arms,—but not
“present”—_that_ he would never do “for those pig-dogs of Prussians.”
These evolutions did not appear to command any particular admiration on
the part of the Germans; pitying smiles were seen to pass over their
countenances, and when at the command “Right-about-face!” half the
company turned to the left, so that the soldiers of Altenet stood facing
each other, they burst into a roar of laughter, which so aroused the
wrath of Klaos Drehmans (who had spent some years at Sittard), that he
stepped out of the ranks, and snorted defiance at the principal
custom-house clerk as follows:—
“You! do you know what _you_ are? you’re a regular nuisance!” while
another member of the Altenet militia yelled at the top of his voice,
quite at a loss for a worse epithet, “Oh! thou accursed Prussian of a
Prussian!”
It was truly a triumphal march when the Republican army returned from
this glorious campaign; the inhabitants uttered loud cries of joy,
alternating with abuse of the cowardly Prussian lot.
Bloemstein stood, proudly defiant, in the full consciousness of his
presidential dignity, on the “stoop” of his house. And when the
standard-bearer had waved his flag three times over his head in the
President’s honour, and then tossed it on high, the President smiled
very genially, and waved back a salute with his hand, blowing thick
clouds of smoke the while from his long German pipe, a proceeding which
elicited thundering “hurrahs” from assembled Altenet.
The only Altenetters who had not been able to witness this sublime
spectacle were Bloemstein’s wife and daughter; they had walked out to
meet Dr Olthausen coming from Aix-la-Chapelle, and fell in with him near
the village of Vaals.
After the usual salutations, Marieke related to her betrothed all the
changes which had taken place in the government of Altenet, and also her
father’s resolution to marry her to the Minister of the Interior. At
this part of the story the mother clenched her fists, her eyes flashed
fire, and she said, threateningly, “Just let the fellow come into our
house, and I’ll make him repent his Affairs of the Interior.”
To the great surprise of both ladies, Olthausen did not appear to be
angry; on the contrary, he began to laugh loudly, and seemed especially
diverted by the story of the postage-stamps.
“We’ll have a regular good joke out of that,” he said, still laughing;
“but I won’t come to dinner with you to-day.”
“Are you afraid of Bloemstein?” asked the mother. “Because you needn’t
be; I shall be at dinner too.”
“No, I’m not afraid of him—only of laughing more than I ought.”
“Never mind that; laugh at him as he deserves, and we’ll laugh too,
won’t we, Marieke?”
“_Nein, liebes Madamchen_,” returned the doctor, “it will be better if I
don’t come—we’ll have some dinner here.”
[Illustration:
“JUST LET THE FELLOW COME INTO OUR HOUSE.”
]
He went with the two women into the nearest eating-house in the village
and ordered dinner, also two sheets of paper and an envelope. While the
ladies were dining, he wrote a letter on one sheet, slowly and
carefully, with beautiful round letters, then dashed off another more
hastily, and enclosed both in one envelope, which he stamped and
addressed to “Herrn Oscar Olthausen, Rechtsanwalt, Berlin.” He then
directed Marieke to wait till her father was about to send away the
letters with the new Altenet stamps. “Then you must keep back the one
addressed to Bismarck, and post this in place of it; and then I assure
you that everything will come right, without you or your mother getting
into any trouble with the old gentleman.”
They remained chatting for some little time longer, and then Dr
Olthausen took his leave and returned to Aix-la-Chapelle.
Early on the following day Drikus the First set out for Limburg’s
metropolis. Arrived there, he turned his steps towards the barber’s
shop. A young shopman came to meet him, and politely relieved him of his
coat and hat.
“See here, lad,” began Bloemstein, “did you ever shave a president?”
“Why, yes, sir; only yesterday the President of the Congregation of the
Sacred Heart.”
“No, I don’t mean one like that; I mean a great president.”
“Oh, the one of the great club?”
“No—greater still.”
“The President of the Tribunal, then?”
“No; greater still—a president of a republic!”
“Of a republic, you say? No, I never shaved one—never in my life!”
“Do you know what he looks like?”
“Why, yes—like a gentleman.”
“Very good, my boy; I see you understand. Now, that’s the way you’ve got
to shave me—for I’m one.”
“You a president of a republic? Ha! ha! ha!”
“What are you laughing at, boy?”
“Because you’re trying to make a fool of me.”
“Indeed and I’m not. I’m Drikus the First, President of the Independent
Republic of Altenet.”
The lad laughed no longer; he looked round in alarm, convinced that he
had a madman in the room with him.
“Shave my beard off!” commanded Bloemstein.
“Very well, Mr ... President.”
“_À la bonne heure_, my lad! I like that—you know how to behave.”
[Illustration:
“SEE HERE, LAD, DID YOU EVER SHAVE A PRESIDENT?”
]
As speedily as possible the wish of this strange customer was gratified.
“Now just wait a bit, my boy. I must see how the moustache looks by
itself,” and the ruler of the republic placed himself before the mirror.
He remained for some time lost in admiration, then began to turn the
points of his moustache first up and then down.
“What do you think of it, lad? Is it good enough for a president of a
republic?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hold your tongue, then, can’t you?”
“Very good, Mr ... President ... as you please.”
Suddenly honest Bloemstein turned round and fairly snorted at the poor
youth. “Just shave this side off,” he blustered, pointing to the right
half of his countenance.
The youthful Figaro hastened to comply, having heard that a madman must
not be contradicted or he may become violent. His request having been
complied with, the President rose in order to admire himself in the
mirror. He covered first one and then the other half of his face with
one hand, in order to convince himself which style was most becoming to
the presidential dignity.
The attractions of the clean-shaven half at length prevailed, and the
last remaining hair was removed.
“What have you got to get?” asked Bloemstein, when this was done.
“Ten centimes ... Mr President.”
“There are two groschen for you.”
“I have to give you two centimes change.”
“Never mind that—you may keep them. A president of a republic has
nothing mean about him.”
And with a proud and stately demeanour he departed in the direction of
the photographer’s. Scarcely had he left the barber’s, when the boy
hastened to the police-office, to relate how he had just been shaving a
fellow who must certainly have just escaped from the lunatic asylum, for
he had told him quite seriously that he was the president of a republic.
A policeman started immediately with the terrified barber’s boy to
search the streets of Maastricht for the lunatic.
It was, however, in vain. Bloemstein had already entered the studio of a
neighbouring photographer, muttering, “I shall have to explain myself
differently here. It seems as though these Maastricht people had never
heard of the president of a republic.”
When the photographer appeared, he accordingly delivered himself as
follows: “I want my photograph taken, but it must be properly done, for
I am a king.”
“Very good, sir. Shall I give you a gun, then, or do you prefer a bow?”
“A gun!—a bow! What for?”
“Why, I’ve photographed a whole number of kings, and they——”
“Ah! you know how to do it then?”
“Of course I do.”
“What kings have you taken?”
“Why, only yesterday the Gronsveld one, and a few days ago one from
Neer-Itteren.”
“How—what—kings of Gronsveld and Neer-Itteren?”
“Yes, of course—those of the archery competition.”
“You confounded idiot!—did I get shaved for that? Do I look like a king
of the archery competition? Why, I am king of a country—of a republic—an
independent republic! Do you understand now?”
“Oh heavens!” cried the artist to himself, “the fellow is certainly
touched in the upper storey, and I shall have to look out, or he’ll
knock the whole shop to pieces.” He made his visitor a low bow, and
said,—
“Very pleased, sir, to be honoured with your custom. May I ask your
Majesty to take a seat.... How would you like your portrait,
full-length, or bust only?”
“Nothing but the bust; it’s for the stamps of the country, do you
understand?”
“Certainly, certainly, sir, and will you kindly look through this
thing?”
[Illustration:
“NOW YOU CAN GO AHEAD.”
]
“Very good, but remember that I want it to look respectable—do you
hear? ... And just wait a bit—I must see if my hair is all right;” and
he hastened to the looking-glass, moistened his palms, smoothed his head
with them, and took his place, with a last self-satisfied look at his
own image.
“Now you can go ahead.”
The photographer placed himself in front of his apparatus, and declared,
a moment later, that the picture was a splendid success, notwithstanding
the fact that it was impossible to pronounce on that point with any
degree of certainty, since he had not the courage to go into the dark
room and leave his eccentric customer alone.
“When will they be finished?” asked Bloemstein.
“Oh! as soon as your Majesty likes to have them.”
“Can I have them next week? All right then, just send them to Drikus the
First, King of the Independent Republic of Altenet.”
“I’ll do so without fail, your Majesty.”
“If they turn out well, I’ll come back and bring my wife the queen, and
my daughter the princess; and I’ll give you leave to hang out a fine
gilt signboard with your own name on it, and after that ‘Photographer to
the King of the Republic of Altenet.’”
“I’ll do my best, your Majesty.”
The photographer too, immediately after his visitor’s departure,
hastened away to the temple of Justice, with the tidings that a fellow
as mad as a hatter, calling himself king of a republic, had just been at
his studio. Another gendarme was at once sent in pursuit.
Meanwhile the object of their solicitude had entered the church of St
Servaas. It had struck him that, since his august head ought certainly
to be adorned with a crown, he might here find a pattern for the same in
painting or sculpture. He remained standing a long time before a picture
representing the Adoration of the Magi, but none of the three crowns
worn by those royal personages suited his fancy. “They haven’t got
points enough,” he muttered, and searched further, but in vain, till at
last he came to a statue of the Madonna, which realised his ideal. There
was the crown he had always imagined—with points standing straight up
all round it.
He delayed not a moment, but hastened out into the street, and entered
the first coppersmith’s shop he came to.
“Can you make me a crown like Our Lady’s in St Servaas’s?” he asked.
“Oh! yes, sir. What size do you want it?”
[Illustration:
“HIS AUGUST HEAD OUGHT CERTAINLY TO BE ADORNED WITH A CROWN.”
]
“As big as my head; you can take the measure now.”
“What for? You don’t want to wear it, do you?”
“Of course I do—nothing is more certain.”
“Sir, are you mad? or might you happen to be a Freemason?”
“Mad! mad! Mad yourself, fellow!”
“Just wait a bit, and I’ll show you which of us is mad!” and before the
poor president could assume a defensive attitude, the smith had seized
him and thrown him into the street.
This roused Bloemstein’s wrath, and his objurgations speedily collected
a crowd in the street.
“There he is!” a voice cried suddenly, echoed by “Now you’ve got him!”
from another quarter, as the barber’s boy and the photographer appeared
on the scene, escorted by a policeman apiece. In the twinkling of an eye
the two officials had mastered the furious president, and in spite of
his vigorous resistance, and his protestation that, as President of
Altenet, his person was inviolable, the unhappy man was lugged off to
the little dark hole known to the population of Maastricht as “the
larder.”
“What is your name?” was the first question asked him by the police
commissioner.
“You might ask it a little more civilly,” was the reply.
The commissioner immediately complied with this request.
“Will you be so kind as to tell me whom I have the honour of speaking
to?”
“That’s the proper way to speak, and now I shall answer you. I am Wullem
Drikus Bloemstein, President of the Independent Republic of Altenet.”
“And where do you live?”
“Well, I should have thought you had no need to ask. At Altenet, the
capital of the Republic of Altenet.”
“Thank you.”
One of the inspectors was immediately despatched to Altenet to make
inquiries on the spot as to the personality of the prisoner.
[Illustration:
“THERE HE IS!”
]
The officer returned the same day, with the tidings that all Altenet was
one great lunatic asylum; that every human being he had met and spoken
to there was even madder than the one who had been caught; everything he
had seen and heard was sheer nonsense and delirium, and so he had been
obliged to return as he came.
Medical aid was summoned, but all in vain; the gentlemen were unable to
agree, one asserting that the patient was suffering from _aberratio
mentalis_, while another thought things were not so bad as that.
“After all, what business is it of ours?” said one at last. “Send him
back to his home, and let them settle it among themselves.”
This counsel met with unanimous approbation, and was, in fact, the most
practical, and at the same time the easiest, way of disposing of the
prisoner.
Bloemstein was furious; and when the gendarmes who escorted him took
leave of him at the frontier, he was almost beside himself with rage. He
would have liked to take them with him into his dominions, where he was
undisputed lord and master; he would then have summoned the commander of
the local rifles, and ordered him to shut up the Maastricht officials
for a whole day in the cellar below the council-chamber. But, alas! fate
was against him, he could not gratify his desire for vengeance; but
being forced to relieve his feelings in some way, he did so by
indignantly shouting after their retreating figures, “You Dutch
cheese-heads, you!”
With hasty steps he forthwith sought his chief counsellor, the Minister
for Home Affairs, the tailor Holzert. In excited language, and with wild
gestures, he related the story of the outrage suffered by him at
Maastricht, and asked, in conclusion, “What are we to do?”
The tailor put his hand to his head, and remained for some little time
lost in thought.
“What are we to do?” repeated Bloemstein; “we can’t let a thing like
that pass.”
“What are we to do?” replied Holzert, speaking slowly and solemnly.
“Why, we must declare war against Holland.”
“Declare war against Holland?”
“Yes.”
“And what for?”
“For high treason.”
“You’re right, you’re right; we must send for Bauer at once.”
“No, not so fast; we must have the stamps first, with your head on them,
and then the Hollanders can see whom they have to deal with.”
“You’re right again, tailor,” said Drikus I., flattered not a little by
these words.
“Besides that, I haven’t finished the ministers’ suits yet, and we can
do nothing without them; everything has got to be respectable.”
“Of course.”
During the next few days an unheard-of political commotion prevailed in
the usually calm atmosphere of Altenet.
Every evening, when work was over, Bauer’s rifles assembled in the
Minister of Finance’s public-house, in order to exchange ideas as to the
coming war with Holland.
Guesses were given as to where the first battle would be fought, and
calculations were made as to how soon they would be before the gates of
Amsterdam, and how many thousand millions they would make the Dutch pay
as war indemnity.
Bloemstein, meanwhile, wrote innumerable letters to all the powers of
Europe, to give them notice of his accession. All of them were enclosed
in large square envelopes, and laid out in a long row on the table.
“And when once I’ve stuck on the stamps, with my head on them, why,
then, I shall be no end of a fellow, Marieke,” he repeatedly remarked to
his daughter.
The portraits, however, did not arrive.
[Illustration:
“WROTE INNUMERABLE LETTERS TO ALL THE POWERS OF EUROPE.”
]
After the lapse of a fortnight, Bloemstein’s ploughman—for he had no
intention of going to Maastricht again himself—was sent to the
photographer’s, to ask whether the portraits of the President of the
Republic of Altenet were not yet ready.
“Do you really want them?—seriously?” inquired the artist.
“I suppose so, seeing as how I had to come here a-purpose.”
“Very well, I’ll send them next week.”
At the appointed time the impatiently awaited packet at last arrived at
the house of Altenet’s ruler. Something else arrived as well,—the long
royal mantle promised by the tailor, richly ornamented with gold fringe.
Bloemstein was quite excited with joy. Without a moment’s delay he flung
the royal insignia round his shoulders, and then stood before the
mirror, admiring his front and back view by turns. He was
satisfied—perfectly and entirely satisfied—both with the garment and him
who wore it!
“The other fellows must see that too! Thunder! how they’ll stare!”
Immediately Bloemstein’s man was sent to summon the council, and before
long Marbaise, Klessens, Conrads, Bauer, and Holzert entered—all clad in
their uniforms, consisting of long coats trimmed with gold lace,
knee-breeches, long woollen stockings of a doubtful white, and swords
dangling at their sides.
It was quite evident that Holzert had given his whole time and attention
to the job, as was, moreover, irrefutably proved by an unexpected
incident.
When all were gathered round the big table, loudly uttering their
admiration of their ruler’s portrait, long Kwoib Hermes suddenly rushed
into the room, in his red baize drawers, with the tails of a blue shirt
fluttering above them, and shouted aloud—“Thou accursed tailor, where
are my trousers? I must go to early mass to-morrow, and I have no
trousers!”
“You shall have them to-morrow; to-morrow morning early, Kwoib,” replied
the indignant tradesman.
“No, I want them to-night. You’ve promised me them all the week, and I’m
going to have those trousers of mine to-night.”
“Man, don’t make such a scandalous row! Just think where you are—before
the ministers of the republican council!”
“The ministers and the council and the whole republic may be stolen, for
all I care! I want my trousers, and I’m not going away from here before
I get them.” And therewith he took a chair, and seated himself among the
ministers of the crown.
“Will you get out or not?” asked Bauer, threateningly.
“No; I’m not going before I get my trousers.”
Suddenly Bloemstein heard the steps of his wife and daughter, who were
coming to see what the noise was. Fearing that they might come in for
this unseemly spectacle, he thrust the intruder into the next room, with
the words, “There; you’ll find some trousers in there; just put them on
in the meantime.”
Not long after, Hermes appeared in a garment much too short for him,
which, however, by way of compensation, was also a great deal too wide.
The assembly was now able to finish its deliberations in peace and
quiet. The portraits having been unanimously approved of, No. 2 of the
Agenda came up for discussion. This was, “Declaration of war against
Holland on the ground of high treason.” The debate was lively and
confused.
Bauer wanted to summon his men at once, surprise Maastricht the same
night, take the garrison prisoners, and march farther into the country.
Conrads, on the other hand, could see no good in such incautious haste.
“Let’s wait till we get the corn in; then we can bake bread for our men
through the war.”
“No need of that!” shouted Bauer. “We’ll get all the bread we want from
the Dutch.”
Holzert was inclined to agree with Conrads, but for other reasons. “We
must ask for explanations first; that’s always the way,” he declared.
“We ought to give them time to investigate the outrage committed on our
president, and make their apologies. Besides that,” he added, “till we
have stamps of our own we can’t declare war.”
“That’s true, that’s true!” cried several voices, “it would never do to
declare war on Holland with Prussian stamps.”
“Very well, then,” raged Bauer, “but you must get them made directly,
Bloemstein!”
“I’ll promise that,” replied the President.
Herewith the solemn session concluded.
[Illustration]
A few weeks later the longed-for stamps appeared. They looked neat
enough. A striking likeness of Bloemstein was surrounded by a garland of
intertwined spades and pickaxes—symbols of labour—and above, in good
bold letters, ALTENET.
There were blue, red, and green ones—of one, two, and three groschen
respectively.
“Marieke! Marieke!” cried the delighted Bloemstein. “Come here, child;
I’ve something to show you. What do you think of that?”
“Oh, quite beautiful, father!”
“Really, child?”
“And will they be sent to all the kings and emperors—all in the whole
world?”
“All in the whole world.”
“To Bismarck too?”
“He’s going to get one as well; but it won’t please him, I assure you,
Marieke.”
“Now you’ll need to send them off at once; may I help you to put the
stamps on?”
“Surely, Marieke.”
The father and daughter sat down before the table, on which lay the long
row of already written letters.
“Here’s Bismarck’s!” cried the girl suddenly.
“Put double stamps on that,” said Bloemstein.
Instead of obeying this order, Marieke contrived to slip the letter into
her pocket.
“Shall I take them to the post-office now, father?”
“Yes, do, child—only mind you don’t lose any, specially the one to
Bismarck.”
“You needn’t be afraid,” and she skipped out of the room to fetch her
hat, and perhaps also the letter she had received from her _fiancé_.
It was not long before an answer came from Berlin.
Bloemstein summoned his faithful councillors at once, in order to open
the official document in their midst. The ministers hastened to the
council-chamber, as fast as their legs could carry them. They took up
positions behind their President, and stuck their heads together, trying
to see with their own eyes the answer from the German Empire.
With trembling hand Bloemstein opened the missive, and in a voice
quivering with emotion, he began to read, in German:—
“_Verehrter Herr Präsident._
“In reply to your letter, I have received orders from my Emperor to
declare war on your Republic, and send off an army of 150,000 men to
the frontier, because—
“1. You have caused postage-stamps to be made without permission from
the German Government.
“2. It is known to us that you have been taking upon yourself to
oppose your daughter’s marriage to our loyal subject, Dr Heinrich
Olthausen.
“3. You want to force that charming and lovely girl to marry an
objectionable, crooked tailor.
“We give you a week to comply with our conditions.
“BISMARCK.”
There was a moment’s painful silence. There it was, in great fat round
letters—“BISMARCK.” There was no possible doubt about it.
[Illustration:
“DECLARE WAR!”
]
“The confounded low _Schwerenöther_ of a Prussian!” yelled Holzert at
last, crimson with passion, and quivering on his little bow-legs.
“Declare war, Bloemstein! declare war!” he went on. “Let them come, the
low _canaille!_ we’ll blow up the mine as soon as they get on top of it,
and then there’ll be an end of them!” and suddenly turning to the
Minister of War, he added, “Bauer, how many men have you?”
[Illustration:
“HASTENED TO THE COUNCIL-CHAMBER.”
]
“A hundred and twenty-three, counting the band,” was the answer.
“That’s not one to a thousand,” suggested Conrads; “and besides that,
we’ve got the war with Holland on our hands,—it won’t do—it won’t do!
What do you think yourself, Bauer?”
“What I think? I think you’re a coward, Conrads, to talk so—a coward, do
you understand? Conquer or die, that’s our cry!”
“Yes, but we can’t conquer, and dying isn’t much good. Holzert won’t get
his Marieke by it if we do!”
“But in that case the Prussian pig-dog won’t have her either!” shouted
Holzert, banging the table with his fists.
At this, however, Bloemstein’s paternal feelings revolted. His daughter,
his pretty Marieke—dead! No, he would rather see her married to the
Prussian doctor, for the Prussians were not so bad after all! Nay, they
even knew how to appreciate beauty—had not Bismarck himself written that
she was a “charming, lovely girl”?
Klessens also was for peace, and so was Marbaise. “Against 150,000
Prussians,” said the latter, “and a few thousand Hollanders on top of
those, you, Bauer, with your hundred and twenty men——”
“A hundred and twenty-three!” interrupted the commander of the Altenet
forces.
“Well, a hundred and twenty-three, if you like—but you can’t do anything
with them!”
A great deal more talking and shouting took place, and at last the
President determined to end the debate by putting the question to the
vote.
“War!” yelled Holzert. “Peace!” “Peace!” “Peace!” muttered Conrads,
Marbaise, and Klessens, in succession.
“War!” thundered Bauer; and “I’m for peace,” said the President in
conclusion.
Peace was therefore resolved on by a majority of two votes.
Several months have passed. The miners are at work again; the farmer is
ploughing his fields; the lark sings high in air; the Altenet
postage-stamps have been destroyed; and Marieke is the happy wife of Dr
Olthausen.
No answer was ever received from the rest of the kings and emperors,—it
is just possible that Marieke may have forgotten to post the letters
entrusted to her care.
L. H. J. LAMBERTS-HURRELBRINCK.
_NEWSPAPER HUMOUR_.
“LOOK here, waiter!” cried a gentleman in a restaurant, “here’s a hair
in my soup!”
For all answer and excuse, the waiter removed his cap, showing a head as
bare and smooth as a billiard ball.
“Yes, I see,” resumed the customer, “I see it was your last hair; that’s
all right, it will never happen again!”
* * * * *
“So you’ve written a play, M. Vermorcken?”
“Yes, my friend, I have that honour.”
“And it is quite finished?”
“Yes—no—yes; that is to say, not the play itself, yet—but my speech,
that I am to make, when I thank them for calling me out on the stage.”
_FICTION AT SEA._
It is quiet now on deck. The singing forward has ceased, the watch is
set, and the larboard watch, who are to come on at midnight, are
below—including the tall corporal of marines, whom we heard just now
singing bass. But the little monkey of a boy, who took the tenor part in
“O Julia!” belongs to the starboard watch, and now has another
occupation on hand.
Seated on a tub turned upside down, close to the foremast, he is reading
aloud, by the light of a lantern, out of an “awfully fine” book.
The boy (his name is Jozef) can read “real first-rate”; and from each of
the listeners seated round him he is to receive the sum of two cents.
The book which he now has before him, and which is covered with
oil-stains, because he has to hold it so close to the lantern,—the book
which is so “awfully fine,” is entitled “Count Matatskai; or, The Bandit
with the Grey Beard: A Story from the Mountains.”
Count Matatskai is a youthful nobleman who has fallen in love with a
mountain maiden, the beautiful but fierce Krimhelia, daughter of a
chamois-hunter. After various meetings on the rocks by moonlight, with a
faithful old servitor _incognito_ in the background, Krimhelia makes up
her mind to accept the Count’s love, and fly with him to a distant
country, where counts and the daughters of chamois-hunters stand
precisely on the same social footing. But now a difficulty occurs, and
it is this: Krimhelia has sworn an oath to avenge the death of her
father, who has been killed in a fight with the band commanded by the
Grey-Bearded Brigand.
This is the point Jozef has reached in the story. Several of his
audience have already dropped asleep; but the reader does not notice
it—he is too much absorbed in his narrative,—and continues, in his
“first-rate” manner, which—heard at a distance—reminds one of nothing so
much as of the soft but continuous murmur of a babbling brook—commas and
other stops being, in this method, so entirely left in the background,
or else occurring in such remarkable places, that a reporter would have
been forced to reproduce his text somewhat as follows:—
“Krimhelia looked the Count straight in the face.
“Look at me Count said she do you see this glittering dagger as sure as
the moon, hangs yonder in heaven and illuminates my pale features so
surely will I thrust this, dagger into the heart of the Bandit, with the
Grey Beard first and before I throw myself as your consort into your
arms but why so pale Count and why do you tremble so?”
Now Jozef is interrupted by the master-tailor, a thin, little man, of
whom it is commonly said on board that he knows a thing or two more than
most people.
“Now, I know,” says he, in his piping voice.
“What d’ye know?” asks the boatswain, who has little or no opinion of
the master-tailor.
“As how the gentleman—the Count, I mean—and the other,—the Bandit with
the Grey Beard,—that both of them are one and the same man.”
“Well, you calico-spoiler—you know that, do you? Well—I know that too,
and all of us know it right enough; but you needn’t take another man’s
share in the reading for all that. Go ahead, boy!”
The master-tailor is looked at with contempt from various quarters, and
Jozef pursues his reading with a chapter describing how Count Matatskai
comes home in a bad temper.
“The Count threw himself down on a couch adorned with costly velvet,
relieve me of my riding-boots—thus he spoke to the grey-headed old
servant Gabario who, brought him a silver goblet with sparkling wine
saying, that this was his favourite wine from the great vineyard south
of the castle but, the Count made a gesture of refusal with his left
hand and said me liketh no wine Gabario avaunt and saddle—my horse!”
This was the end of the chapter, and Jozef took breath.
“It’s a capital thing,” said the boatswain, “when a man can have the
things for the ordering in that way. What comes next, Jozef?”
The boatswain is beginning to feel sleepy, and would therefore like
Jozef to tell him the end at once; but this Jozef is by no means
inclined to do,—he goes ahead valiantly, and by degrees, though he does
not observe it, his whole audience drops asleep. At last, when he has
reached the closing scene, there is no one to listen to it but the
master-tailor, who can scarcely keep his small grey eyes open.
“Just hear this, now!” says Jozef, who—though he has read the book
through twice before—is as enthusiastic over this passage as the first
time. “Now you must listen! Now the Count is sitting up alone in the
rocks, in a ... cavern, they call it, ... and now he is the Bandit with
the Grey Beard; and the other robbers are sitting in the back of the
cavern round a great big fire, and some of them are lying asleep, and
the others are roasting great pieces of meat at the fire, and they’re
drinking wine with it ... out of gold cups that they’ve stolen.... But
the Bandit with the Grey Beard— ... _he’s_ sitting all by himself, you
see,—and now Krimhelia comes in—you know—the young lady he thinks so
much of.”
And Jozef resumes his reading—how Krimhelia approaches, cautiously, with
the glittering dagger; how the Grey-Bearded Bandit, looking up, suddenly
sees her standing behind him; how Krimhelia seizes him by the beard and
drives the dagger into his heart; and how, at the same moment, the long
grey beard comes off in her hand, and she looks with horror on the
“pallid dying countenance” of Count Matatskai.
Now follows a dialogue between the dying bandit chief and the “almost
fainting” Krimhelia, who is “filled with consternation”; in the course
of which the tailor finally closes his eyes unobserved.
Now comes the closing scene; the other robbers come out from behind the
fire, Krimhelia takes to flight, and climbs to the top of a steep dark
rock on the edge of a “yawning abyss.”
As Jozef reads, he bends over his book, leans his head on his hands, and
sees the whole thing taking place before his eyes. He sees Krimhelia
standing on the top of the rock. The day is breaking in the east. The
robbers are pursuing her, and begin to climb the rock....
Jozef reads on,—at a passionately accelerated pace, and with the most
singular stops imaginable:—
“There she stood proudly—like a queen with her long, loose hair and her
shining white face standing out sharply against the red sunrise-tinted
sky with horror—she saw in the unfathomable depth at her feet the
bandits approaching. Already the foremost was stretching out his hand to
seize her and she saw, the morning-light falling on his horrible
features when suddenly, her ear was struck by a sound of men’s voices
singing beneath her in the valley she listens, it is the morning song of
her brothers, she lifts her hands skywards and looks up to the paling
moon and the stars ‘Ic-come’! she cries” (all in one word) “... and with
a HOARSE shriek she flings herself down into the abyss at the same
moment the Bandit Chief drew his last breath and the Count Matatskai was
no more THE END.”
“That’s all!” said Jozef. “That’s fine, ain’t it? ... Oh! lor! ...
they’re all asleep.”
Jozef cannot at once get over a slight feeling of indignation against an
audience, capable of dropping-off “in the middle of a bit like
that,”—but as it is not an isolated experience on his part, he soon
makes up his mind to pay no further attention to it. He takes the
lantern away, goes forward, and lies down on the deck with the
oil-stained book under his head—looking up at the moon right above him,
and beginning to see, in the air, all sorts of figures, which gradually
acquire a likeness to Count Matatskai and the “young lady he thinks so
much of.”
_A. Werumeus Buning_.
_NEWSPAPER HUMOUR._
FROM SAD EXPERIENCE.
_She_—“Do tell me, how do you know the age of a horse you want to buy?”
_He_—“Nothing easier; you just double the age the dealer gives him.”
* * * * *
_Professor_ (_at a clinical lecture_)—“This patient has been suffering
from a disease of the hip-joint, so that he still walks lame to an
appreciable extent. What would you, sir” (to one of the students), “do
in such a case?”
_Student_—“I think, in that case, I should walk lame too, sir.”
* * * * *
NATURAL HISTORY.
_Master_—“The development and improvement of race has not only shown
itself among mankind, but may clearly be observed among the lower
animals. Who can give me an example of this?”
[Illustration:
FROM SAD EXPERIENCE.
]
_Janneke Snobs_—“I, sir.”
_M._—“In what sort of animals?”
_J. S._—“Among asses, sir.”
_M._—“How so?”
_J. S_.—“Why, in Balaam’s time, asses were only just beginning to speak,
and yesterday I heard M. Snugger say that there are plenty of asses
sitting in the Chamber of Deputies.”
* * * * *
HISTORY.
_Master_—“In what battle was Gustav Adolf killed?”
_Janneke Snobs_—“In his last battle, I believe, sir.”
* * * * *
PRECAUTIONS.
Many centuries ago, the gallows stood on the banks of the Scheldt; and
once, when two thieves were to be hanged, the rope broke, as the first
was being turned off, and let him into the water. He swam across the
river, and escaped.
“Look out!” said the second to the executioner, “see that the rope does
not break with me—for _I can’t swim!_”
* * * * *
A gentleman was buying a newspaper at a kiosk, and wanted change for a
frank. “I have no change,” said the saleswoman; “you can pay me
to-morrow.”
“But supposing I am dead by to-morrow?”
“Oh, that can’t be any great loss,” she replied, innocently.
* * * * *
A servant girl, writing home to her parents, said, “I am sorry I have no
money to buy a stamp for this letter; I will put two on the next.”
_Uilenspiegel._
[Illustration:
“A GENTLEMAN WAS BUYING A PAPER AT A KIOSK.”
]
* * * * *
IN COURT.
_Judge_—“Is this your signature?”
_Witness_—“I don’t know.”
_Judge_—“Look at it carefully.”
_Witness_—“I can’t say for certain.”
_Judge_ (impatiently)—“Come, make haste, just write your name.”
_Witness_—“I’m no scholar, sir; I can’t write.”
* * * * *
ECONOMY.
_Father_—“I should never have thought that studying would have cost so
much money.”
_Student-Son_—“Yes; and if you only knew how little I have studied!”
* * * * *
Van Honsbœren, junior, one evening sat gazing at his father, when the
latter had fallen asleep sitting by the stove.
“Father,” cried the little fellow, suddenly, “you look just like a
lion!”
“A lion!” exclaimed Van Honsbœren, waking up, “why, you’ve never seen
any lions.”
“Oh yes, father! on the beach at Blankenberghe.”
“You stupid boy, those were not lions, they were donkeys.”
“Well, those are what I mean!”
* * * * *
_Snugger—“M. le Juge_, I have been fined for letting my dog go about
without a muzzle, and he certainly had one on.”
_Judge_—“The _agent de police_ says your dog had no muzzle on.”
_Snugger_—“Indeed, he had one on, sir.”
_Gendarme_—“Yes, but he was not wearing it on his head.”
_Snugger_—“The regulations do not specify _where_ a dog is to wear his
muzzle—and so, to let the beast get his breath, I tied the muzzle to his
tail.”
_Judge_—“Five francs fine. Next case!”
* * * * *
Snobs has bought a steam-engine, and was showing it to his friend
Snugger yesterday.
“How many horse-power is that machine?” asked Snugger.
“Horse-power!” exclaimed Snobs, “don’t you see it goes by steam?”
* * * * *
Nothing is more uncomfortable for a woman who has to keep a secret than
to find no one who is curious about it.
* * * * *
The human being who can pass a hoarding marked “Wet Paint,” without
putting his finger on it to feel if the paint really is wet, possesses
strength of will and self-control enough to rule a kingdom.
* * * * *
A lady having run against the freshly painted rail of a bridge, and
carried off a considerable quantity of the paint on her dress, the
bridge-keeper said to her consolingly,—
“Never mind, ma’am, they’re going to paint it again to-morrow, any way!”
_FARMER GERRIT’S VISIT TO AMSTERDAM._
Gerrit Meeuwsen and his son Gijs, living in the depths of the country,
in the Betuwe district (the old Batavian Island, between the Rhine and
the Waal), have made up their minds—after long deliberation—for an
expedition by rail to the Amsterdam kermis. As they have never left
home before, preparations are made which suggest an Arctic voyage, and
they take a solemn farewell of their friends and relations. The
railway station is safely reached, after a drive of many miles; and
Gerrit severs the last link, so to speak, by sending back Jan—the
farm-man—with the trap.
“G’morning,” said father and son, at once.
“Good-morning, friends,” replied the station clerk, who was seated at a
table doing sums.
Meeuwsen took off his great woollen gloves, hauled out his double-cased
watch, and said, “Might it be about time for the railway to come?”
“Don’t know,” answered Gijs, who thought that his father was asking the
question of him.
The clerk, a good-natured fellow, understanding that the question was
addressed to him, replied, “Oh! I suppose you mean the _train_. Yes,
that will be coming by very soon,—perhaps in thirteen, or fourteen, or
fifteen minutes. Where do you want to go?”
“To Amsterdam,” replied Meeuwsen.
“Amsterdam—third-class?” asked the clerk.
“Third-class, what’s that?” returned Gerrit.
“Three classes, you know, my good friend,” the clerk explained; “first,
second, and third. The first is the dearest, the second middling, and
the third the cheapest.”
“Then the third won’t do for us, nor the second neither,” said Gerrit.
“I always sit in the first seat at church in our village, for I be
churchwarden.”[16]
“First-class?” asked the clerk, in surprise, “but—do you know——”
“Never you mind; I want first-class, do you hear?” said Gerrit.
“Well, it’s all the same to me,” said the clerk, rising. He went to the
place where he kept the tickets, stamped two, and received the rich
Betuwers money.
“Gracious! there’s the train!” cried the clerk, whose calculation of
fifteen minutes had been rather too liberal. “Will you come out,
please?”
Gerrit and Gijs, the latter carrying the carpet-bag, rushed out on to
the platform, followed by the clerk. The approaching train seemed to the
travellers to grow longer the more they looked at it, and, when it
stopped, both father and son involuntarily took a step backwards.
Neither Gerrit nor Gijs knew exactly what happened to them next; but
when they got back all their senses,—for the wind was blowing freshly in
their faces,—they saw themselves in a carriage containing, besides
themselves, two other passengers, and which allowed free passage to the
wind on all sides.
“Bad weather for the money,” grumbled Gerrit.
“Why! come and sit over here,” cried one of their fellow-travellers,
apparently a Jew, who was sitting on the opposite side of the carriage,
with his back to the engine. “Sit here, on the first seat; you will be
frozen to death over there.”
Gerrit looked at his son, and then both stumbled along the shaking
carriage to the other end, and occupied the end seats.
“That’s a difference!” said Gijs, whose skin felt like that of a plucked
chicken.
“Well, this does shake!” said Meeuwsen. “No!—that third-class is enough
to kill one!”
Nathan, who was reading a book, which, as Gerrit could see, seemed to
begin at the end and go backwards, did not speak again. The second
travelling-companion had turned up the collar of his thick overcoat and
was snoring; and our two gentlemen from Betuwe, having nothing to say to
each other, were silent, and thought—what, no one ever will know.
After a few minutes’ run, a conductor appeared—whence, neither Gerrit
nor Gijs could understand—and asked them, “Where for, gentlemen?”
“_Gentlemen!_” exclaimed Gerrit, with fine scorn, “_that_ won’t go down
with us!”
“Farmers, then!” said the conductor, “where for?”
Meeuwsen thought the fellow had no manners, and said, “I and my son for
Amsterdam.”
“Show your tickets, please,” said the conductor.
Meeuwsen began to search for them.... “I’d put them away so carefully,”
he remarked, while turning out all his pockets.
“Well, never mind,” resumed the conductor (he was very cold, and wanted
to get back to his warm corner in the closed compartment), “you can show
me them presently.”
“Very good,” replied Gerrit, who began to think the man was not so bad
after all.
The conductor disappeared again, in the same mysterious fashion, and
Gerrit suddenly remembered that he had put away the tickets inside his
watch-case.
At every station, when the whistle of the engine was heard, Gijs was
seized with consternation, thinking that a child or some other living
creature had been run over. Every time the train stopped, the sons of
Batavia prepared to alight, and each time they were politely stopped by
Nathan, who told them they might just make their minds easy, for they
had not got there yet. Gijs thereupon came to the conclusion that the
journey would not be over so soon as the schoolmaster had led them to
suppose.
At length, after they had left the last of the intermediate stations
behind, the mysterious conductor appeared once more, and asked for the
tickets; and Gerrit, who had kept them carefully in his hand, under his
woollen glove, produced them, and gave them up.
“First-class!” said the conductor. “Why, man, you’ve certainly had the
best for your money!”
“Hi?” said Meeuwsen, who could not understand what the fellow meant.
“Stupid bumpkins!” muttered the conductor in an undertone, happily
inaudible to the Meeuwsens, and left the carriage with a loud
“Amsterdam, gentlemen!” The train now stopped for good. Every one got
out, and there was such a row that Gerrit and his son could not
understand what was going on, and stood staring about them quite dazed.
People, carriages, cabs, omnibuses, trunks, drivers with brandished
whips, crying, “This way, sir!—Hotel this!—Hotel that!—just off!” There
was such a swarming and confusion that our travellers only regained
their full consciousness when they found themselves sitting in an
omnibus, packed, knee to knee, like herrings in a barrel,—and, probably,
dreaming—at least, so they thought.
“Where to, sir?” asked the conductor of the omnibus, in a green coat
trimmed with silver lace, of the person sitting next the door.
“The Dam,” was the answer. “Botermarkt,” said another passenger. “Rokin,
No. 11,” said another; and another followed with “The Mint.”
“Sir?” said the inquisitive man, addressing Gijs.
“I?” asked Gijs, staring wildly; “to the Fair, isn’t it, father?”
All the passengers laughed, except three or four who were in a hurry to
get to the Exchange.
“Be’st mad, I think, boy,” said Gerrit, grinning. “No, mate,” he went
on, addressing the conductor, “to a lodging.”
“Which hotel?” was then the question. “First, second, third, fourth,
fifth class? Rondeel, Doelen, Munt—or do you want to go to the Nes?”[17]
Whether Gerrit was thinking of the third-class carriage in which he had
been sitting with Gijs, and contrasting it with the imaginary
first-class where he found a place by the side of Nathan, we do not
know; but it is certain that he shivered at the idea of a fifth-class,
and had his answer ready at once—
“First-class, man! First-class!”
“_Vieux Doelen!_” cried the conductor, with a smile and a furtive wink
at the passenger next the door.
The omnibus stopped, and Gerrit and Gijs were beckoned to come out. How
they ever got through the double row of knees is quite incomprehensible;
and twice did the heels of Gijs’ heavy boots come unpleasantly in
contact with corns, whose proprietors, therefore, unkindly addressed him
as “Clumsy lout!” and “Dumb ass!”
“How much is it?” asked Gerrit.
The conductor gave a look round, and then said, under his breath—
“Only ten stivers[18] each, sir. I can’t ask you for more.”
Meeuwsen gave him a florin, whereupon he asked whether the gentleman
couldn’t spare him a trifle for himself!
This question was answered by the good-natured farmer thrusting a
_kwartje_[19] into his hand; and the unscrupulous rascal drove away,
laughing in his sleeve.
Gerrit, and Gijs with the carpet-bag on his back, stared for a long time
at the fine house, with the gilt letters on the front; and at length
ventured to go up the steps, though they could not make up their minds
to venture in.
“What do you want?” politely asked a handsome young gentleman, in a
snow-white waistcoat and a beautiful black jacket, who came out of the
broad hall and walked up to them.
“Lodgings,” answered Gerrit.
“For yourself?” asked the young gentleman, who, seen at close quarters,
seemed older than his jacket would have led one to suppose.
“I and my son Gijs,” said Gerrit.
“You?” again asked the young gentleman.
“Is that so hard to understand?” asked the farmer. “Are there no
lodgings here? Can we get them, or can’t we?”
The young gentleman walked away, and stopped to speak to another young
gentleman like unto himself, who met him in the corridor. Soon after two
more arrived, one of them with a napkin over his arm, and all the four
began to laugh immoderately; so that Gerrit began to be tired of
waiting, and, approaching the group, said, with some violence, “Now,
what is it to be? Are we to get rooms, or are we not?” The young
gentlemen continued to giggle, but suddenly stopped, and scattered with
surprising rapidity, for a dignified elderly person entered the
vestibule, and asked what was the matter here. Whereupon Gerrit
expounded to him that he had asked, in a straightforward and downright
way, for lodgings; that he did not know what the young gentlemen were up
to; that he had come with his son to attend the fair; that he had no
mind to be what-you-may-call-ummed and made a fool of by those young
gentlemen; and that he asked, once more, Could he, or could he not?
The respectable gentleman took a good look at Gerrit and Gijs—the latter
was still outside the door with the carpet-bag—for some moments; but the
open honest face, and generally prosperous appearance of the farmer,
reassured him as to the probability of their being good customers. He
then laid his forefinger against his nose, and called out to one of the
young gentlemen,—
“No. 71 and 72, Karel. _Allons!_”
Karel came. Gerrit beckoned Gijs to come in. Gijs also came.
“Take the gentleman’s luggage,” said the proprietor of the hotel to
Karel, pointing to the carpet-bag, which Gijs still carried over his
shoulder.
“Oh, no! thank you,” said Gijs, as the young gentleman Karel went about
to relieve him of his load. Karel, however, did not leave go. The
proprietor was present; and, in spite of Gijs’ asseverations that he was
far too kind, he seized the bag and flew up the broad staircase like a
jumping rabbit.
“If you will follow, gentlemen,” said the proprietor, “the _garçon_ will
show you your rooms.” Gerrit, putting up, for the sake of peace, with
the title of gentleman, followed the flying _garçon_, and Gijs followed
his father.
“Where are we going to?” cried the stout farmer, to whom climbing of
stairs was an unaccustomed exercise.
“To No. 71 and 72,” said the _garçon_.
“I don’t care what number it is—number thousand, if you like—but I
didn’t come here to climb up a tower!”
“We shall be there directly,” said Karel, still flying on ahead.
“Go on, then!” said Gerrit, taking courage; and on they went again, up
stairs and more stairs—there was no end to it.
“Are we not there yet?” sighed Meeuwsen, when Gijs had counted the
forty-fifth flight of steps, and they had come to an arched doorway.
“This way round!” cried Karel, and flew on, still higher.
“No! that’s too much; I give it up!” cried Gerrit, holding fast to the
banisters. “It’s enough to drive a man crazy! I’ll go no farther.”
“Only a few more,” said Karel persuasively. At last, when Gijs had
counted sixty-three, the two, panting and gasping, reached their
goal—Nos. 71 and 72.
“_Ici_,” said Karel, throwing open both doors almost at the same moment.
“_Ici_ or no _ici_” muttered the farmer, “what I say is that no decent
man can be expected to do it!”
“This is your room,” said Karel, pointing to No. 72, as he saw that Gijs
was about to follow his father into No. 71.
“I?” ejaculated Gijs.
“_S’il vous plaît_” said the waiter, and flinging the carpet-bag into
No. 71, he left the rooms, stood still in the passage between the two
apartments, and looking at father and son by turns, went on, “Any more
orders? Will the gentlemen dine at the _table d’hôte_, at half-past
four?”
Gijs understood not a single word of this; and Gerrit, who likewise did
not grasp the subtleties of the situation, answered shortly, “No,” being
mortally afraid of having to do any more climbing.
Karel having had enough of this exalted society, uttered no further
questions or remarks, slammed both doors, reached the ground floor by
sliding down the banisters, and left the father and son, each in his own
room, to their respective meditations.
The well-furnished rooms were only divided from one another by a thin
wooden partition, and their windows afforded a delightful view, to wit,
a red-tiled roof, from which arose a tall black chimney.
Gijs looked round, like a cat in a strange warehouse, and did not think
Amsterdam so very beautiful after all.
“Boy! where are you?” shouted Gerrit. “What are we to do now? Just come
here!”
“Can I do that, father?” roared Gijs, in a voice that could easily have
been heard in the street.
“Of course!” cried Gerrit.
Gijs went on tiptoe to his door, and, speeding as though death were at
his heels, out of No. 72 and into No. 71.
“Look here, boy!” said Gerrit, when his son was safely inside, “here we
sit, and I’m so hungry that I can’t see straight.”
“So am I,” asseverated Gijs.
“Then you ought to call,” said his father, “and we might order
something.”
Gijs muttered something about “so strange,” and “if father were to do it
himself,”—but, like a dutiful son, he went to the stairs, and
shouted—very much as he was accustomed at home to call the calves to
their food—“_Huup! huup! huup!_”
No one came. At last a door opened, and an old gentleman in hat and
greatcoat came out, and passed Gijs.
“Oh!” said Gijs, his shyness giving way before his own hunger and his
father’s orders, “would you be so kind as to order something to eat for
us!”
“Pull the bell, you young donkey!” was the polite reply. The donkey
departed without a word, and, after some searching, Father Meeuwsen
found a rope hanging in No. 71, at which he pulled,—and lo! they heard a
bell ring. A minute later Karel was again standing before them.
“You must bring us something to eat,” said the farmer, who now began to
understand that the young man was a waiter.
“_Déjeuner à la fourchette?_” asked Karel.
“Don’t know those things,” replied Gerrit. “I’ve never eaten
_desernages_, nor _forzettes_ either. Just bring us something, my lad,—I
don’t much care what, so long as we can get something inside us.”
Flop went the door again; and five minutes later there arrived at No. 71
some strange substances of whose nature Gerrit and Gijs had not the
remotest idea. They began, however, to try and to taste, and though they
could scarcely get the things down their throats, they were messed up so
queerly with sweet stuff and spice, they managed to satisfy their
appetites somehow.
“I’ve had enough,” said Gerrit at last.
“So have I,” sighed Gijs, and they rose from table,—to go to the kermis.
We will not relate in detail how Gerrit and Gijs climbed downstairs
again, went out at the front door, and announced that they would come
back again in the evening; how they were besieged by beggars,
shoeblacks, and Jews selling lottery tickets,—nearly all of whom the
good-natured farmer succeeded in satisfying; how they were directed from
one part of the town to another, and back again, in order to reach the
fair; how and when they got there they found booths, just like those in
their own village, but much bigger and finer ones. We will not record
how much Gerrit paid for the monster cake which he wished to take home
to Griet, and which bore the inscription, in sugar letters, “A Fairing
for You;” how Gijs was cheated in the purchase of a cup and saucer for
Mijntje; how they, furthermore, bought ginger-bread, almonds, and who
knows what besides, so that their pockets stood out like hard lumps, and
they were nearly fainting under the weight of them. They visited the
circus, but were not edified; and when, finally, the great trick rider
“_Meseu_ Blanus,” after two sudden changes of costume, appeared in
flesh-coloured tights, and walked about blowing a trumpet, Gerrit could
stand it no longer, and seizing his son by the arm, he shouted, “That
beats all! so it does! come, boy, come! come!” and hurried him out. When
they had struggled out into the crowd again, Gerrit said that they had
had their fill of that sort of thing, and more; and Gijs remarked that
it was low. They did not attempt to see any of the other shows, and
Gerrit unmercifully dragged Gijs past “The Mirror of Mystery,” where, as
the man at the door said, “The girl can see her lover, and the young man
his girl,—all for a _dubbeltje_! Great American Magic Mirror of
Mystery!” Gijs would have liked a peep at his Mijntje, but Gerrit was
firm.
Having partaken, by way of refreshment, of hot wafers and punch,—a
repast which Gijs liked well enough, but his father considered “sweet,
but nothing to stay your stomach on,”—they at last, after many
wanderings, found their way back to the hotel. The nimble rabbit, Mr
Karel, was again to the fore. In the twinkling of an eye he had lit a
candle, and flew up the stairs, requesting the wearied rustics,
unaccustomed to the hard walking of the streets, to follow him, _s’il
vous plaît_.
Gerrit and Gijs followed—yes! and in time they reached the top, but felt
just as if a thousand smiths were hammering away in their bones.
“Do the gentlemen wish _souper_?” asked Karel, who by this time had lit
candles in each of the two rooms.
“Eat soup now!” said Gerrit, “get away with you! I’m fair filled up with
those wafer-cakes!”
“Put boots outside door—when d’you-want-to-be-called?” asked Karel.
“I’m going away to-morrow morning by the first train,” said Gerrit.
“Then you’ll want a _vigilante_?”
“Go to the ... woodpile!” cried Gerrit, “with all your foreign talk.”
“Good-night, gentlemen!” said Karel.
The doors were shut, and the gentlemen were left alone. Now began a
conversation between the two—carried on in genuine rustic growls, and
yet as softly as if they were afraid of waking “Mother my wife.” A few
minutes later Gijs retired, with a new blue wadded night-cap, and a
“good-night, dad,” to No. 72.
Gerrit had at once blown out the wax candles in No. 71. “That’s just
sinful waste,” he said; and Gijs, on entering No. 72, followed his
father’s example.
They were not long in undressing by moonlight. Gijs put on the
night-cap, and stepped into the soft bed. What a thing that was!—soft as
pap!... Never knew such a thing before.... He lay listening.... Every
moment he heard something ... some one walking about ... groping among
the furniture ... at last speaking. At last, he could stand it no
longer—he sat up and stared uneasily about. He thought he could
plainly ... hear ... something ... at ... the ... door. Seemed as if ...
you ... could ... see ... the ... handle ... turning.... The
perspiration broke out all over him ... still he saw it ... plainly ...
and, when the door was really opened, he uttered a yell, but slowly
recovered himself on seeing that it was his father.
“Can’t rest on _that_ thing,” said Gerrit, as he came in, meaning the
bed, which he found much too soft. “No, Gijs, I’ll just come and lie
here on the boards.”
“I’ll do that too,” said Gijs, stepping out of bed, and then he lay down
on the floor beside his father—each with a pea-jacket rolled up for a
pillow—“good-night! pleasant dreams.”
Whether the dreams were, in point of fact, pleasant may be doubted, for
they formed a first-class raree-show, composed of bare legs and
wafer-cakes, guns and horses, omnibuses, and the climbing of towers, in
wild confusion. Certain it is, however, that the Meeuwsens, father and
son, when they awoke, stared at one another as if they had been
bewitched, and had to think a long time before they could remember where
on earth they were.
* * * * *
Well, how did they get home again from the fair?—Gerrit to his Griet,
and Gijs to his Mijn.
Very well indeed. Physically they were in sad case, but spiritually all
right—which does not always happen on like occasions. The bill which
Karel handed to Gerrit before his departure was alike illegible to him
and to Gijs. Perhaps no one but the hotel-proprietor and the head-waiter
could ever have deciphered it—only the total was clear: 16f.
80—accurately reckoned. Gerrit thought, but said nothing; paid; started,
when he was told that a tip was expected of him, over and above the
bill, but paid it; and left the Verdoel by the first omnibus, and
Amsterdam by the first train.
“That’s over!” said Gerrit, sitting safe and sound once more beside his
Griet in the kitchen. “Once is well enough—but never again! And I had
everything first-class!”
This was true enough: for on the return journey he had managed to get
into the right compartment of the train—though, to say the truth, he
found it much less comfortable than the other.
And Gijs? Gijs was as blythe as a foal in the meadow, when he found
himself at home again. When he told Mijn about the circus, and the young
ladies in gilt caps who had sold him wafers, and tried to flirt with
him, she turned as red as fire, and said it was scandalous; but the cup
and saucer, which, contrary to all expectation, had reached home
uninjured, were duly admired by her. And when Gerrit, one fine evening,
had some of the neighbours in to help in the pig-killing, and
entertained them in the kitchen when work was over, the monster cake was
tasted, and Gerrit profited by the opportunity to relate all his
adventures. Then said Brother-in-Law Kresel, that such a thing hadn’t
happened within the memory of man!—and Baas Janssen, that morality was
getting into a frightful state!—and the old Teunis farmer concluded,
“What does a man want on the ice in his clogs?”
J. J. CREMER.
_NO SWORD!_
Old Colonel H—— was standing, during one of the summer months, before
the open window, puffing the smoke of his Havannah into the air, with
the feeling of satisfaction produced by a fine day, while his eyes
followed the movements of a young officer, whose elastic figure had
already, at some distance, attracted his superior’s attention.
Suddenly his face darkened. No one so soon feels his toes trodden on as
an old military man.
What was that? Were his eyes dazzled by the sunlight? Or could anything
of the sort possibly happen under the eye of the strict commanding
officer of the regiment? Had discipline really died out among the
younger generation of the army?
No, it was no optical deception. He could see it now, plainly—the
lieutenant, passing there, on the other side of the street, with a
letter in his hand, had _no_ sword on! And it was not nearly four P.M.!
“Lieutenant!” cried the fire-eater, in a momentary ebullition of
indignation, from the open window; “if I may ask you—one moment!”
The man addressed immediately turned with a military salute, and
hastened to the Colonel’s rooms, without the slightest presentiment of
the storm about to burst over his head.
He rang the bell, and the Colonel’s servant opened the door.
Passing through the hall, he gave a hasty glance at his uniform to see
whether it was all right—and then he discovered his misfortune.
Horrible! He had, in his haste to post a letter, forgotten to buckle on
his sword!
For one moment he hesitated; he was really frightened, and saw, looming
up in space, all the evil consequences of his mistake, in the form of
all possible reports, with “arrest” at the end of them.
The Colonel would send a note to the commander of division, who would
endorse and put it into the hands of the captain—and then the fat would
be in the fire with a vengeance! All this passed like a flash of
lightning through the unhappy man’s head, and he looked helplessly
round, as though hoping that some good genius would inspire him with a
way of escape in this sore need. What was he to do? He could not keep
the cantankerous Colonel waiting,—there was nothing for it except to
march valiantly forward into the lion’s den. But luck never forsakes a
lieutenant!
What is that glittering over there in the umbrella-stand?
The Colonel’s sword!... He pulls out his purse,—thrusts, with an
eloquent gesture, a guilder into the hand of the Colonel’s man, and
buckles on the sword—all in less time than it takes to tell it.
A moment later he stands—in correct military attitude, his left hand
held so as to hide the dragon on his sword-hilt from the eagle eye of
his chief—before the old gentleman, who, meanwhile, has been stalking up
and down the room, fretting and fuming.
“Sir! I must call your attention to——”
A long pause.
The Colonel’s glance travels from the sword to the young officer’s
blushing face, and back again to the glittering weapon.
Then he shakes his head in utter amazement, but recovers himself
speedily, and continues in a low tone:
“What battalion do you belong to?”
“The second, Colonel.”
“Just so. I only wanted to ask you if—if—Major Ij ... has returned from
his leave?”
“He is not coming back till to-morrow, sir, if I have understood
rightly.”
[Illustration:
“IN CORRECT MILITARY ATTITUDE.”
]
“Ah!—thank you—it had escaped me—thanks.”
The lieutenant saluted respectfully, left the room with the greatest air
of self-confidence, hastened down the stairs, unbuckled the Colonel’s
sword—put it away noiselessly among the sticks and umbrellas, after
which he hurried away, keeping as close as he could to the wall till he
was out of sight.
As for the Colonel, he simply could not believe his eyes! Then something
occurred to him. He called his man.
“Did you let the lieutenant in?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was he wearing a sword when he came in?”
“Yes, sir,” answered he, with imperturbable calm.
The Colonel smote his forehead with his open hand.
The lieutenant’s guilder was well invested.
“_Humoristisch Album._”
A STUDENT’S LODGINGS SIXTY YEARS SINCE.
The burghers of the university town—at least those whose houses, at the
beginning of the summer vacation, are adorned with cards bearing the
inscription “_Cubicula locanda_”—can, during nine months of the year, be
looked on only to a limited extent as masters in their own dwellings. It
is the student, or the officer, as the case may be, who is established
in the best room, who attracts all the attention of passers by, and the
neighbours over the way,—who sits at the window, is seen to go in and
out at the front door, carries the key, rules, gives orders, receives
his friends and acquaintances, and, in a word, conducts himself as the
principal person, while the owner or lessee of the house is banished to
a back room or some little subterraneous den in the basement. It is to
the best room, then, that we must make our way, though the approach to
it is not an attractive one. Our way lies, first, through a narrow
passage, where we run the risk of stumbling over a doorstep, evidently
placed there with the sole object of teaching children and visitors to
be careful of their steps. Then we have to seek a dark and narrow
stairway, and, having found it, to ascend it. It receives, by day, only
a dim and doubtful light from the basement; by night, it is perfectly
dark, and its worn and slippery steps follow one another at such
strangely unequal intervals, that one is tempted to think the architect
must have been interested in the problem how to pile on one another, in
a given space, a given number of irregular parallelograms in the most
heterogeneous manner possible. When we have succeeded, after having
knocked our heads not more than three or four times against all sorts of
fantastically projecting rafters and angles, in reaching what is
ironically called the _bel étage_, we find ourselves in front of a door
which opens very easily and noiselessly, but can never be closed without
five or six violent thrusts or tugs, according as you are inside or out.
We once more hit our toes against an unexpected doorstep, and at last
enter the first of the two rooms inhabited by _Gerlof Bol, S.S. Theol.
cand_.
It is evening; the two sash windows, divided by a narrow space of wall,
are hidden behind unpainted shutters, on which, here and there, a
square, worm-eaten, or dirt-stained spot shows where a hasp or bolt has
been, but is no more. These shutters curve outwards, and threaten every
moment to escape from the control of the bars (bent crooked as though
with their weight), and fling themselves in the face of the incautious
person who should venture too near. The walls are covered with a dirty
yellow paper, on which green and blue flowers alternate in diagonal
lines. Now and then, where the paper has been torn, another piece of the
same pattern has been pasted on upside down, probably for the sake of
securing a pleasing variety; while in other cases the damage has not
been repaired, and an earlier wall decoration, in orange and black, is
apparent in patches. On the wall hang the portraits of Van Der Palm and
Borgen[20] in one frame, the lecture list, fastened up with three pins,
and a variety of college notices secured in the same way. Near the door
is a tolerably roomy alcove, containing the occupant’s chief
treasures,—in the first place, his books, which, in so far as they
consist of quartos, octavos, and duodecimos, are ranged on three shelves
against the wall, while the folios stand on the ground in the company of
sundry maps in cases; in the second place, two baskets, one of which is
full of burnt-out clay pipes, the other of foul ditto awaiting their
burning. Item, a closed card-table, bought cheap at a second-hand
dealer’s, which can never stand on more than two legs at the same time;
while the superficies of the once green baize with which it is covered
offers a remarkable assemblage of mathematical figures, such as circles
formed by the setting down of wet punch or wine glasses, ellipses or
squares arising from the dropping of wax, grease, or ink, or the contact
with various objects not previously dusted. Item, an umbrella without a
knob, whose whalebone ribs, for the most part, have either repudiated
all connection with the covering, or shamelessly protrude through it.
Furthermore, a trio of eccentric-looking canes, a couple of broken
German pipes, a little tin box, a small writing-desk heaped with
_dictata_, MS. notes, and dilapidated books; a large reading desk,
holding the _editio princeps_ of the States Bible;[21] and, _last not
least_, as the English say, a small basket containing full, and a large
one with empty, wine bottles.
The said alcove is provided with a double door, and when the latter is
closed, peculiar skill, or else a lucky conjuncture of circumstances, is
necessary to open it, seeing that the handle usually displays a
remarkable degree of obstinacy, and calmly turns round in one’s hand
unnumbered times without lifting the latch.
As to the other furniture of the room, the following is an accurate
inventory:—
1. A small mirror in a polished wooden frame,—the glass consisting of
two sections, each of a different colour. If you see yourself in the
lower half you have a purple countenance, in the upper a green one, and
in either case your features are cruelly distorted; in fact, no one ever
looked into this mirror, either above or below, who did not instantly
look out of it again,—so frightfully ugly does every one find him or
herself, as the case may be.
2. A mahogany sécretaire, which, though it has lost some of the
convolutions of the carved fretwork finishing it off at the top, is
still, on the whole, tolerably fit for use, and has no other defects
than these, that the lower drawer will not shut, that one of the hinges
of the flap is loose,—necessitating great care in opening and
closing,—and that one of the feet has long ago declined further service
and preferred a horizontal to an upright position,—in spite of which,
however, the article of furniture can be made to stand tolerably steady
if propped up against the wall. On the top stands a bunch of paper
flowers (the landlady’s property), protected by a glass shade, flanked
to right and left by plaster busts of Homer and Cicero, and surrounded
with several teacups, bearing in gilt letters such touching mottoes as
“Many happy returns of the day,” “A trifle—but a token of good-will,”
“Walk on roses,” “A token of respect,” &c. &c.
3. A white-wood corner cupboard, with a fluted sliding-door, which, if
you go about to open it quietly, refuses to move, whereas if you use
force you push the whole cupboard from its place. Only long experience,
added to unwearying patience, will enable any one to bring to light the
glasses, plates, and knives, or whatever the contents of the receptacle
may be.
4. A tiled stove, whose top is pointed out as a frequent resting-place
for glasses by a variety of circular stains. Next the stove stands a
wooden tub containing coals, and behind it lie a heap of peats and a few
blocks of wood, also a poker and tongs. The latter cannot be handled
without pinching the skin of one’s forefinger, and the legs slip across
each other as soon as one tries to pick up anything with them.
5. An arm-chair, and six chairs with plush seats, showing their stuffing
through numerous wounds,—all of them venerable invalids, full of
infirmities, and especially weak in the back.
6. A square table, with flaps which can be turned up; its upper surface
painted green with white spots, and the edges reddish-brown. In the
middle of this table we see a lamp and two black-japanned candlesticks
with tallow candles in them; further, a broken pair of snuffers, a
wooden tobacco-box, a brazier, and an inkstand with other writing
materials; and round it are seated several students, all members of the
“rhetorical chamber”[22] entitled, “The Thirsty Pleiades.”
J. VAN LENNEP.
_The Vicissitudes of Klaasje Zevenster_ (1866).
_A COLONIAL PRIZE-GIVING._
“Another day on the rack!” Heer Doornik had said that morning to his
wife,—not however in so tragic a manner as the tenor of the ejaculation
would seem to indicate, as he was just then busy pulling on a
particularly intractable boot.
“Is your speech ready?” asked Mevrouw Doornik, in the act of fastening
his necktie for him.
“Yes, my address is prepared,” he replied, solemnly.
You must know, reader, that Doornik had been, in his young days, a
member of a “rhetorical chamber” at Dinxperlo or Buren, I do not exactly
remember which, and had reaped harvests of laurels at various
lectures—laurels offered to him along with cups of muddy chocolate and
_cadetjes_ with cream cheese.
This circumstance had stood in his way all his life. The man, whose
manifest destiny was to become a schoolmaster, believed himself a second
Mirabeau. He would have liked to become a popular orator, or a member of
the Second Chamber, or failing that at least a minister. But his ideals
had gone the way of the _cadetjes_ and the chocolate, they had vanished
into nothingness; the future Mirabeau became, first, a pupil in a
training-college, then third, and then second master; and, at last, with
much labour, he gained his head-mastership.
“I have at last this consolation, that I am to-day once more placed in a
position to show the public what the art of oratory is.”
This last sentence was uttered with such an elevation of his voice, that
his wife thought it necessary to damp his enthusiasm a little.
“I’m afraid the pine-apple tartlets are burnt,” she said, “and the
cabinet-pudding, too, is not as it should be.”
But her husband did not hear her. In one hand he had a hair-brush and in
the other a comb, and with these objects he went through all sorts of
evolutions, his eyes fixed on the mirror, and his long figure most
eccentrically contorted. His wife left him alone; she was well
acquainted with this manœuvre, and twenty years’ experience of married
life had taught her not to disturb her husband when seized by
inspirations.
The Indies are not the place for unappreciated genius; all that they
could give the great man (except a good salary and an easy life, which,
of course, did not count) was the chairmanship of a few committees, and
a place in the church council and other assemblies, which got through
more talking than business. Besides this, he was a Freemason, and thus
at last he had the satisfaction of being able to speak “in public,”
taking one week with another, at least once a week.
The day of the school examination was therefore, in his opinion,
especially suited to this purpose, and he had not practised so long for
nothing. His speech was going to be brilliant, his eloquence
indescribable, his gestures and facial expression would do the rest. It
was only a pity that Hendriks (the second master) had come to worry him,
for, above all things, he needed quiet in those days when he was going
to show the public what good speaking is.
At last the proceedings were to begin.
The children sang one or two songs very prettily, and the effect would
have been exceedingly good, had not the head-master been of opinion that
his voice—not a bad one, but just now fairly hoarse with
nervousness—ought to be heard above all the rest.
Then the examination proper began, and the usual incidents took place.
Great exhibitions of dumbness on the part of the girls, fearful
embarrassment on that of the boys, extreme exasperation among the
masters, suppressed giggling among the ladies of the audience, and
unnaturally solemn faces among the members of the school committee, who
had evidently made up their minds to remain serious whatever might
happen.
[Illustration:
“IN ONE HAND A HAIR-BRUSH, IN THE OTHER A COMB.”
]
In the first-class sat eight boys, between the ages of twelve and
fifteen. But it soon became apparent that six of the eight were mere lay
figures; the questions were addressed to all, but the answers,
evidently, expected from Anton van Duijn and William Ochtenraat only.
They represented two distinct types, as they sat there side by side.
William had a fresh, rosy face, large blue eyes, and a white forehead,
crowned with blonde curls,—he was a prize specimen of a Dutch boy.
Anton, with his dark hair and jet-black eyes, clear-cut brown face, and
tall slight figure, was a handsome _sinjo_; for he had inherited his
looks more from his Creole mother than his Dutch father.
Mevrouw Ochtenraat had spoken truth when she assured Mevrouw van Duijn
just now that it gave her much pleasure to see how clever and
hard-working Anton was.
To-day, however, it seemed as though Anton did not know so much more
than his schoolfellow. Was it the fault of the questions put by the
master, who seemed still more agitated than common, and became so
amazingly tragic in his simplest movements and gestures that he seemed
to be reciting one of Racine’s tragedies rather than conducting a school
examination?
Or was it the way the master knitted his brows and rolled his eyes,
wriggled and writhed and stretched himself, that confused Anton?
Or could it have been the little piece of paper that had just been put
into his hand, and on which Heer Hendriks had written in pencil, “Keep
cool, don’t let them make you lose your head!”—could that have been the
reason why Anton every now and then failed to answer a question?
William Ochtenraat, on the other hand, seemed in particularly good
spirits that morning. Again and again the master managed to bring him
round to one or other of the few subjects in which he was at home. He
made him tell the story of Alexander the Great’s horse, and of the
faithful hound who died on the grave of William the Silent, and,
finally, of the turf-boat by means of which Breda was surprised.
William’s eyes sparkled as he told of Bucephalus; and his mother would
have liked to kiss him when he nearly choked over William of Orange’s
dog; and when he laughed over the discomfiture of the Spaniards, the
whole room laughed with him.
Meanwhile, poor Anton became more and more uneasy; he no longer nodded
encouragingly to his mother, as he had done at first, but his anxious
looks sought Heer Hendriks, who was quite as pale as he.
The arithmetic began. Here dogs, horses, and jokes were alike out of
place; the thing, therefore, was to ask the Governor’s son as few
questions as possible.
“Now I shall be all right!” thought Anton; for this was the subject in
which he most excelled. But even now things continued to go wrong; time
after time he found he could not answer, and something began to glitter
in his eyes which ought to have warned Heer Doornik.
Again the master put a question. And the boy cried, pale with that
terrible bluish paleness one only sees where there is coloured blood,—“I
can’t answer that question, sir; and you know I can’t, because it’s not
on what I’ve learned.”
“But perhaps one of the other boys can,—William, for instance?” asked
Hendriks.
“Why, no,” cried Willie, “I never heard of it.”
Heer Doornik—in spite of his fondness for speeches in general—was far
from pleased with this speech; he understood how every one must feel
that there was something behind this, and shortly afterwards brought the
examination to a somewhat precipitate close by giving his wife the sign
to order up the refreshments.
Whoever else may have taken bread and butter, or pine-apple
tart,—whoever else was regaled with the cabinet-pudding,—neither Anton
nor his mother tasted them.
“Don’t be uneasy, madam,” said the Governor, to the widow, as he called
one of the boys to bring her a glass of wine and water, seeing that she
trembled in every limb. “Don’t be uneasy, Anton is sure to get the
prize.”
The examination was over, the bread and butter and cakes had
disappeared, the scholars having displayed in their extermination a far
greater zeal and endurance than in the ordeal of answering questions.
Now came the distribution of prizes, and—the Speech!
Many a time had people seen Heer Doornik nervous, and heard him get
entangled in his sentences, but the display he made to-day was
absolutely unprecedented.
The oration lasted fully a quarter of an hour, and it was not the heat
alone which made the ladies look so flushed and uncomfortable.
Some new-comers to the place were seriously alarmed lest the man should
break a blood-vessel, or dislocate his left arm,—which came in for the
hardest of the work,—or lose his balance in some of his sudden
evolutions; the children sat staring at him open-mouthed, the gentlemen
nudged one another, the ladies effaced themselves more and more behind
their colossal fans. Mevrouw Doornik, alone, sat with her hands folded
in her lap, gazing in silent admiration at the man of her choice.
The Widow Van Duijn, too, was listening in the greatest excitement, till
she felt he was going beyond her comprehension altogether; and Anton
stood, never taking his burning eyes from the master’s face, waiting for
his sentence.
It came at last, after many a long circuit. Considering this, and
weighing that, and giving its due prominence to this circumstance, and
noticing why, and not forgetting how the two boys in the first-class,
who alone had any claim to the prize, had learned what they had learned,
and answered as they had answered, he thought he was acting in harmony
with the esteemed head of the government, and all the gentlemen and
ladies who had honoured the school with their presence, by handing the
first prize herewith to the most industrious and highly gifted
pupil—William Ochtenraat!
Therewith he handed the boy a handsomely bound book, with a gesture so
powerful, so violent a swaying of his whole person, that one was
reminded of Samson at the moment when he seized the pillars of the
temple.
There was a sudden stillness in the spacious school building. The master
looked at the Governor. The latter let his glance rest on William, who,
more amazed than delighted, looked first at the glittering volume, and
then at the deathly pale boy who sat next him, motionless, with clenched
fists and set teeth.
Already Heer Doornik, mopping his face all the time with his
handkerchief, was approaching the prize-winner to offer his
congratulations,—already there were sounds of sniffling and rustling,
caused by ladies and gentlemen rising to congratulate the parents, when
Heer Ochtenraat slowly rose in his place, and, with a quiet gesture of
his delicate white hand, asked for a hearing.
Once more there was silence as of death.
“William,” said the Governor, in his clear, resonant voice, “William,
tell me honestly, have you earned that prize?”
One moment the boy hesitated, with a glance at the book.
“No, papa!”
“Well, my boy, give the book to the one who has earned it.”
Without stopping to think for one moment, the boy went up to Anton van
Duijn, and put the book into his hand.
It needs a good deal to excite an East Indian audience, but when Heer
Hendriks, with a pale face, and a suspicious look of moisture about his
eyes, made his way forward, wrung Anton’s hand, and cried aloud,
“Hurrah! three cheers for the Governor,” the universal enthusiasm found
vent in long and loud cheering. Heer Ochtenraat immediately rose to go;
he looked at the head-master coldly and sternly, and passed him without
a word.
ANNIE FOORE.
_HOW MATHIS KNOUPS TURNED “LIBERAL” AND THEN “CATHOLIC” AGAIN._
Every one in Limburg who is not “Catholic” is “liberal”—that is an
established fact. There may be a few Protestants here and there; but
these are _gueux_, interlopers, mostly from the direction of
Hertogenbosch, and therefore Hollanders,[23] who have accidentally come
into the country at one time or another. _Gueux_ means one who has
fallen away from the Roman Catholic faith, and therefore from
Christianity. Also, among other rarities, one finds here and there a few
Jews; but they, of course, do not count. A “liberal” is one who is not
always and altogether of the same opinion as the parish priest and his
_Kapelaan_ (curate)—outside church matters, that is to say, for if he
were to differ from their reverences on any point of doctrine, he would
be no liberal, but a heretic. Also that person is a liberal who, for
instance, may, on occasion, give his opinion of a sermon thus,—“Oh! yes,
they”—_i.e._, the clergy—“must find something to talk about, I suppose.”
Or likewise he who, instead of going regularly to high mass, contents
himself, on Sundays and festivals, with a “snap-mass,”—a little, short
service; or he who dares to declare, with a smile, that he cannot think
how all the fast-days came into existence. There are indeed even a few,
but only a few, and those only to be found in towns, who recognise no
fast-days at all, entirely godless and irreligious people, who never go
to church, and do not even attend confession at Easter. Such people as
those are worse than any liberals or heretics,—they are, in one word,
_bad_.
Thus, whoever is not a liberal is a Catholic; but there are _Catholics_,
and _good Catholics_. A Catholic is any man who faithfully performs his
religious duties; who would not, for any money, presume to differ in
opinion from the parish priest, and never asks whence that gentleman
gets the text of his sermons, or how the church fasts originated. But
any one who, in addition to all this, also walks in procession with a
lighted torch or leads the prayers as master of the confraternity of St
Joseph or St Rochus, who duly informs the villagers whom the priest
would like elected into the parish council, who comes to the Holy
Communion at least once a month, and, in the tavern, of an evening, can
describe all liberals, gueux, freemasons, and all such like rabble, in
their true colours, that man is a good _Catholic_.
Mathis Knoups, master-carpenter, and landlord of the “Sun” at Haffert,
did not belong to this category; he was a Catholic _tout court_. He
went to high mass on Sundays, and four times in the year to
confession. This, he said, was doing no more than his duty; and, for
the rest, he had no time to take any further trouble about the church
or religion,—every man must know what he is about, and he had to think
of his children.... There were plenty of other men to carry torches in
the procession,—fast-days had always existed, and did not seem to have
made people leaner or less healthy,—and he was willing to take for
granted that what M. le Curé said in his sermons was true, provided he
were not obliged to listen to them. Also, he was quite ready to vote
for Jan, Piet, or Klaas, just as M. le Curé pleased,—he had no quarrel
with any of the three, and so it was all the same to him.
This was Knoups’ way of reasoning, when the question was discussed by
the guests who came to take their evening glass of beer at the “Sun.” On
such occasions, the surveyor Hommels, well known in the town for a
“great liberal,” would usually answer, “Yes, yes, you village people let
yourselves be finely humbugged and led by the nose!”
“Oh! Lord!” Knoups would then retort, “you have been bitten by that
dog too!” And then, with a smile of complete assurance and
self-satisfaction, he would add, “One has to keep one’s soul clean,
you see!” Whereupon the ex-burgomaster Kormann would signify his
approval in the words,—
“Very good, Master Knoups! the man who does not need that, is not called
on to take any trouble about it!”
“Then don’t let him trouble himself with my affairs,” answered Knoups.
Master Knoups’ inn was about twenty minutes’ walk from the little town,
at the point where the “grintweg” leading to Haffert branches off from
the high-road. Among the other advantages of this situation was a
toll-gate, which was farmed by Mathis. What Limburg carter would not
willingly turn in for a half-pint of beer or a dram, at the place where
he has to stop and pay “barrière”? Thus the “Sun” was always full of
“coming and going folk.”
Knoups let his wife attend to the taproom and the toll-gate; he himself
was all day long in his workshop, when not busy on his bit of land.
Well, Geutruu (Gertrude) was a handy woman, who helped him to provide
for the children, had a pleasant word for every one,—if there was a cent
to be earned anyhow,—but who let no one steal the cheese off her bread.
[Illustration:
“M. LE CURÉ.”
]
In the evening there assembled at the “Sun” the “permanent company”—the
ex-burgomaster Kormann of Haffert, the surveyor Hommels, Spinwek the
baker, and one or two other gentlemen from the town, who would sit
playing at cards, sometimes till eleven, and frequently asked the
landlord to take a hand.
Besides the field, the carpenter’s trade, the toll-gate, and the usual
custom of the inn, there was another great annual source of income, the
Haffert kermis (fair) at St Rochustide in August, when the burghers with
their wives and daughters, and the young men from the city, streamed to
the village for three days following. And the man who did not put up at
the “Sun” had not been at the Haffert kermis.
If on these occasions Knoups did not, taking one day with another, tap
his six casks of beer per day, he had every reason to shake his head,
pass his thumb over his forefinger as though he had been counting money,
drop his under-lip, and sigh:
“It’s bad times with people, ... they’re short of money.”
“Knoups,” Hommels had sometimes said to him, “you ought to have
dance-music at St Rochus. Then you might tap ten casks in a day, or even
twelve.”
Knoups looked serious, pulled somewhat harder at his pipe, considered
for a moment, and replied:
“Thirty casks! ... it would be a good deal.”
Next year, having used up twenty casks in the three days, he said to
Geutruu:
“Wife, we must have the dancing next year.”
“You know best, I suppose,” said Geutruu; “every cask counts. But what
will the Pastoor say?”
Whereto Knoups replied:
“Well, every one ought to know what he’s about, and I have to think of
the children.”
[Illustration:
“THEIR EVENING GLASS OF BEER AT THE ‘SUN.’”
]
Next year there was music and dancing at the “Sun,” and some forty-two
casks of beer were tapped.
Knoups and Geutruu laughed in their sleeves.
All the same, it had been a frightful moment for them, when they sat
side by side at early mass, and the Curé had preached against dancing,
and hinted at the risks run as regards the next world by those who took
part in such amusements. Geutruu did not know where to hide her head for
shame, and kept bending lower and lower over her prayer-book. Mathis
cast a furious glance at the preacher, but the latter stared at the
couple till the whole congregation had turned their eyes in their
direction; and Mathis himself at last, fiery red at one moment and
deadly pale the next, cast down his eyes and bowed his head.
But now that he and Geutruu were home again, and counting the Brabant
and Prussian cents—the groschen, half-francs, and _couranten_—which went
to make up the payment for forty-two casks of beer, he exploded with
laughter, and said, pointing to the money:
“Geutruu, the Curé may give us another sermon for that.”
Well, the people from the town had never troubled their heads about the
Curé of Haffert’s preaching, and the peasants said, “If the burghers
dance, why should we keep away?”
When All Saints’ Day came, Mathis and Geutruu went to confession as
usual.
“If he speaks about the dancing, we’ll say that we don’t know yet what
we’re going to do next year,” said Mathis at the church door.
However, it was not so easy to get absolution. The Curé was terribly
angry, and the confession lasted more than half-an-hour; however, for
this once, his reverence at last showed himself willing to lean to the
side of mercy.
“But,” he added, “if you let the devil loose in my parish again next
year, I can do nothing more for you.”
[Illustration:
“THE CURÉ MAY GIVE US ANOTHER SERMON FOR THAT.”
]
At Christmas, Easter, and Ascensiontide they again went to confession,
but on none of these occasions was anything said about dancing.
In the beginning of August, a fortnight before St Roch’s Day, Mathis
said to his wife:
“Wife, we must have the dancing again.”
“You know best,” answered Geutruu, as before; “but what will M. le Curé
say?”
To which he gave the same answer as last year.
And there was dancing at the “Sun.” The Curé preached with all his
might, but the townspeople went first and the peasants followed, and no
less than forty-five casks of beer were consumed at the “Sun.” Such a
thing had not happened anywhere in the neighbourhood within the memory
of man.
But, alas! for the following All Saints’ Day. As soon as the Curé caught
sight of Mathis Knoups through the grating of the confessional, he
closed the slide in his face. Geutruu received absolution, after many
entreaties and arguments, because she could plead that she had warned
her husband.
“That’s his own business,” said Mathis; “every one must know what he is
about.”
Henceforth Knoups went to confession only once a year—at Easter.
“Once is a man’s duty,” said he; “but to be turned away four times in
the year is only mere waste of time and trouble.”
Again the wicket was shut in his face. Hommels, in the tavern parlour
that evening, laughed over it, and said:
“Well, M. le Curé keeps you all in order like a flock of sheep.”
Knoups smiled, and replied, shortly:
“The stayer wins. We shall see who’ll hold out longest.”
These strained relations between Knoups and the Curé lasted some four or
five years, and then another incident occurred.
Hubertienke, Knoups’ eldest girl, was now nine, and went to school at
Haffert. The master said that she was one of the cleverest and
best-behaved children that had ever come under his care. And now that
she went twice a week to M. le Chapelain’s “Christian doctrine” class,
it was quite likely that next St Rochus’ Day she would walk with the
other children as a “little bride” in the procession, and carry a little
flag, a shepherd’s crook, perhaps even a cornucopia, or a great crimson
heart with gold flames. The child had talked and dreamed of this
possibility for a whole year or so, and Geutruu had had a little white
dress and white satin shoes made for her in town, and bought a wreath of
May-blossom from the milliner.
But Geutruu and her little daughter had reckoned without their host—that
is to say, without the Curé. Two days before St Rochus, his reverence
had sent for Vrouw Knoups, and asked her whether Mathis was going to
have the dance-music again. Whereupon, embarrassed and confused, she had
answered, “I think so, M. le Curé.”
“Then Hubertine can’t walk in the procession,” was the Curé’s verdict.
“If the father doesn’t keep his Easter, the child can’t be a ‘little
bride.’”
Geutruu came home with the tears in her eyes.
“Bad luck to the whole thing!” raged Mathis. “Geutruu, you dress the
child properly, and take her to the church. We’ll see what the Curé does
then.”
The wife did as he had said—dressed the child in the white frock, put on
the satin shoes, and fastened the wreath into her hair. Then she went
with Hubertienke to high mass, and when the procession started
Hubertienke took her place with the other children of the “catechising.”
Scarcely however had the procession got out of the church, and reached
the market-place, when the Curé entered the ranks of the “little
brides,” took Hubertienke by the hand, and made the child take her place
behind the file of school children who did not yet come to “Christian
doctrine,” and were posted a long way in advance at the head of the
procession, in their black or dark blue Sunday frocks.
[Illustration:
“DRESSED THE CHILD IN THE WHITE FROCK.”
]
All this was clearly seen by Mathis Knoups, standing among the crowd of
spectators. He rushed up, looking daggers, fetched his child out of the
procession, and, grinding his teeth, made his way homewards with
Hubertienke.
He could scarcely eat his dinner for the next three days.
When Hommels began touching on the occurrence in the evening, Mathis
cried, his lips trembling:
“Fine religion that! As he can’t be revenged on me, he wreaks his spite
on my child! If that’s our religion, I’d rather not have no more
religion at all!”
From that day forth the publican-carpenter went neither to church nor to
confession, not even at Easter, and was in the eyes of every one “a
downright liberal.” At the elections, he filled in his voting ticket
with his own name. When Hommels abused the Curé, and scoffed at
religion, then Knoups laughed till he shook all over. And when the
ex-burgomaster Kormann exhorted him to return to the bosom of Holy
Church, Mathis would answer:
“_Paja!_ the whole business isn’t worth a cent!” or, “Mind your own
business, and let me attend to mine—every one ought to know what he’s
about!”
That every one ought to know his own business best, he maintained with
equal consistency when Geutruu went with Hubertienke and the other
children to church on Sundays. Hommels, indeed, laughed at this curious
compromise between man and wife; but Geutruu would reply, when teased on
the subject:
“I can’t bring up the children like heathen savages, can I?”
The breach between Mathis Knoups and the Church had lasted quite three
years, when, one baking day in July, the lightning struck Haffert
church, and the whole roof was burnt off.
Knoups looked important and thoughtful, as he remarked:
“I should like to know who’s going to put the new roof on?”
“Why, I suppose the Curé will somehow beg the money for it!” said
Hommels, who did not exactly see the connection.
The thought of the new roof pursued Mathis night and day. He knew very
well how _he_ would do it—he had some choice timber lying by that would
just do—he trimmed the rafters—he made all sorts of calculations, and
was able to tell his guests to a cent that evening how much the new roof
ought to cost—not an _oortje_[24] more. But, when talking to his wife
alone, he said, half vexed and half sad:
“The Curé is sure to take care to get another builder into Haffert this
time!”
A week before St Rochus, Knoups went to the brewer in the town to order
the _kermis_ beer for the dancing-tent as usual. There was no brewery at
Haffert, or Knoups would certainly not have gone outside the village.
“I have nothing but new beer for you, Master Knoups,” said the brewer;
“you will find there’s going to be sharp competition this year.”
“How so?” asked Knoups.
“Why, you know, don’t you, that Stamel-Joob has rented the piece of land
just opposite your house, on the other side of the Haffert road?”
Knoups nodded an affirmative.
“Stammering Joob is going into partnership with Crippled Manes, and they
mean to get a big dancing-tent over from Prussia, and set it up there.”
The landlord of the “Sun” stared at the brewer with all his eyes. He was
vainly seeking for arguments to combat his own inner conviction that
Stammering Joob the never-sober host of the “City of Algiers,” and
Crippled Manes the recruiting-sergeant, who also did a good business as
a kind of broker in procuring substitutes for unwilling conscripts, were
two dangerous opponents, and capable of anything.
“Where should they get the money from?” he suddenly exclaimed.
The brewer shrugged his shoulders.
Mathis became lost in thought for some minutes, and at last whispered,
looking at his purveyor with flashing eyes,—
“Do you think the Curé of Haffert could be mixed up in this?”
Once more the brewer shrugged his shoulders.
“All that I know,” said he, “is that Stammering Joob and Crippled Manes
have ordered sixty casks of beer of me.”
Mathis ordered only twenty casks for the present, and returned home with
a long face.
Two days before St Rochus, three great Prussian freight-waggons, laden
with planks and battens and canvas, passed through Haffert, and stopped
at the Schei, right opposite the “Sun” inn. A moment after, Crippled
Manes was seen hobbling up from another direction, with an old
police-cap on his head, and followed by a number of schoolboys and
loafers from the town, where the rumour of the arrival of the “foreign
dancing-tent” had already spread. A large number of hands went to work
at once; timbers were unloaded, posts set up, canvas spread out; and in
the middle of all the bustle the lame recruiting-sergeant moved about
with his bottle of Hollands, encouraging the workmen, and sometimes
garnishing the offered glass with some such facetious remark as, “To the
health of M. le Curé of Haffert;” or, “To the health of Mathis Knoups,
our neighbour!”
However, Mathis Knoups, who, with compressed lips, stood on the watch
behind the door of his workshop, could not hear what he said.
But all this was nothing to the commotion which was caused on the
following day—the Eve of St Rochus—in Haffert and on the Schei, by the
arrival of twelve Prussian musicians, in faded light-green coats,
sky-blue caps, and all sorts of brass instruments,—one or two of them of
such a size that they curled all round the blower like serpents. They
marched through Haffert playing all the way, drew up in a line before
the dancing-tent, which was decked with flags and pennons, and then
entered the town, accompanied by Crippled Manes, who now, armed with a
big stick, marched in front, and acted the part of drum-major.
All through the night Mathis could still hear the shrill sound of the
clarionet and the booming of the great bass instruments.
No need to ask whether Haffert _kermis_ was crowded! Everybody went to
dance in the Prussian tent. The brewer had to go over twice a day with
fresh supplies; and when Knoups came to complain to him, on the third
day, that he had only tapped eight casks, it was resolved to cart eight
casks away from the “Sun” to the tent over the way.
“Of course,” laughed Manes, “neighbours ought to help each other!”
When, two days later, the three heavily-laden waggons had rumbled off
over the Prussian frontier, and Stammering Joob and Crippled Manes were
marching away to the town, arm in arm, and not very sober, the latter
turned back and shouted:
“Good-bye, Master Knoups! next year we’ll be neighbours again, for a
time!”
“Low riff-raff, that come to steal the bread out of a man’s mouth!” said
Knoups—who had heard it this time—to Geutruu. “Well, _that_ article’s
spoilt for good and all; I shall have to put all my strength into my own
trade!”
The following week, a notice, posted up on the Haffert Raadhuis,
announced to all and sundry that tenders for the new roofing of the
church were to be sent in to the authorities by that day fortnight.
“It’s no good _my_ sending in a paper,” thought Mathis; “the Curé and
the burgomaster are all in the same boat, and the Curé will take good
care I don’t get the contract.”
It may be supposed, therefore, that he looked amazed when Geutruu,
returning from the town one rainy afternoon, stood still, right in front
of him, and said:
“Now I’m going to tell you something! You’ll have to send in your paper
for the church roof!”
“I!—for the roof!” cried Mathis.
“You, for the roof!” repeated Geutruu. “Just listen now. I had just got
outside the gate when it began to rain. I was going to turn my skirt up
over my head, when somebody came running after me, and called out,
‘Vrouw Knoups! Vrouw Knoups!’ I turned round, and who should it be but
M. le Curé’s sister, Joffer Marianneke. ‘Come along under my umbrella,’
says she, ‘and I’ll walk home with you!’ I said, ‘Too much honour,
Joffer Marianneke,’ and ‘Thank you, Joffer Marianneke,’—but it was no
use, I had to come along under her umbrella. And then she told me that
M. le Curé quite expects you to send in your paper for the contract, and
that it grieves him so much that there should be a black sheep in the
congregation; and she is coming next week to drink coffee with us. And
what do you say now?”
Knoups listened, astonished, and at the same time excited.
“H’m!” he said then, “... we must just think over that ... one ought to
know what one is about!”
It was a very busy day for Geutruu, when Mam’selle Marianne, the Curé’s
sister, came to coffee. She had baked special cakes—_vlaai_ and
_krintemik_; and, when her guest had arrived, she went herself to fetch
Mathis out of his workshop. Mathis laid aside his apron, wiped his
forehead with it, and followed his wife indoors.
“_Serviteur_, Joffer Marianneke,” said he, accomplishing with some
difficulty an awkward kind of bow.
“I’ve just looked in to see how you are getting on, Master Knoups,” said
the Curé’s sister, taking a bite at her slice of currant-loaf.
“Very kind, I’m sure, Joffer Marianneke! and I wish you a good
appetite!” replied Knoups.
“To-morrow M. le Curé is going round with the alms-bag, Master Knoups,
for the new roof to the church. Are you going to give something too?”
“H’m, h’m! If M. le Curé does not pass my door, we’ll see what we shall
do, Joffer Marianneke!”
Next day came M. le Curé with the alms-bag.
“Master Knoups, I am going to _all_ our parishioners.” He emphasised the
“all.” “Will you contribute something towards the new roof for the
church?”
Now that Knoups was standing before his enemy, it seemed as though
something boiled up in him,—as though he would have to say something
quite different from what he had thought out beforehand,—and yet there
was such a tightness at his throat that he could not bring out a word.
He kept his eyes fixed on the priest, made one or two great efforts to
swallow the lump in his throat, and at length burst out, clinching his
fist convulsively:
“M. le Curé, why did you revenge yourself on my child for the grudge you
had against me?”
And at the last words he struck his clinched hand against his chest.
“_Chut! chut!_ Master Knoups,” said the Curé, with a deprecating wave of
the hand; “I have duties to fulfil,—and, after all, you had been
warned.”
“If you had said publicly, in the pulpit, Master Knoups is a heretic,—if
you had turned me out of your church, some Sunday, in the middle of high
mass, I could forgive it; but ... my child....”
“Come, come, Knoups, don’t go dragging drowned cows out of the
ditch,—think of the new church roof. You’re a carpenter, and if I meant
ill towards you I would not have come to you with the alms-bag.”
These words soothed Knoups somewhat. He silently offered the Curé a
chair, and sat down opposite him. Then he put his hand under his blue
blouse into his jacket pocket, took out a paper, unfolded it, and laid
it before the priest.
“M. le Curé,” he said, “here is my tender for the contract If the work
is given to me, I will deduct twenty gulden from the sum, as my
contribution to the roof.”
“And then, Knoups, and then?” asked the Curé, in a tone of serious
admonition.
“How do you mean, M. le Curé?”
“Are you going to have the dancing again?”
“M. le Curé,” answered Knoups, “I am quite willing to live in peace and
friendship with every one; but I ought to be allowed to earn a few
stivers when I want them.”
“And do you think, Knoups, that this dancing business is all profit? Do
you know that people of position are shy of your house for that very
reason? Why do the professors from St Aloysius’ College, and all their
students,—and the Christian Brothers, and all their schoolboys—why do
they always pass the ‘Sun’ by? You have a good head for reckoning, I’ve
often heard, Master Knoups. Did you ever figure out what it would come
to in a year if two hundred young fellows were to come every week, or
say every fortnight, to have a glass of beer?”
Knoups’ whole face shone with excitement.
“Why, one could lay out a skittle-ground with that!” he cried.
“Well, are you going to repent of your ways, and come to church again,
Knoups?”
“Would you give me absolution if I did?”
“If you had no more dancing—why, there would be no further reason for
refusing it.”
Knoups sat still, and thought for a little. Then he took his broad
carpenter’s pencil, wrote on the paper, “_less twenty gulden for the
roof_,” and said:
“We’ll see, M. le Curé, we’ll see. And, after all, I’m not the worst.”
The same evening, in the “Sun,” Hommels was talking about the elections.
“Pooh!” cried he, “convictions! I hate the sound of the word. Money is
all they care about, or the honour of sitting in the council and having
their say in everything!... There you have the burgomaster Driemans; he
has been liberal three times, and clerical three times, and every time
he got in!... and the _rentier_, Lankmans, formerly president of a
dramatic society, who ate meat on Fridays, chosen as a defender of the
Faith!... and our deputy, Judge Stechelmans, who formerly, when he was a
school inspector, cursed and swore when he found a crucifix hanging in a
school, he too is a pillar of the Church! And the priests know all that
very well, but what do they care? such men are of use to them, and
that’s enough!... _Sufficit_, you know!”
“So, so,” said Knoups, in a naïvely satirical tone, half shutting his
eyes, “is that what they mean by politics,—a question of money?”
Knoups sent in his tender for the contract for the new church roof.
There was indeed an offer made at a lower figure by a builder in the
town, but the Curé and the burgomaster said that Knoups had the best
timber on hand—even though it had been bought with the proceeds of the
dancing, as Knoups said—and gave the contract to him. Knoups turned his
dancing-floor into a skittle-ground, went to confession on All Saints’
Day, and got his absolution all right.
Since that time Mathis Knoups has become a Catholic again. Hommels does
not frequent the “Sun” now.
“One can’t put one’s foot down there without tumbling over a professor
from the College, or one of the Christian Brothers’ boys,” he said. And
when he makes his appearance, now and then, to tease Mathis, and asks,
“How do you feel now, Mathis, as a New Catholic?” Mathis answers:
“Yes, you may laugh, Mynheer Hommels, but just wait till you come to
die—then you’ll be frightened too.... And one must look after one’s
soul,—isn’t it so, Geutruu?”[25]
EMILE SEIPGENS.
_NEWSPAPER HUMOUR._
OTHERWISE ENGAGED.
_Police-Magistrate_—“What insolence! to break into a house, in a busy
street, in the middle of the day!”
_Thief_—“I was already engaged for the evening.”
* * * * *
WEDDED LOVE.
_Jan_—“Oh, Julie! how pleased I am to see you!”
_Julie_—“Is that true, Jan?”
_Jan_—“Yes, my little wife, my——”
_Julie_—“If we were out at sea, and I were to fall overboard, what would
you do?”
_Jan_—“First, I should see what time it was; then I should inform the
captain that there was some one overboard, and ask whether the vessel
could be stopped. When it was stopped, I would have a boat let down, and
row back to the place where you had fallen into the water. It would be
quite easy to find, because I should have noticed the time at which we
were there, the rate we were going at, and the direction the ship was
taking. If you were still floating, it would be all right; if you had
sunk, we should have to wait till bubbles——”
_Julie_—“Oh! you heartless scoundrel! You murderer! I’ll never go
anywhere with you!”
(And then she went to her mother and told her that Jan was a fellow of
uncommon sense and shrewdness, who could not fail to make his fortune,
&c. &c.)
_Tybaert de Kater._
* * * * *
_Professor_ (at Medical lecture)—“What would you do, if you found the
condition of the patient in this case had become worse?”
_Student_—“I should thank Heaven I was not in his skin.”
[Illustration:
“OTHERWISE ENGAGED.”
]
* * * * *
ON THE STEAM-TRAM.
“Hallo!—Conductor!”
“What is it, sir?”
“Why is the tram stopping here? There is no station—I can only see one
house.”
“Oh, we’re stopping because Farmer Verschueren’s wife wants to come to
town.”
“I wish she’d make haste, then!”
“Yes—but she wants to take a dozen eggs to market, and she has only
eleven. The hen is on the nest, and as soon as she has laid the egg we
are going on.”
_Tybaert._
* * * * *
A lawyer had had his photograph taken. He was wearing his morning coat,
and had his hands in the pockets.
“Is it not a good likeness?” asked the photographer, showing it to one
of his friends.
“Speaking—as far as the face is concerned; but, for the rest, there is
something wrong about it.”
“What is that?”
“A lawyer never puts his hands in _his own_ pockets.”
* * * * *
AT THE CHEMISTRY CLASS.
“What is found in salt-water besides the chloride of iodine we have just
been speaking of?”
_Youngest Pupil_—“Herrings, sir.”
* * * * *
OVERHEARD IN THE STREET.
“Good-morning, William. Why! how changed you are!”
“Don’t be offended—but my name is not William!”
“Well, now!—he has changed even his very name!”
* * * * *
[Illustration]
“Bonifacius,” said Madame Snobs, “the way you are taking to drink is
disgraceful! You didn’t come home till nearly morning, and now you want
to go out again before dinner-time! You ought to be ashamed of yourself.
If I was a man like that, I would drop into the ground for shame!”
“You are quite right, wife,” said Snobs; “just give me the key of the
cellar.”
* * * * *
Snobs was for some time Justice of the Peace at Bommerskonten, and is
now Mayor of that village. The first time he celebrated a marriage
there, he asked the bride—
“Do you take Kobe Kullemans, who is standing beside you, for your
husband?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the bride.
“Prisoner at the bar,” continued Snobs, “what have you to say in your
defence?”
* * * * *
_Snobs_—“What clever answers that fellow Snugger can give, to be sure,
when one asks him anything!”
_Madame Snobs_—“Why—I have never noticed that.”
_Snobs_—“Indeed it is so. Yesterday I asked him if he would lend me
twenty francs. He did not say either yes or no, but he asked me if I
thought he was mad.”
* * * * *
PRACTICAL.
“John,” said the lady of the house to the new man-servant, who had
several times startled her by falling into the room like a bombshell,
“when you come in, you must knock first, and wait till you hear some one
say, ‘Come in.’”
When the lady and her husband are seated at dinner, John comes up to the
door, opens it just wide enough to put his head through, draws back,
shuts the door, and knocks.
“Come in!” cries the mistress, in amazement. “Didn’t you understand me?
You were to knock, and then wait till I said, ‘Come in,’—instead of
that, you peep round the door first. What do you mean by it?”
“Why, I had to see if there was any one in the room to tell me to come
in!”
_Uilenspiegel._
* * * * *
JEWISH COURTSHIP.
_Rachel_—“But, Moses lad, you say you are so fond of me—would you really
go through the fire for me?”
_Moses_—“Of course, Rachel, darling—that is to say, if I was well
insured.”
[Illustration:
“JEWISH COURTSHIP.”
]
* * * * *
_Mother Spons_—“What do I see, Mother Snaps!—you look quite well to-day,
and yet I was told you could not get out of your bed.”
_Mother Snaps_—“Well—and no more I can,—for as soon as ever I get up,
that husband of mine will carry it straight to the pawnbroker’s!”
* * * * *
“Who wrote the Psalms?” asked Pater Dodd, somewhat sharply, of his
class. All were silent, and the good priest repeated the question.
“It was not I, sir,” responded Janneke Snobs, beginning to cry.
“I ask you who wrote them!” repeated the priest.
“Yes, sir,” said Janneke, heroically, at last, “I did it, but I’ll never
do it again, as long as I live!”
* * * * *
AT SCHOOL.
The master is explaining the arithmetical operation of subtraction:—
“Now, Jantje, if your mother gives you five slices of bread and butter,
and you eat two, how many will you have left?”
“Mother never gives me so many, sir.”
“Well, then, if you have five marbles in your pocket, and take out two,
how many will there be left in it?”
“None at all, sir,—there’s a hole in my pocket.”
* * * * *
_A._—“Our business is so extensive that we have to keep a man on purpose
to thrash the apprentices, and he’s at it all day.”
_B._—“That’s nothing to ours! Our establishment is so immense that we
have to keep St Bernard dogs in the corridors to look for the customers
who lose themselves there!”
* * * * *
A man who had repeatedly called on a nobleman to obtain payment of a
debt, was refused access by the well-drilled footman, in the words, “The
Baron does not receive to-day.”
“That is all the same to me,” replied the creditor; “I don’t care,—as
long as he will _give_.”
* * * * *
AT A RESTAURANT.
_Snugger_ (_who has been waiting over an hour for his beefsteak_)—“Look
here, waiter, are you the same that put this plate on the table?”
[Illustration]
_Waiter_—“Yes, sir.”
_Snugger_—“Heavens! you’ve grown out of all knowledge since then!”
* * * * *
A PLEASANT TRADE.
A small boy goes howling along the street. Our friend Snobs accosts him
with, “What is the matter, my little man?”
Boy howls.
“Where do you live?”
Boy howls still.
“What is your father’s name?”
More howling.
“What is your mother’s name?”
Still more.
“What does your father do?”
“Beats mother. Ow! ow! ow!”
* * * * *
DISCONSOLATE.
_Kind-hearted Farmer’s Wife_—“Pietje, my boy, what’s the matter?”
_Pietje_ (_howling_)—“Can’t eat any more apples.”
“Well, put them in your pockets, can’t you?”
“Oh! oh! oh! My pockets are full! Oh! oh! oh! oh!”
* * * * *
_Judge_—“But why in the world did you go so far to steal wine, when you
might easily have got it in your master’s cellar?”
_Prisoner_—“I knew my master’s wine too well to steal even one bottle of
it.”
_Allemansvriend._
* * * * *
_Judge_ (to convicted thief)—“You seem to understand your business.”
_Prisoner_—“Yes, my lord, and if you could steal as well as I, you
wouldn’t care to sit on the bench any longer.”
_Vlaamsche Illustratie._
* * * * *
IN THE CONFESSIONAL.
_Boy_—“Rev. Father, I have stolen twenty-five yards of stuff from farmer
Klaas.”
[Illustration]
_Priest_—“Oh! that is very bad.”
_Boy_—“Yes; mother said it was bad, when she saw it, but still she
thought it would do to make sacks of.”
_Allemansvriend._
* * * * *
Never estimate a man’s value according to the silk umbrella he carries;
he has probably left a cotton one somewhere in place of it.
We are all ready to set up as moral physicians, and each of us can give
his advice; but a University diploma is necessary before you can cure a
child of the stomach-ache.
Many a man who says that he works like a barge-horse, is probably
thinking of the time when the barge-horse is standing in the stall
eating oats.
A word is enough for the wise. This is probably the reason why an
advocate has to plead for half a day before a jury.
* * * * *
Kobe Snullemans was about to be married, but he had only two francs, and
the priest asked a fee of twenty.
“Oh! your reverence!” said Kobe, “just marry me a little then, as much
as you can for two francs!”
_Tybaert._
* * * * *
_Janneke Snobs_—“Mamma, how do the niggers on the Congo know when it is
Sunday? they have no clean shirts to put on.”
* * * * *
_Conductor_ (to his clerk)—“Did you give the hundred francs to the
chairman of the Board of Works?”
_Clerk_—“Yes, sir.”
_Con._—“What sort of a face did he make?”
_Clerk_—“He looked very much offended.”
_Con._—“Didn’t he say anything?”
_Clerk_—“Yes, sir.”
_Con._—“What did he say?”
_Clerk_—“That you and I ought to go to jail!”
_Con._—“And what did he do then?”
_Clerk_—“He took the money.”
_Uilenspiegel._
* * * * *
UNNECESSARY.
Kapblok, the butcher’s man, is running, knife in hand, after Snugger’s
dog, who has stolen a piece of meat out of his shop.
_Snugger_—“Kapblok, where are you running to with that knife?”
_Kapblok_—“Don’t you see the beast has got hold of a piece of the best
beef?”
_Snugger_—“Is that all? Just put your knife back again; he never cuts
his meat, he can worry it down well enough without that.”
[Illustration:
“KAPBLOK, THE BUTCHER’S MAN.”
]
* * * * *
_Janneke Snobs_ (on his grandfather’s birthday)—“Grandfather dear, I
have come to wish you many happy returns of the day, and I hope you may
live a long time this year!”
_Tybaert._
* * * * *
IN THE CARNIVAL.
“Well, Krelis, are you going to put on a mask?”
_A Voice_—“If he would just wash himself for once, and put on a clean
collar, no one would know him.”
* * * * *
A HEART-FELT PETITION.
When Mané was still a minister, he was tolerably well known as a
henpecked man. In church, on one occasion, he closed his extempore
prayer with the following words:—“And now, O Lord! we pray for the wives
of preachers. Some people think they are angels, but Thou, who knowest
the hearts, art well aware that....”
History does not record what took place between Mané and his wife when
he returned home that day.
* * * * *
_Inspecting General_ (to Private)—“Are you satisfied with your rations?”
_Private_—“Yes, sir.”
_General_—“How about the meat? Does every one get served alike? or does
one get much and another little?”
_Private_—“No, sir; we all get very little.”
* * * * *
_Sentry_—“My good woman, what do you want with the pillar-box? You’ve
been standing there half-an-hour at least.”
_Old Woman_—“Well, I don’t mind if I tell you, sir. I put a letter in,
and I’m waiting for the answer.”
* * * * *
_Tall Barrister_—“Not so fast, my friend. You know I could easily put
you in my pocket.”
_Short Ditto_—“If my learned brother were to do so, he would have more
law in his pocket than in his head.”
* * * * *
“Professor, I have come to express my gratitude. All that I know, I owe
to you.”
_Professor_—“Come, come, friend, don’t mention it. _Such a trifle_ is
really not worth remembering.”
[Illustration:
“INSPECTOR GENERAL: ‘ARE YOU SATISFIED WITH YOUR RATIONS?’”
]
* * * * *
AT THE HATTER’S.
“What! you say this hat is thirty florins?”
“Yes, sir; real Panama.”
“But I don’t see any holes in the top.”
“Holes, sir?”
“Of course; the man who is ass enough to pay as much as that will want
holes to let his ears through.”
* * * * *
_Lawyer_—“My friend, you are an ass!”
_Witness_—“Do you mean, sir, that I am your friend because I am an ass?
or that I am an ass because I am your friend?”
* * * * *
_Waiter_—“Why, sir, there was a gentleman here last week painting this
very place.”
_Painter_ (absently)—“Yes. Was he an artist?”
_Waiter_—“An artist? No, sir; he was a _very respectable man_.”
* * * * *
_The Uncle_ (from whom one has expectations)—“My dearest boy, I have
thought over the matter for some time, but I really cannot give you the
sum you want. I never depart from my principles, and one of them is, not
to undress before I go to bed.”
_Nephew_ (constrainedly)—“Very sorry, very sorry, indeed.... (With an
effusive grasp of the hand.) Good-night, uncle! GOOD-NIGHT!”
* * * * *
ON A RIVER STEAMER.
_Gentleman_ (first-class)—“Captain, I say! this is an unpardonable want
of delicacy. Can’t you direct this cursed smoke towards the
_second-class passengers_?”
* * * * *
THE NEXT REGIMENT.
_Country Lass_—“Soldier, may I give you this pound of tobacco to take to
my cousin Jan? He’s in the 3rd, and I see you’re in the 2nd; so you’re
just next to him.”
_Soldier_—“With pleasure, lass; give it here. I’ll see that he don’t
have anything to pay for carriage.” (He rides away, in a state of total
indifference to Cousin Jan, and all that concerns him. Jan’s cousin goes
home, happy in the thought that he is going to get his tobacco so
cheaply.)
* * * * *
VERY SELECT.
“Do tell me, Baron, is there not a very clever surgeon living in the
village near your castle?”
“I am told so, madam, but ... you understand ... a country practitioner
like that ... I cannot put any confidence in him.... I only have him
sent for when one of the servants is ill.”
* * * * *
_Shopkeeper_ (catching boy with both hands in the till)—“You young
scoundrel, what do you want there?”
_Boy_—“I ... I ... I’m looking for my cap.”
_Shopkeeper_—“It’s on your head all the time, gallows-bird.”
_Boy_—“On my head? Oh, no! you’re out there. That’s not my cap; that’s
one I borrowed till I could find my own.”
* * * * *
AN INCORRUPTIBLE OFFICIAL.
_Suitor_ (from the country)—“Sir, here is a bit of a ham, home-cured,
just to thank you for——”
_Official_—“What? Idiot! rascal! Do you think a sworn civil servant is
going to let himself be bribed? Hand over the ham at once! Hand it over,
I say! And now out with you! There’s the door! Out you go! March!”
* * * * *
Silent reflections of a member of the dangerous classes.—“It’s mighty
queer; this makes five times I’ve been had up for stealing, and each
time they’ve let me off.... Hanged if I understand it; but it does seem
as if they meant me to go on!”
* * * * *
_College Porter_—“Yes, sir; our late colleague was one who always
discharged the duties of his office with the greatest zeal. And now he
is dead, and has not left a cent to pay for his funeral. We have
therefore resolved to get up a subscription; and I have taken the
liberty of coming to you, thinking you would contribute something
towards so worthy an object. We still want ten guilders.”
_Student_ (in a voice trembling with emotion)—“Ten guilders ... I am
deeply touched ... instead of ten I’ll give you a hundred; but do please
bury a few more college porters with the money.”
* * * * *
ON PARADE.
_Short Subaltern_ (to tall recruit)—“Fellow, how dare you have the
impudence to look down on me like that? Come, stand up straight—eyes
right—look straight before you.”
_Recruit_—“Good-bye, sir!”
_Short S._—“Are you mad, you scoundrel?”
_Recruit_—“No, sir; but if I am to keep looking straight in front of me,
sir, I’d better say good-bye, sir, please sir, for I’ll never see you
again in my life, sir!”
* * * * *
_Tenant_—“Gracious goodness! You have raised the rent again ... and what
for?”
_Landlord_—“What for?—you want to know what for? Why, for one thing,
there’s the new clock-tower and clock right in front of your window. Do
you think I intend to make you a present of that?”
* * * * *
_Mistress_ (giving out provisions for the kitchen)—“Don’t you want any
butter, Mie?”
_Maid_—“No, thank you, Mevrouw. I belong to the Temperance Society, and
must not take anything _strong_.”
* * * * *
_1st Soldier_ (in the country)—“What are those things in the field over
there?”
_2nd Soldier_—“Those are traps to catch moles.”
_1st S._—“That’s just one of your larks again! Just as though the moles
would be fools enough to go and get caught in that little spot of
ground, when there are acres of fields all round.”
_2nd S._—“Well, how is it that, when the town is so big and the cell at
the police-station so small, you’re always in it?”
* * * * *
A DOUBLE MISFORTUNE.
“Do you not think it a deeply significant fact, Henri,” said the poet to
his friend, “that I was born on the same day on which Goethe died?”
_Henri_—“Both events are cruel misfortunes to literature.”
* * * * *
Mrs A.’s housemaid has come round with a message:—
“Mistress’s compliments, and she would like to know if you will come to
spend to-morrow evening?”
_Mrs B._—“Very pleased, I am sure.... Are there more people coming?”
_Housemaid_—“I have them here on a list.”
_Mrs B._—“Let me see.... Why, there are at least thirty names here!”
_Housemaid_—“Yes, but most of them know that the children have the
chicken-pox, and mistress was reckoning on that!”
* * * * *
AT THE SOLICITOR’S.
“Good-morning, sir! May I ask you to advise me what compensation is due
when another person’s dog does damage in any one’s house?”
“Certainly, sir. The injured party is entitled to two guilders
compensation.”
“May I ask you for that sum, then? It is your dog that I have to
complain of.”
“Ah! Then it is your property that my dog has damaged? Nothing can be
fairer than that I should pay you the legal compensation. Here are
twenty cents.”
“Twenty cents!”
“Yes. As thus:—
Your claim is fl. 2 0
My fee, for advice 1 80
——————————
Balance due to you 0 20.”
* * * * *
A SLIGHT MISTAKE.
A man, who thought himself a scientist, gave a public lecture on
electricity. The hall was at first tolerably well filled, but the
audience were not long in finding out with whom they had to do, and
began to go out one by one. At last only one man remained, who listened
with the greatest attention, and thus encouraged the lecturer to
continue. At the end of half-an-hour he interrupted himself, and said
politely—
“I beg your pardon, sir, but I hope I am not trespassing on your
kindness? I shall have finished in ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes! You can go on for another hour—or all night, if you
like—so long as you don’t forget that you engaged me by the hour!”
The unhappy man perceived too late that it was the cabman who had driven
him down to the lecture-hall.
* * * * *
_Horseman_ (passing window of farmhouse)—“I say, you stupid lout, I want
to know why you are always laughing when I ride past?”
_Peasant_—“Why, sir, it is because you always happen to ride past when I
am laughing.”
* * * * *
_A._—“How are you, old fellow? Have you heard who has got that situation
in the Home Office that you were trying for?”
_B._—“Some ass or other, I suppose, who doesn’t in the least deserve
it!”
_A._—“Of that _you_ should be the best judge; you are the lucky man!”
_THE CANDIDATE._
It is now full two years since Dominie Groshaus departed this life. For
forty years the worthy man had tended his flock at Harder, without a
thought of laying aside his staff, and quite resolved to edify his
congregation for another ten years or so. But Death was not of the same
opinion as the deaf old gentleman. One fine morning he came along, and
gently took the staff out of the shepherd’s hand.
“_Le roi est mort, vive le roi_,” now came true at Harder. Scarcely had
the grave closed over Dominie Groshaus, when they began to think of
choosing a new pastor. This time it must be a liberal; that was plain as
a pikestaff. The Harder people wished to show that they could advance
with the times. But where to find him—that was the question. The stipend
was not large, and the number of “advanced” candidates exceedingly
small,—a bitter disappointment for the Harder parishioners, for your
farmer knows no greater enjoyment than in listening to the trial sermons
of a “whole regiment” of candidates. As matters stood, however, there
was nothing for it but to cut their coat according to their cloth, and
six probationers were accordingly invited to display their gifts. The
Harder people were not fortunate; for, behold, the last of the six had
already arrived, and been quartered at the schoolmaster’s, and they had
not yet found the right man! It will be understood that they were
waiting the last trial sermon in a state of great excitement. No one’s
heart, however, beat so high as Mr Slop’s, for the last candidate
pleased the schoolmaster uncommonly well—yes, uncommonly. He had enjoyed
a most delightful evening in the young fellow’s company. The
conversation went as if on wheels. Tantalising prospectives of
instructive conversations, profitable exchange of thought—of society
such as he had often vainly longed for—opened themselves to the master’s
mental vision. Therefore it was his most ardent wish that this candidate
should succeed. He was just considering what he could do to promote his
success, when the probationer suddenly put a question to him
point-blank.
“Can you tell me, sir, the reason why my friend Burgers did not give
satisfaction here?”
“Oh! well—what can I say to you?—the man was the victim of a stupid
joke. His hair is, as I suppose you are aware,...”
“Red—yes, fiery red,” sighed the probationer, with a faint smile.
“Yes—that hair of his!”
“Well,” pursued the schoolmaster, “on the day Mr Burgers was preaching
here, Jaap Stricker, a farmer, who is known as the worst joker in the
village, happened to be sitting in the pew just behind the elders. When
the young man, who was certainly doing his best, rather raised his voice
at the end of his sermon, and at the same time threw his arms out
quickly, Jaap Stricker bent over to the burgomaster, and whispered to
him, ‘The fire is bursting out.’ That joke, sir, was the _coup de
grâce_.”
“_Il n’y a pire que le ridicule_,” thought the probationer, “even among
these farmers.” And suddenly—as the schoolmaster drew the little stove
towards him in order to light his pipe—there rose up before him the
image of Hein Burgers, the rejected, as he used to sit at students’
gatherings, with his honest, jovial face, crowned—alas! with locks of
too brilliant a colour. He saw once more the gloomy Van Overveen
pretending, with his melancholy smile, to light his cigar at Hein
Burgers’ flaming head; he heard one and the other call out, on finding
that his pipe had gone out, “Just pass Hein this way, will you?”...
“I was just saying,” the schoolmaster continued, carefully putting the
cover on his pipe, after a vigorous pull or two,—“I was saying that was
the finishing touch. For even if Mr Burgers’ hair had been black instead
of red, the man’s chance was gone. In the first place, he forgot, when
he entered the church, to salute the elders—ahem!—just nod to them, you
know!”
“Aha!” said the candidate, making a mental note of the fact.
“And, besides that, there was something in his sermon the burgomaster
did not like.”
Here the schoolmaster’s lips opened, and the pipe slid into the corner
of his mouth. His eyes wandered over the ceiling, while he exhibited
that vibration of the diaphragm which, according to Darwin, is the
symptom of suppressed mirth.
“Pah!” ... he continued, after a pause, emitting a thick cloud of smoke,
under shelter of which his face came back into its normal condition.
“You must know that there occurred in his sermon an allusion to Galileo.
This was what offended the burgomaster.”
“Galileo!” exclaimed the probationer, springing from his seat. “Galileo!
what earthly objection can the burgomaster have to Galileo?”
“Much more than you think,” returned Mr Slop, with a solemn countenance,
but laughter in his eyes. “Much more than you can conjecture. Our
burgomaster has, along with many good qualities, a weakness—a
prejudice—what shall I call it? The fact is, that he does not believe
that the earth turns round....”
The shout of laughter emitted by his hearer reduced the schoolmaster to
silence.
The two men looked at each other. The master laughed too—the
probationer’s mirth was infectious—but not so loud. And while the young
man continued to give free rein to his emotions, Slop quietly groaned to
himself.
“Could a man have done a more unlucky thing?” he went on at last. “Why
need he have dragged in Galileo at all? As soon as I heard the name, I
thought to myself, ‘There goes your chance, my dear young gentleman!’
And if he had confined himself to mentioning the name, no harm would
have been done; but he did worse—he called Galileo’s opponents
narrow-minded people! And at last, as if to complete the disaster, he
uttered it as his settled conviction that there was no one among his
hearers who believed in the stability of the earth. Then I could see
that it was all up with him, for the burgomaster flushed up, red as
fire. Moreover, he nodded twice, and looked at the preacher with angry
defiance.”
“Stop, sir! stop!” cried the candidate, holding his sides. “But surely,
then, your burgomaster—what’s the man’s name?—Gorter—surely this Gorter
is an original of the first water?”
“He is indeed. Let us only hope that Galileo has not brought the whole
modern movement into discredit with him. I sadly fear that such is the
case. At any rate, sir, you are warned. If he enters on the subject
to-morrow—as he is almost certain to do—keep a good look-out, and mind
you don’t fall into the snare.”
On the following morning the church was as full as it could hold. The
candidate gave particular satisfaction. His delivery was more than
satisfactory; his voice was as clear as a bell. Such was the verdict of
the parishioners. Very well content, and with a great air of mystery,
the elders received the preacher at the end of the service. For when the
farmer has once made his choice, he takes good care not to give the
slightest hint of it—sly diplomat that he is! The candidate was to dine
at Burgomaster Gorter’s. Aaltje, the good-natured, bashful, kindly wife
of that dignitary, had prepared ribs of pork. With heartfelt
satisfaction did the couple take note of the young man’s hearty
appetite. He did not require any pressing, and played as good a knife
and fork as if he had been at home. This pleased the burgomaster well. A
good appetite is usually the sign of good health. Who would buy an
unhealthy cow? And what person in his senses would wish to possess an
unhealthy minister?
At the end of the repast, a walk in the orchard was proposed. The
burgomaster, pipe in mouth, stumped along in his wooden shoes, solemn
and dignified—a sphinx in a peaked cap—beside his guest, and took him to
see the pigs. Then they slowly returned to the house, the farmer still
preserving an air of tremendous mystery.
At last Mijnheer Gorter broke the ominous silence.
“I was very well-pleased with your discourse this morning,” he said.
“Were you, sir? I’m glad to hear that.”
“They want a modern man in this place. Well—I’m modern, too!” The
burgomaster’s chin moved backwards into his black silk neckcloth, while
a smile of grim self-satisfaction played about his lips. “I’m modern,
and progressive too,” he went on. “But there is one thing I can’t get
over. I don’t believe that the earth turns round. No one can make a fool
of me about that. Every morning when I go out into the fields, I see it
with my own eyes lying perfectly still. Now that has nothing to do with
modern thought,—that turning round, I suppose,—has it?”
“Oh!” replied the candidate, fairly driven into a corner, “it certainly
does have a little to do with it; but, after all, it’s not the principal
point. One may be a good and honest and religious man, and yet be of
opinion—I mean, believe—that the earth stands still. St Paul, for
example——”
“There you are!” roared the burgomaster, bringing his hand vigorously
down on his companion’s shoulder in the fulness of his satisfaction.
And thus, through his well-timed consideration of the burgomaster’s
hobby, the sixth candidate was elected to the parish of Harder.
T. H. HOOIJER.
(_De Gids_, 1881.)
_EPIGRAMS._
(SNELDICHTEN.)
Tys was a painter—a doctor then he became,
And said to his friends, who murmured at the same,
“My faults as a painter, sure, every one could see,
But now my errors are underground, the better ’tis for me.”
* * * * *
TROP DE ZÈLE.
Hans boasts he skated from Cologne
In one day to the Hague. “In one,”
His man confirms him, “true as you stand here—
_But ’twas the longest day of all the year!_”
* * * * *
’Twas asked, Which was the longest day?
My farmer friend, who would not stay
Till I had searched the calendar aright,
Said, “Why, sir, ’tis the one that has the shortest night.”
* * * * *
Dirck once was given to language most profane;
I strove to turn him from his evil ways in vain.
After long years I was successful. How?
With this one word: “Tis not the mode in Paris now.”
* * * * *
TO A PREACHER.
Ye preach so long, good sir, that we the opening have forgot,
And therefore when ye reach the end, we understand it not.
* * * * *
Pete ran against me in the street one day,
Nor moved aside: “He would not yield the way
To every fool.” “I can—and do!” said I—
Stepped from the path, and let the fool pass by.
* * * * *
Old Father Jan did chide his son because he sleeping lay,
Instead of getting up to work at dawning of the day,
And told him how a certain boor, at daybreak in the field,
Had found his fallow ground a pot of gold did yield.
“Yes, father,” said young Jack, “’twas early, it may be,
But sure the man that lost the gold was earlier than he!”
* * * * *
Jan will take where’er he can,
Out of purse and out of sack,
Out of cupboard, chest or pack,
Out of kettle, pot, and pan,—
Jan’s a very _taking_ man.
* * * * *
CLOTHES AND MEN.
The tailor’s shop for highest praise, say I,
With royal courts doth vie;
Best skill boast which of these two can?
There the man makes the clothes; here the clothes make the man.
* * * * *
Dirck went out once to buy a hat, ’tis known,
And sought to pay for it with words alone.
“Nay,” said the mercer, “I’ll not come to that,
To meet _you_ and uncover to _my hat_!”
* * * * *
How can a miller be a thief?
Methinks the thing were past belief;
What use for gold or gear can find
The man who lives upon the wind?
* * * * *
PRUDENT IGNORANCE.
Peter knows nought, and will know nought;
I know the reason why:
He fears distress and injury,
And has not the old saw forgot—
_What a man knows not hurts him not_.
* * * * *
THE COURTSHIP OF JAN AND GRIET.
“Well, is it ne’er to be?” said Jan;
“I’ve faithfully done all I can:
I’ve served you as a friend,” quo’ he,
“So long in all humility,
And serve you still!” “Tis true,” said she,
“And yet you will not serve for me!”
* * * * *
A knight, a doctor, a new nobleman,
A duke, a count, to make of any man,
Is no great art, and this can princes do.
Would Heaven grant us but some princes, who
Could by authority of ring and seal,
With men of sense provide the commonweal!
* * * * *
“My parents,” Andrew said, “were drowned at sea,
Therefore no vessel, ship, or boat, for me!”
“My father and my mother,” Adrian said,
“Died in their beds: shall I not go to bed?”
* * * * *
Twelve men to try a crime is British use:—
A thief was asked his jury for to choose.
“The twelve apostles—honest men they be.”
Then said a man: “But those we shall not see
Before the day of judgment.” “Gentlemen,
I’ll gladly wait the trial until then.”
* * * * *
Once poor, and kind of heart, thou’rt rich and greedy, Jan!
The touchstone proves the gold, the gold doth prove the man.
CONSTANTIJN HUYGENS, 1596–1687.
I met a kinsman of mine but now,
And asked him where he lived, and how?
“Like any prince,” so said my friend,
“I have enough to eat and drink, and debts without an end.”
[Illustration:
“I MET A KINSMAN OF MINE.”
]
* * * * *
Said Jan, twice wedded to a scolding wife,
“Church-going’s the great pleasure of my life;
’Tis strange and sweet to see a man, O rare!
Keep full five hundred women quiet there!”
_THE VILLAGE ON THE FRONTIER._[26]
CHARACTERS.
MARIA (_Maid_).
MICHIEL (_Man-servant_).
NICOLAAS (_Landlord and Burgomaster_).
LIEUTENANT EDELING.
VAN WERVE, } (_Refugees_).
CLARA (_his daughter_) }
CAPTAIN D’EGLANTIERS.
LIEUTENANT TAELINCK.
SERGEANT PLUCKX.
CORPORAL NESTEIRS.
PRIVATE PESSEREAU.
ACT I.
_A Village Inn. Evening._ MICHIEL _asleep in a chair_.
_Maria_ (_the maid—behind the scenes_). Michiel, where are you?
[_Entering._] He is lazy enough for a member of the Brussels Committee.
Michiel, get up!
_Michiel_ (_awaking_). Well, what’s up now?
_Maria._ Wake up, at any rate! Isn’t it perfectly scandalous to lie
there, at seven o’clock in the evening, snoring like an ox?
_Michiel._ Does that hurt any one?
_Maria._ Is there no work to do then?
_Michiel._ That won’t amount to much. Travellers won’t give us any
trouble, it’s not worth their while to cross the frontier just now; and
the farmers have their money under lock and key, and not a cent about
them to take a dram with.
_Maria._ Is there nothing else for you to do? Couldn’t you take your
rifle, in your spare time, and drill a little? Everybody is drilling
just now; there isn’t a child but can load at twelve different rates.
And you, of all others, ought to be ready to give an account of yourself
when the rebels come to pay us a visit. People on the frontier, if no
others, ought to be always in readiness.
(_Sings_) “Only with vigilance, powder, and ball,
In time of need, one can live at all
Upon the Belgian border.”
_Michiel._ Well! you’ve got hold of that sentiment by the wrong end. Let
me tell you the right way of it.
“He who would live in a border place
Must always exhibit a double face.
Let the Dutch army come—we’ll fly
Old Holland’s colours right merrily;
Let the Brabanters march this way,
And the Belgian flag goes up to-day,
And so in varying order.
Not by courage or powder and ball,
By cunning alone we can live at all
Upon the Belgian border!”
_Maria._ Do you know that you deserve to be hanged, with such infamous
principles as that?
_Michiel._ Why, it’s just to escape hanging that I want to put them into
practice, as our schoolmaster says.
_Maria._ Our schoolmaster used to say you were an ignorant ass; but I
see that at any rate you have remembered something.
_Michiel._ He shall be sorry, one of these days, for having spoken of me
in that way. But, never mind that, I have a good idea.
_Maria._ A fine one, I expect!
_Michiel._ Just listen. We cannot help it if one party or the other
wants to annex us; so we must try and keep friends with both, and make
each of them believe we are on their side. Now, I’ve asked the
house-painter for a couple of pots of paint: there they are. You say I
never carry anything out; now you shall just see.
_Maria._ Well—and then?
_Michiel._ Why, you see, the Orange flag is still on the church tower?
_Maria._ Yes; and if you dare to touch it, I’ll scratch your eyes out!
_Michiel._ My idea was to paint it with the Brabant colours on the side
towards Brabant. If the Dutch come from the north—very good! they see
the Orange flag. If the Brabanters come from the south—very good too!
they’ll see their own colours.
_Maria._ Well, that’s a nice invention!
_Michiel._ Isn’t it? I think they ought to give me a prize out of the
village treasury; for in this way I am saving every one from
embarrassment.
_Maria._ But you’ve forgotten one thing!
_Michiel._ Forgotten! What’s that?
_Maria._ When the wind changes, the Brabanters will see Orange, and the
Dutch the Brabant colours; and then, perhaps, both of them will bombard
the village, and you in it—which would not be the worst loss of all.
_Michiel._ That’s true; I never thought of that. But, after all, is
there no contrivance to prevent that? With a rope, for instance?
_Maria._ You’re a nice politician! It doesn’t do to forget that the wind
may change. So leave politics alone for the future, or I’ll tell the
master what sort of fellow you are.
_Michiel._ Would you go and tell tales, just because I have a little
more sense than the master? He will get us all into trouble before he’s
done, because he can’t give and take.
_Maria._ Then both of you taken together ought to make a man after your
own heart. If you ask any of the poor people hereabouts, they will tell
you whether or not he knows how to give; and if you were in his place,
you would certainly do nothing but take.
_Michiel._ Yes; having is having, but getting’s the trick! Much good has
the master done himself, with all his giving away. Then you have the
King; what numbers of people he has helped out of his own pocket-money!
And what has he gained by it? Nothing! They are breaking his
window-panes with his own three-guilder pieces!
_Maria._ Would you follow the example of such ungrateful wretches?
_Michiel._ Just now the question is, What pays best? And if we are ever
to be man and wife, it will surely be necessary to scrape a little money
together first, if we want to live like decent people.
_Maria._ We man and wife! You may make your mind easy on that point!
_Michiel._ It’s not to be? Very good—you’ll change your mind some day,
and come asking me on your bare knees to make you my wife,—some day when
I’m a great lord, just like the man with the whale,[27] who is now a
general among the Brabanters.
_Maria._ If being a fool and a scoundrel is enough to give a man high
rank among the rebels, you will have plenty of chances; but I won’t talk
to you any more.
_Michiel._ Have you anything more to say? Because, if not, I’ll go to
sleep again.
_Maria._ Nothing but this, that for the present, not being a general as
yet, you might go to Peter Kluisken’s and fetch the pig that the master
has bought.
_Michiel._ A nice little job! To tramp all that way at this time of
night, and in the direction of the Belgian sentinels, too. Well, just
you look out; if I meet them, I bring them here—upon my word I will.
[_Exit._
_Maria_ (_alone_). The scoundrel! He is quite capable of doing it. And
_he_ expects to marry me? Not if I know it.
_Enter_ NICOLAAS, _the landlord, with a newspaper in his hand_.
_Maria._ Well, sir, what’s the news?
_Nicolaas._ Good news, my girl. A division of our brave North
Netherlanders is marching this way; perhaps they may even pass through
this village.
_Maria._ That would be a pleasure. I wish some of them would stay here,
then the brigands, who yesterday were only a few miles from this place,
would never dare to show themselves.
_Nicolaas._ I think they will keep pretty quiet for the future.
_Maria._ Are there any more news in the paper, sir?
_Nicolaas._ H’m! h’m! not so fast, child. [_Glances over the paper._]
They do not seem to have made up their minds yet at Brussels whom they
are going to have at the head of the Government.
_Maria._ I can quite believe that; and I don’t think there are many men
very eager to undertake the management of such a confused state of
affairs.
_Nicolaas._ They may seek long enough, the ungrateful hounds, before
they find another ruler under whom they will be as happy as they were
under our good old King.
_Maria._ Any news besides, sir?
_Nicolaas._ Do let me read in peace.... H’m! yes; they are complaining
of scarcity in all the Belgian towns.
_Maria._ Of course they are. They may hate the Dutch, but they’ll find
they can’t get on without Dutch money. What other news is there?
_Nicolaas._ The Powers have resolved to keep to the non-intervention
system.
_Maria._ Non-intervention! what’s that? It must be a fine thing whatever
it is; every one is talking about it.
_Nicolaas._ Well, how can I best explain it? It means ... not to meddle
with other people’s affairs. For instance, if your neighbour comes and
asks you to help him because his house is on fire, and you tell him to
put it out himself, for it’s no affair of yours,—that’s
non-intervention. But listen ... I hear the sound of horses’ hoofs. Who
can it be?
_A voice outside._ Does the burgomaster live here?
_Nicolaas._ Coming!
[Illustration:
“JUST COME IN, LIEUTENANT.”
]
Maria (looking out). Lancers! lancers!
_Enter_ EDELING, _with two lancers_.
_Edeling._ I want to speak to the burgomaster. Does he live here?
_Nicolaas._ Just come in, Lieutenant. Come in, gentlemen, I am very glad
to see you. What will your honour take? Maria, run to the cellar,
there’s a good girl, and bring up a bottle of the best.
[_Exit Maria._
_Edeling._ Not for me, thanks; I don’t want anything. My time is short,
and so are my orders.
_Nicolaas._ I won’t listen to a word before the gentlemen have had some
refreshment.
_Enter_ MARIA _with wine_; NICOLAAS _opens bottle_.
_Edeling._ I do not care for useless compliments. I am commissioned to
buy some cattle here, and bring them at once to headquarters. How many
head can you let me have, and at what price, to be paid in cash at once?
_Nicolaas._ We will see. (_To Maria._) Is Michiel back yet?
_Maria._ He is only just gone out.
_Nicolaas._ Then you will have to do the errand. Run at once to Peter
Slof and Cornelis de Ruyter, and ask them to come here at once. I want
to see them about a cattle contract. Well, what are you dawdling for?
_Maria._ Because—because——[_Looks at the lancers._] I’m so glad! [_Runs
out._]
_Nicolaas_ (_offering wine_). Come, just one glass!
_Edeling._ If you insist. (_Suspiciously._) Are you not going to drink
too, Burgomaster? (_Drinks._) What’s to pay?
_Nicolaas._ Who’s talking about payment? Haven’t I even a glass of wine
to spare for our brave defenders?
_Edeling._ Well, but you’re an innkeeper. Take these two guilders and
put them in your pocket, for it’s against orders for us to get anything
on credit.
_Nicolaas._ And I say I won’t have the money. I can be obstinate enough,
too, when I once begin. Take it, and give it to the Government as a
voluntary subscription on my part. You don’t trust me, Lieutenant, and
that grieves me to the heart. I see I shall have to put on my Sunday
coat; perhaps that will give you more confidence. [_Fetches a coat, with
a medal on it, and puts it on. The lancers salute._] Now, do I look like
a man who would betray you? I won that at Waterloo.
_Edeling._ Forgive me for suspecting you; but so many of your class,
especially on the frontier, have turned out traitors, that suspicion has
become a disagreeable duty. What is the general feeling in this village?
_Nicolaas._ Not what it ought to be. I fear that, if the rebels were to
arrive, there are those, here and there, who would join them. It seems
as though people were struck with blindness; they want change at any
price. They have let themselves be persuaded that they will have no
taxes to pay under the Brabant Government. That’s the worst of the
people here; they are stupid, they don’t reason.
_Edeling._ They don’t know any better, I suppose. Do you think your
friends will be here soon?
_Nicolaas._ Presently, I hope. Your honour seems to be in a hurry. Is it
far to headquarters?
_Edeling._ A couple of hours. We are to march again at daybreak
to-morrow. I am sorry we are not going farther, for I fear we shall not
meet any of the enemy. I would willingly have paid them a visit.
_Nicolaas._ You are very eager for fighting.
_Edeling._ Particularly so; for, besides my wish to do my duty by my
king and country, I have a private account to settle with the gentlemen
from the south. They are keeping my bride a prisoner.
_Nicolaas._ Your bride! I thought women, at least, would have been
respected.
_Edeling._ Her father is a well-known soldier; when the first
disturbances broke out in the place where he was in command, he gave
orders to fire on the rebels. They never forgave him, and when he had
the misfortune to fall into their hands they kept him in prison—his
daughter refusing to leave him.
_Enter_ MARIA.
_Maria._ Here come Peter Slof and Cornelis de Ruyter.
_Nicolaas._ Very good! Shall we go to meet them, and look at their
beasts together?
_Edeling._ Willingly. Thank you for doing the errand (_to Maria_.), and
here is something to remember the Lieutenant by. [_Gives her money, and
exit with Nicolaas._]
_Maria_ (_alone_). A guilder! Well, I’ll keep that as a remembrance. A
nice man that lieutenant! One can see he comes from Holland. But who are
these strangers coming in so timidly?
_Enter_ VAN WERVE _and_ CLARA.
_Van Werve._ Can we get a night’s lodging here?
_Maria._ Please don’t take it ill of me, I must ask first where your
honour comes from? We can’t take any one in for the night without first
knowing who it is we are sheltering.
_Van Werve._ I will answer your question to the Burgomaster. Where does
he live? and can I speak to him?
_Maria._ He lives here. The Burgomaster and the landlord are the same
person. The master will be home directly.
_Clara._ Will you please tell us what province we are in?
_Maria._ In North Brabant, Mejuffrouw.
_Clara._ Thank Heaven! then you are safe, father!
_Maria._ Safe! Then you are refugees?
_Van Werve._ Clara!
_Clara._ I was imprudent, father—forgive me. But I could not control my
joy at finding myself once more in our own country, after all that we
have gone through.
_Van Werve._ I am not yet sure that we are safe here.
_Clara._ If we had anything to fear here, I feel sure, from this girl’s
honest face, that she would not betray us.
_Maria._ I betray you! I’d sooner die a thousand times over. But come
and sit down—you seem tired.
_Clara._ It is true, we have been walking for a long time, and I begin
to feel it.
_Van Werve._ My dear child, what a difficult and anxious journey you
have exposed yourself to, to save your father. (_To Maria._) Yes, my
good girl, I have been in prison,—my daughter has succeeded in saving
me, and it is to her courage and devotion I owe it that we have been
able to pass the enemy’s outposts and reach this village.
_Maria._ It’s lucky you just happened to come to-day. A few Dutch
soldiers arrived not long ago, who will be quite ready to escort you to
a safe place, if you prefer not to stay here any longer.
_Van Werve._ My comrades! Oh, where are they? Take me to them.
_Maria._ I will call them,—or—wait—I think I hear them coming.
_Enter_ EDELING.
_Maria._ What, alone, Lieutenant? Where are the rest?
_Edeling._ They have gone on with the oxen. I found I had left my cloak
here. But whom do I see?
_Van Werve._ The voice seems familiar.
_Clara_ (_hastens to him_). Edeling!
_Edeling._ Clara!—Mijnheer van Werve!...
_Van Werve._ So you’ve enlisted, Edeling? Well done, my boy! That is
what I should have expected of a true-born Dutchman like yourself!
_Edeling._ Your words remind me that I am no longer my own master. I am
expected every minute at the camp.
_Clara._ Cannot we go with you?
_Edeling._ I have only my horse; but perhaps there is a conveyance of
some sort to be had in the village.
_Maria._ Oh! three if you like. I will go at once to order one.
_Van Werve._ Stop a moment, girl. I—alas!—I have no money to pay for a
conveyance.
_Edeling._ Here is my purse—but I really must go.
_Van Werve_ (_putting back the purse_). I must not accept it. I can
never return it. I possess nothing now.
_Edeling._ Nothing?
_Van Werve._ Not a cent. The little ready money we had with us we have
been obliged to spend on the road; and this morning I had the
misfortune, to leave behind——
_Edeling._ Well?
_Van Werve._ My portmanteau, with my whole fortune in it, at the village
where we stopped for the night.
_Maria._ Well, portmanteau or no portmanteau, you will have to drive,
and I’m going to fetch the carriage.
[_Exit._
_Van Werve._ It was no carelessness on our part; the pursuers were at
our heels—we had no time to save anything but ourselves.
_Edeling._ And isn’t it enough for me to see you safe, sir, you and my
Clara? Is not everything I have yours? Take my purse. As soon as you can
get a vehicle, follow me as quickly as you can, for I must not delay one
moment longer.
_Enter_ MARIA, _hastily_.
_Maria._ Save yourselves, for Heaven’s sake! save yourselves! they’re
coming!
_Omnes._ Who? What? [_A noise outside._]
_Maria._ The brigands! Don’t you hear them? They’re shouting, “_Vive de
liberteyt!_”
_Edeling_ (_draws his pistols_). The first who dares——
_Maria_ (_seizes him by the arm_). Are you mad? What is the good of your
pistols against a whole band? Quick! out at the back door. (_To Van
Werve and Clara._) And you—into this room! I’ll come back to you in a
minute.
_Edeling._ But if——
_Maria_ (_pushes him out at a side door_). No buts! make haste!
[_Exit Edeling._
_Van Werve._ Can’t we follow him?
_Maria._ Certainly not. He is a young fellow, and can take care of
himself. Three of you would arouse suspicion, and perhaps lead to
mischief if he tried to defend you. Just come in here. [_Opens the door
of a room on one side._]
_Clara._ We leave our fate in your hands.
[_Exeunt Van Werve and Clara._
_Enter_ MICHIEL, _bringing with him a number of Belgian volunteers,
among whom Captain D’Eglantiers, Lieutenant Taelinck, Sergeant
Pluckx, Corporal Nestiers, and Private Passereau. They speak the
broad Flemish or South Netherlands dialect, largely interspersed
with French words. On entering, all of them, including Michiel,
sing, to the air of “La Dame Blanche”_—
Victory! Victory!
The enemy’s away!
Who conquers through sheer bravery
But Old Brabant and liberty?
Victory! Victory!
Glory and loot to-day!
_Maria._ Well, they do look like lunatics; and there’s that villain of a
Michiel with them.
_D’Eglantiers_ (_wiping his sword_). The victory is ours, comrades! Our
courage has repulsed the enemy, and maintained the glory of our name.
Lieutenant Taelinck, see that none of the Hollanders escape who are
hidden away here, do you hear?
_Taelinck._ I have seen to that, Captain. All the exits are well
guarded.
_Maria_ (_aside_). The poor quarter-master! how will he escape?
_Michiel._ What will the gentlemen please to take? Everything in the
house is at your service.
_Maria._ Just listen to the contemptible rascal?
_D’Eglantiers_ (_to Michiel_). You’re a fine fellow! Just let the lass
fetch a litre of wine from the cellar.
_Michiel._ Do you hear? Fetch wine for the gentlemen.
_Maria_ (_treading on his toes as she goes out_). You villainous
traitor!
_D’Eglantiers_ (_to Michiel_). Do you live in the house?
_Michiel._ I live here, Captain. (_Aside._) I need not tell him in what
capacity.
_D’Eglantiers._ You are a brave _citoyen_! Without you, we should never
have found the way to this village so soon. I think I might make you
Burgomaster.
_Michiel._ Indeed you couldn’t do better, Captain. I will at once give
orders to have the Brabant flag hoisted.
[_He is about to leave the room._]
_D’Eglantiers._ There’s no need of that. It’s _obscur_ out of doors, and
one can’t very well distinguish the colours. But I’ll tell you what to
do. Go at once and fetch the notables of the village, and tell them to
come here to-morrow with the first _lumière_ to hold a meeting of the
council. Corporal Nestiers, go along with the Burgomaster, and whoever
does not come with you at once, _de bonne volonté_, you must bring him
by force; for liberty must triumph.
_Michiel_ (_aside_). Michiel, Burgomaster!
_D’Eglantiers_ (_sits down_). I shall make my headquarters here
provisionally. Let’s see—what has to be done now?...
_Enter_ MARIA, _bringing wine_. _All sit down and drink._
_D’Eglantiers._ Ahem!—reports ... but who is to write them? Lieutenant
Taelinck, can you write?
_Taelinck._ No, Captain.
_D’Eglantiers._ Why are you a lieutenant then?
_Taelinck._ But you can’t do it either, Captain—or read, for that
matter.
_D’Eglantiers._ Silence! I’m a captain to give orders, not to write.
Sergeant Pluckx, can you write?
_Pluckx._ Not I—but there’s Private Passereau, he knows how.
_Passereau._ Plaît-il?
_D’Eglantiers._ I’m asking if you can write.
_Passereau._ _Verdikke!_[28] eh?
_D’Eglantiers._ If you can write—don’t you understand?
_Passereau._ _Je n’entends pas—verdikke!_
_Pluckx._ _Verdikke_ is the only word of Flemish that Passereau knows.
_D’Eglantiers._ So he can’t write Flemish. (_To Maria._) Can you write,
my girl?
_Maria._ At your service, Captain.
_D’Eglantiers._ That’s curious! Sit down here, then, and write as I
dictate.
_Maria_ (_sits down at the table—aside_). What an idea!... Yes, I think
it will do!
_D’Eglantiers._ Write: Report....
_Enter_ NICOLAAS, NESTIERS, _and two others_.
_Nestiers._ Captain, here is a fellow who has been rebelling against us.
_D’Eglantiers._ Well—what has he been doing?
_Nestiers._ He forcibly resisted our entrance into an _écurie_ in which
there was a lancer’s horse standing.
_D’Eglantiers._ And where was the lancer who sat on the horse?
_Nestiers._ He is nowhere to be found.
_D’Eglantiers._ Well—just look through the whole village till you find
him.
[_Exeunt Nestiers and others._
_D’Eglantiers_ (_to Nicolaas_). Who are you?
_Nicolaas._ I am the Burgomaster.
_D’Eglantiers._ The ex-burgomaster! I have put another burgomaster in
your place—do you understand? But if you will make your _soumission_ to
the Committee, then, perhaps....
_Nicolaas._ Never!
_D’Eglantiers._ What!—do you know that I can have you _fusillé_?
_Nicolaas._ So you may, if you like!
_D’Eglantiers._ What do you say? Stop where you are—I shall have a word
to speak with you presently—do you understand? (_To Maria._) Write!
_Nicolaas._ What! Maria, are you giving this scoundrel any help?
_Maria._ Why not? The gentleman was in such trouble because he could not
find any one able to write.
_D’Eglantiers._ Where did I leave off dictating?
(_Sings_) Write with care—or you’ll regret!
_Maria._ Captain, not a word I’ve written—
You have told me nothing yet!
_D’Eglantiers._ Write: Our army, fear-compelling,
Took six hamlets in a day.
_Nicolaas._ Since they saw no en’my—surely
No great wonder anyway.
_D’Eglantiers._ Of the foe full seven hundred
Fell before our conquering force!
_Nicolaas._ Numbers which, if rightly sifted,
Come to just one lancer’s horse!
_D’Eglantiers._ Out of all my valiant heroes
Only one has fall’n—the which—
_Nicolaas._ As I’ve just had information,
Fell dead drunk into a ditch.
_D’Eglantiers._ Good!—you now may cease your labours!
So!—a neat despatch you see,
Accurate and interesting,
As they always ought to be.
_Nicolaas._ Such as all despatches be!
_D’Eglantiers._ Well—now let us just look at it. H’m that’s written very
cleverly. Now for the proclamation. Another sheet of paper! Write:
Proclamation! Have you written that sentence?
_Maria._ Yes—what next?
_D’Eglantiers._ We, Captain d’Eglantiers and Lieutenant Taelinck,—to all
who are about to read these presents—salutation!
_Maria_ (_writing_). To all who are _able_ to read these presents....
_D’Eglantiers._ _About_ to read, I said! Fellow-citizens! we are
bringing you _la liberté_. We have risked our life-blood to procure it
for you: we also hope that you will show yourselves _reconnaissants._...
Hey! now what do you say to such a sentence as that? That’s what I call
eloquence!
_Maria._ Undoubtedly! That is very neatly said, Captain.
_D’Eglantiers._ I see you’re a girl of taste and intelligence. Go on—and
that you are to give us ... give us ... everything that is necessary.
Well, that’s short and to the point, isn’t it?
_Maria._ A very fine style, and any one can understand what is meant at
the very first reading.
_D’Eglantiers_ (_gratified_). Can’t they just?
_Maria._ Now you’re going to sign both papers, aren’t you, Captain?
_D’Eglantiers._ Yes; I’ll put a little cross to them—that’s my mark.
Lieutenant Taelinck, are you going to sign them too?
_Taelinck_ (_half asleep_). Yes, yes. [_They sign._]
_D’Eglantiers._ Now the report must be enclosed in an envelope, and sent
to the General, and the proclamation will be posted up to-morrow.
[_Maria hastily hides the signed paper in her dress, and folds
another, which she hands to D’Eglantiers._]
_Maria._ Here you are, Captain. (_Aside._) I have it all right.
_D’Eglantiers_ (_hands the paper to Private Passereau_). Get on your
horse at once, and take this paper to the General.
_Passereau._ _Verdikke! Dans la nuit_——
_D’Eglantiers._ Go at once! [_Exit Passereau._] Well, that’s finished.
Now I’ll go and get an hour or two’s sleep. You’ll call me, my good
girl, when the council is assembled, won’t you?
_Maria._ Yes; and in the meantime I will go and post up the
proclamation.
_D’Eglantiers_ (_takes it hastily from her, and puts it into his
pocket_). No; I must first read it out, or have it read, to the council.
Now, where is my bedroom?
[_He is about to go into Van Werve’s room._]
_Maria_ (_quickly_). No, not there. The left-hand door, sir.
[_Points to a door on the opposite side._]
_Nicolaas_ (_aside_). I don’t understand it. Why does she want to put
that fellow into my bedroom? (_Aloud._) Maria, are you mad! the other
room is——
_Maria_ (_interrupting him quickly_). Just suited to a prisoner.
_D’Eglantiers_ (_pointing to Nicolaas_). Then he must be put in there.
_Nicolaas._ But——
_Maria_ (_quickly, aside to Nicolaas_). Leave it to me!
_D’Eglantiers._ Good-night! (_Turning to the Volunteers._) If Nestiers
comes with the portmanteau, tell him to bring it into my room. Do you
hear?
[_Nicolaas goes into the room in which Van Werve and Clara are
hidden, while Maria takes a candle and shows D’Eglantiers into
the left-hand bedroom._]
_Taelinck_ (_crouching over the fire_). B-rrr! it’s famously cold!
_Pluckx._ I believe you! The Government really ought to provide us with
better clothing.
_Taelinck._ That’s just the beauty of liberty, that every one has to
look out for himself.
_Pluckx._ And that’s just what I mean to do, so soon as that girl comes
back.
_Edeling_ (_appears in the doorway and looks in_). These fellows are
everywhere! I am caught in a trap.
_Pluckx._ But just tell us now, Lieutenant, who is supposed to be
governing us at the present moment? for every day I hear of a fresh
sovereign, who has been recommended to us.
_Taelinck._ Who is governing us? Why, Liberty!
_Pluckx._ I shan’t be sorry to see some change, then; for I haven’t yet
seen the colour of Liberty’s money. I think the lass must be very hard
up.
_Enter_ MARIA.
_Maria_ (_aside_). Is this rabble going to stay here all right?
_Pluckx._ I say, my girl, look here. Have you got a blanket or rug you
could let me have?
_Maria._ What for?
_Pluckx._ You’ll soon see that—_comprenez_?
_Maria._ I have; if you will be sure to give it back.
_Pluckx._ Oh! you shall have it back soon.
_Maria_ (_takes a blanket out of a chest_). Here is one; but you shall
not have it, unless you give me your tunic as a pledge that you will
return it.
_Pluckx._ Come, none of that chatter!
_Maria._ Gently, gently! You have seen that the Captain lets me write
his proclamations for him. Nothing would be easier than for me to put in
a word against you, if you don’t behave yourselves.
_Taelinck._ The girl is right, Pluckx.
_Pluckx._ Well, here’s my _sarrau_, then! It’s not a bad exchange. [_He
gives his tunic to Maria, and cuts three slits in the blanket._]
_Maria._ What’s that for?
_Pluckx._ A new-fashioned overcoat for the winter. [_Puts his head and
arms through the slits. All laugh except Maria._]
_Maria._ Well, as you’ve spoilt my blanket for me, you shall not have
your tunic back either.
_Enter_ NESTIERS.
_Nestiers._ Come, men, here are your billets; and here (_laying it on
the floor_) is the Captain’s portmanteau.
_Pluckx._ You mean the portmanteau that the Captain looted this morning.
_Maria and Edeling_ (_aside_). Is it possible?
_Taelinck._ Well, be quick and give out your billets. I’m going to stay
here. I suppose there’s a second bed in the Captain’s room?
_Maria._ Surely.
_Taelinck._ _Allons donc!_ Right-about march! Place a sentry outside the
front door, and see that no one goes in or out without permission from
the Captain or me.
[_Goes into D’Eglantiers’ room with the portmanteau. The others
retire. Enter_ EDELING, _to whom Maria hands Passereau’s tunic,
in which he escapes_.]
ACT II.
_Middle of night._ D’EGLANTIERS _alone with the portmanteau under his
arm and a candlestick in his hand_.
_D’Eglantiers._ I see they’ve brought me the portmanteau. Let’s seize
the golden moment, while old Taelinck lies snoring like an ox, to
inspect the contents a bit. [_Breaks the lock, and rummages through the
portmanteau, taking out a necktie or some similar article, which he puts
on._] What do I see? This seems to be a handsome capture! And I’ll be
hanged if these are not Government bonds! _Ma foi!_ Now I’m a rich man,
and can let the service slide with an easy mind! I shall lose nothing by
resigning—no one ever got his pay out of a Provisional Government!
However, we must keep a sharp look-out, and not let any of my comrades
find out what has been in here! All honest fellows, no doubt, but
suffering from the same complaint as myself! Where shall I hide the
packets? The portmanteau won’t lock now; and, besides, several of them
have seen it already.
[_Remains standings with the bonds in his hands. Enter_ MARIA.]
_Maria._ Up already, Captain?
_D’Eglantiers_ (_starts, and tries to hide the papers_). What,—what is
it?
_Maria_ (_aside_). That’s the portmanteau in question. (_Aloud._)
Nothing, Captain; I came to see if you wanted anything.
_D’Eglantiers._ Nothing! or,—wait! (_Looking at her attentively.
Aside._) The girl seems trustworthy ... otherwise ... yes, I suppose
that will be best!
_Maria_ (_aside_). What is he considering with himself?
_D’Eglantiers._ My good girl, I have here some of the army reports;
could you tell me of a safe place, where no one comes poking and prying
round, and where I can _cacher_ them in safety till my departure?
_Maria_ (_aside_). He’s running into the trap of his own accord. (_To
D’Eglantiers, pointing to the cupboard._) Shall I hide them in here,
under the house linen? But in that case you must give your men orders
not to go about plundering my cupboards.
_D’Eglantiers._ I’ll promise you that, but just open it.
[_Maria opens the cupboard; D’Eglantiers hides the bonds inside
it._]
_Maria._ I think, Captain, that packet must contain something more than
reports and general orders!
_D’Eglantiers._ No, it really does not, by——
_Maria._ Well, I’ll believe you; so you need not swear about it. But it
looked to me rather like bonds. [_Locks the cupboard, and is about to
put the key in her pocket, but D’Eglantiers prevents her._]
_D’Eglantiers._ Stop! I keep that key, do you hear?
_Maria._ Do you, sir? they’re bonds! Otherwise you would not be so much
afraid of losing them!
_D’Eglantiers._ Yes, if that were true——
_Maria._ Then you wouldn’t be captain of a volunteer company, would you?
_D’Eglantiers._ No, certainly not!
_Maria._ No, if you were only rich, you’d already be a Member of
Congress,—perhaps even of the Provisional Government....
_D’Eglantiers._ Yes; I do really think, if I were richer——
_Maria._ Not a doubt about it! A man of your talents and your eloquence
would certainly have reached a high rank at Brussels, but for the want
of means.
_D’Eglantiers._ You’re flattering me; but, after all, think of the
numbers of conceited fools that have been elected to Congress! They do
nothing but talk and mismanage matters.
_Maria._ I really think that you ought to be there, sir. It’s quite a
mistake your not going! Brussels is the only place fit for you.
_D’Eglantiers._ I tell you once more, you’re a flatterer; but I promise
you one thing,—as soon as I’ve hoisted the Brabant flag on the church
tower of this village, I’ll go to Brussels and ask for my discharge.
_Maria_ (_aside_). A pleasant journey to you,—so long as the bonds
remain here!
_Enter_ TAELINCK.
_Taelinck._ You’re up early, Captain?
_D’Eglantiers._ Yes, yes, good-morning! (_Looking sideways at the
portmanteau._) May the devil——
_Taelinck._ It seems to me you’ve been looking out for yourself already.
Was the portmanteau quite empty like that?
_D’Eglantiers_ (_somewhat embarrassed_). Well, there wasn’t much in it.
_Taelinck._ You’re not a man of your word, Captain! You promised that we
should share and share alike, whatever was in it.
_D’Eglantiers._ When there is nothing, there’s nothing to share; do you
hear?
_Taelinck._ You might at least have waited to open it till I was there.
_D’Eglantiers._ Lieutenant, you’re becoming insolent; you’re forgetting
discipline!
_Taelinck._ I shall let the General know that you keep all the loot to
yourself.
_D’Eglantiers._ There stands the girl,—ask; let her _témoigner_ whether
there was anything in it but——
_Maria._ But eight linen shirts, which the Captain gave me to put away
in the cupboard. Shall I get them out, Captain?
_D’Eglantiers._ Yes, yes,—here’s the key! (_Aside._) That’s a little
jewel of a girl!
[_Maria opens the cupboard, and takes out a pile of shirts, which
she drops on the floor. While the two officers are busy picking
them up, she hides the bonds under her apron._]
_Maria._ There they are,—eight of them!
_Taelinck._ That’s five for me,—but was there nothing more?
_Maria._ Nothing. [_She locks the cupboard, and returns the key to
D’Eglantiers._]
_D’Eglantiers_ (_aside to Maria_). If I ever get into the Government,
I’ll see that you have a pension.
_Maria._ I should like to ask you something, sir. First, about the
landlord,—my master, you know,—the man you took prisoner yesterday, and
who is in that room; will you set him free again?
_D’Eglantiers._ H’m! h’m! a rebel like that? but, since you ask it ...
well, go and fetch him!
_Maria._ And in the second place, will you let my sister and my uncle,
who are sleeping here, go back to their own village undisturbed?
_D’Eglantiers._ Where do they live?
_Maria._ Why ... not very far off.
_D’Eglantiers._ Well, if they lived at the other end of nowhere, I
should let them go, since it is you that ask it!
_Maria._ Very good; I’ll go at once and tell them.
[_Exit._
_D’Eglantiers_ (_aside_). That’s the right sort of girl! she’s saved me
from all my anxiety.
_Taelinck_ (_aside_). I don’t feel anything like easy about that affair
of the cupboard!
_Enter_ NICOLAAS.
_Nicolaas._ Captain, the maid tells me you have given orders for my
release.
_D’Eglantiers._ Yes; because that girl asked me, I’ve let you go, but
mind what you’re about next time. The council is going to assemble here,
and you may vote with the rest, because I want liberty to flourish.
_Enter_ PLUCKX.
_Pluckx._ Captain! here’s the council; are you ready for them?
_D’Eglantiers._ Yes, yes, let them come; but,—I tell you what,—let ten
or a dozen of our men come in too, so as to maintain full liberty during
the discussions; do you hear?
_Pluckx._ Very good, Captain.
[_Pluckx goes out, and returns with the principal men of the
village, headed by Michiel, as Burgomaster, and some
Volunteers._]
_Nicolaas_ (_to Michiel_). What in the devil’s name are you doing here?
Look alive, and get to the stables!
_Michiel._ Why, master, are you there? That’s lucky. I’ll have you for
my man-of-all-work, master!
_Nicolaas._ Why, man, are you gone wrong in your head? or——
_Michiel._ Not at all! The Captain here has made me Burgomaster of the
village;—so you see, sir, that things look very bad for you.
_D’Eglantiers._ Silence! The council is going to be opened, and every
one is to sit down.
[_The “Notables,” with Michiel in their midst, sit down in a circle,
while D’Eglantiers takes his place at a table, with Taelinck by
his side._]
_D’Eglantiers._ The _séance_ must be public, as is the proper thing for
all liberal governments.
_Nicolaas._ Of course—so that every one can hear the nonsense that is
talked.
_D’Eglantiers._ Therefore, Pluckx, open the door; but don’t let every
one in, or the room will be overcrowded, you understand?
_Nicolaas._ A very wise precaution!
[_The front door and shutters are opened. It is daylight._]
_D’Eglantiers._ Citizens! in the name of the Government, I offer you _la
liberté_, _les lumières_, _et l’ordre légal_. Do you understand that?
_The Schoolmaster._ It seems to mean the same thing as freedom,
enlightenment, and law and order.
_Nicolaas_ (_standing up_). Surely, sir, it is scarcely necessary to
give us what we have possessed for a long time already!
_D’Eglantiers._ Silence! I bring you liberty in all things,—no more
coercion,—no more monopoly! Education and trade are free. Is there a
school here?
_The Schoolmaster._ Certainly, sir, the Society for National Education—
_D’Eglantiers._ Done away with! Abolished! The parents are free from
henceforth, and, as a natural consequence, the children also. No more
schools; at any rate, none of the National Education Society’s!
_Nicolaas._ That I am quite willing to believe.
_D’Eglantiers._ Silence! Is there any factory in this _commune_?
_Nicolaas._ There are six, in which hundreds of people earn their
living.
_D’Eglantiers._ Monopoly must be abolished. Every one ought to be
allowed freely to make what he likes. Therefore all the factories must
be sacked.
_Nicolaas._ The factories sacked? Is that the freedom you are bringing
us? (_Turning to the Notables._) And you are going to allow this?
(_Confusion in the meeting._)
_D’Eglantiers._ Silence! _Volontaires!_ the first man that contradicts,
you are to shoot through the head. Otherwise free discussion becomes an
impossibility.
[_The Volunteers take aim._]
_Michiel_ (_quaking with terror_). Of course—the Cap—Captain is right.
The—(_in confusion_)—the factories must take his word for it. What a
kind amiable man the Captain is! Long live the Captain!
_D’Eglantiers._ All the ready money in the village must at once be
placed in my hands, in order to clothe my valiant troops.
_Nicolaas._ They can take care of themselves in that respect (_Points at
Pluckx._)
_D’Eglantiers._ All the wine and provisions in the place must be
presented to my troops as a voluntary gift.
_Nicolaas._ Anything else?
_D’Eglantiers._ All swords, guns, knives, spades, axes, pickaxes,
ploughshares—in short, all iron tools must be handed over to me.
_Nicolaas._ He’s not hard to please, _he_ isn’t.
_D’Eglantiers._ And the council is to deliberate whether it would not be
well to send in an address declaring their submission to the Government.
_Michiel._ A very good idea.
_Nicolaas._ I should like to say a word.
_D’Eglantiers._ Speak up!
_Taelinck._ He can’t speak. He is only the ex-Burgomaster; he is not
entitled to a share in the proceedings.
_D’Eglantiers._ Never mind—let him speak as one not entitled.
_Nicolaas._ If I may speak without danger, I should like to ask what
_is_ the Government that we are to submit to? I have already heard some
half-dozen sovereigns mentioned; and really I should not be surprised if
you had offered the crown to a Chinese mandarin.
_D’Eglantiers._ Tut! tut! all you’ve got to do is to submit—it doesn’t
matter to whom. That’s not your business.
_Nicolaas._ Then I vote against such an absurdity.
_The Schoolmaster and others._ So do I! so do I!
_D’Eglantiers._ I shall put you under arrest if you don’t vote as I tell
you.
_Nicolaas._ Is that what you understand by liberty?
_D’Eglantiers._ You are at liberty to talk as much as you like, but you
must vote as I wish.
_Nicolaas._ I thought you were more liberal than that, Captain!
_D’Eglantiers._ I can’t waste time arguing with you. [_Takes the
proclamation out of his pocket._] Here’s my manifesto. Let the
Burgomaster read it out loud.
_Michiel._ Silence! Let every one listen! (_Reads._) “Proclamation,—We,
Captain D’Eglantiers——”
_D’Eglantiers._ That’s me, standing here.
_Michiel_ (_reads_). “And Lieutenant Taelinck——”
_Taelinck._ Here’s the man you’re reading about, _compère!_
_Michiel._ “To all that shall read these presents, salutation!
salutation!” (_Bows._)
_D’Eglantiers and Taelinck._ Salutation!
_Michiel_ (_reads_). “Citizens! a Dutch army, ten thousand strong, is
marching on this village!” What’s this?
_D’Eglantiers._ That’s not on the paper, you scoundrel!
[_General consternation._]
_Michiel._ It is there—read for yourself!
_D’Eglantiers._ Then it’s a forged document—_parbleu!_
_Pluckx_ (_examines the paper_). It’s signed by you and the Lieutenant,
sir.
_All._ Go on! go on!
_Michiel_ (_reads_). “As I am not in a position, with the forces at my
disposal, to withstand so powerful an enemy, I hope you will not take it
ill of me if I beat a retreat——”
_All._ Well, now!
_Michiel_ (_reads_). “Within a quarter of an hour!”
_Nicolaas._ A pleasant journey to you!
_D’Eglantiers._ What sort of an infernal thing is this? [_Snatches the
paper out of Michiel’s hand. Aside to Taelinck._] Yes, indeed, there’s
my mark!
_Taelinck._ And mine, too!
_D’Eglantiers._ Then the girl has cheated us!
_Pluckx._ If ten thousand men are marching on us, the best thing we can
do is to march off in the other direction.
_Nicolaas._ And we will go to meet them.
_Michiel._ Yes, we’ll escort them in in triumph!
[_All the Notables, and the majority of the Volunteers, leave the
house._]
_D’Eglantiers._ What the——! What are you doing! Stay here! It’s all a
swindle!
_Enter_ MARIA, _with_ VAN WERVE _and_ CLARA, _disguised as_ _peasants_.
_Maria._ Captain, here are my sister and my uncle, who——
_D’Eglantiers._ Here! you child of Satan! I’ll sister and uncle you!
What sort of a paper is this that you’ve written? Come, now!
_Maria_ (_aside_). The fat’s in the fire now, and no mistake!
_D’Eglantiers._ Answer me! what sort of a paper is it?
_Maria._ Why, sir, haven’t you read it?
_D’Eglantiers._ I’ve heard it read, and——
_Maria._ Did you let it go out of your own hands?
_D’Eglantiers._ Insolent, too? Who’s asking questions, you or I?
_Maria._ A word in confidence, Captain? [_Draws him aside._] Don’t you
understand?—that was a trick of mine to——
_D’Eglantiers._ A trick?—a fine trick! I’ll——
_Maria._ Hush! hush! do! I knew that the Dutch troops were coming, and
in order to let you know it privately I wrote it down on that paper. I
hoped you would read it by yourself, and then act as circumstances might
demand.
_D’Eglantiers._ Well—in that case! But it is strange, though——
_Enter_ PLUCKX.
_Pluckx._ Captain, it’s time for you to show yourself. Half of our men
want to leave, and the villagers are beginning to arm!
_D’Eglantiers._ What the——[_Breaks off, and looks towards the
cupboard._] I must get hold of my bonds first. Lieutenant Taelinck, go
on. I’ll follow immediately.
_Taelinck_ (_also looking at the cupboard_). Aren’t you coming with us,
Captain?
_D’Eglantiers._ Presently, presently.
[_Taelinck goes out slowly, followed by Pluckx. D’Eglantiers runs to
the cupboard, opens it, and searches in vain for the packet._]
_Maria_ (_aside_). What shall I do now? Wait!—I have it.
[_Hastens out and comes back with Taelinck._]
_Maria_ (_to Taelinck_). It is just as I told you—the Captain has been
hiding gold and jewels in that cupboard.
_Taelinck_ (_comes forward, and taps D’Eglantiers on the shoulder_).
Well, Captain, what have you got there, say?
_D’Eglantiers_ (_surprised_). Eh! what?
[_Turns round, and seeing Taelinck, hurriedly closes the cupboard._]
_Taelinck._ You’ve hidden our booty there,—that’s quite clear. Open that
door again, and look sharp about it.
_D’Eglantiers._ What’s the good?—there’s no money in it.
_Taelinck._ I’ll report you!
_D’Eglantiers._ I won’t give you the chance! [_Draws his sword._]
_Taelinck_ (_defends himself_). You miserable thief.
[_They fight. Van Werve and Clara are about to take the opportunity
of escaping, when Pluckx enters with his men._]
_Pluckx._ What! fighting here? Why, the Hollanders are coming!
_D’Eglantiers._ What! Where? When?
[_Shouts of “Oranje boven!”[29] outside. Van Werve rushes at
Taelinck and disarms him._]
_Van Werve._ Yes!—“Oranje boven!”
_Pluckx._ Here they come! _Sauve qui peut!_
[_Tries to escape by the front door._]
_D’Eglantiers._ Where’s the back door?
_Maria_ (_calls after him_). Don’t forget your bonds, whatever you do!
[_As D’Eglantiers attempts to leave by the back door, Michiel
enters, accompanied by several Soldiers, and knocks him down
with a pitchfork, while Taelinck is being held by Van Werve.
Edeling, Nicolaas, Soldiers, and Armed Villagers enter by the
front door, and disarm Pluckx and the rest of the Belgians._]
_Michiel._ Halt! Captain! you were mistaken after all! “Oranje boven!”
_D’Eglantiers._ Traitor of a Burgomaster!
_Edeling._ My Clara!
_Michiel._ See there! I knew we should catch them.
_Nicolaas_ (_to the Dutch leader, pointing at Michiel_). Captain, you
had better secure this rascal! it was he who brought the rebels here.
_Michiel_ (_as he is seized by the Dutch_). How! what?—why, I showed you
the way myself!
_Maria._ The pitcher to the well—Michiel!
[_The insurgents and Michiel are led away._]
_Edeling_ (_seeing Maria_). Good-morning, my lass—didn’t I come back to
see you, as I said I would? (_To the others._) This is the girl who
helped me to escape.
_Van Werve._ She has served us all.
VAN LENNEP.
_PROVERBS._
He who lives with cripples learns to limp.
The best steersman stands ashore.
Self is the man.
He gives an egg to get a chicken.
They are not all princes who ride with the emperor.
He howls with the wolves when he is in the wood, and bleats with the
sheep in the field.
A little too late, much too late.
Stand still a while, you lose a mile.
The nearer Rome the worse Christian.
Call no herring before he’s in the net.
He who has choice has anxiety.
Don’t put too many eggs under one hen.
If fools were silent they’d be wise.
No man dies of threats.
The fowl that cackles most does not lay most eggs.
No mad dog ever ran for seven years.
One can see by the stockings whose leg is broken.
You should hang your cloak towards the wind.
No man ever limped for another’s sore foot.
It’s ill stealing where the host is a thief.
’Tis ill eating cherries with lords.
When slovenly people turn over a new leaf they polish the bottoms of the
saucepans.
What belongs to the ravens[30] will never drown.
All offices are greasy.[31]
What the sow does the little pigs must pay for.
With much pounding the stockfish becomes tender.
No man sees his own hump-back.
’Tis an ill water, said the horse, for he could not swim.
’Tis an ill morsel that chokes one.
Let them pump who are cold, I have my coat on.[32]
All that come of cats will go mewing.
Let the plover peck, I have the eggs in my hat.
Though the ape should wear a golden ring, yet he is an ugly thing.
He who has a fine cat should bring no furrier into his house.
Lands become sand, sands become land. (_Landen versanden, sanden
verlanden._ An epitome of the physical history of Holland.)
The greater jurist the worse Christian.
When the gnats dance in January the farmer comes to beggary.
Beware of a fair Spaniard and a swarthy Englishman.
Better sit still with an owl than fly with a falcon.
The first man in the boat has the choice of oars.
It’s the third strand that holds the cable.
Man overboard—an eater the less.
A tired horse would rather see a dirty stable than a clean high-road.
A woman’s hair pulls worse than the main-topsail.
At Boulogne there are more traps than mice.
White and black[33] were the making of Venice.
A hundred Dutchmen, a hundred knives.
A hundred Frenchmen, no knives.
A hundred Scots, two hundred knives.[34]
In Italy—too many feasts, too many chiefs, too many storms.
The Spaniard seems wise, and is not.
The Frenchman seems a fool, and is not.
The Italian seems wise, and is so.
The Portuguese seems a fool, and is so.[35]
A husband’s mother is the devil on the floor.
A house full of daughters is a cellar full of sour beer.
’Tis easy piping to those who love dancing.
Smoke, bad air, and scolding wives, are what drive men out of the house.
_A DUTCH PODSNAP._
“A glass of wine, mamma?”
“No, thank you, papa.”
“You, Caroline?”
“No, thank you, papa.”
“Frederica?”
“No, thank you, papa.”
Ditto, ditto, for Marie, Antoinette, and Hortense.
“Hendriek doesn’t take any wine?”
“Oh! no, papa.”
“And my Lijsje?”
“Oh! it would be dreadful, papa!”
Mijnheer Van Arlen, having gone through this ceremony, half-filled his
glass, filled it up with water, and then carefully corked the bottle, to
be put away for to-morrow. In this way it would be made to last ten
days, and as a rule it did so; for the above invitation to his wife and
seven daughters was renewed every day, and every day regularly declined.
However, there were some exceptions to this rule: in the first place,
when papa was on a journey. Every year papa had to take a journey for
the Minister; it was a mission of mysterious importance, whose
destination no one was to know. It always came off quite unexpectedly,
immediately after the receipt of his second quarter’s salary. On these
occasions the bottle, if it still contained any wine, was emptied by the
family, and papa’s own particular tumbler—a most precious one, of ruby
glass, with a flower-pattern, and the initials H. M. engraved on it—put
away in the china-cupboard for the space of ten days. For this
unexpected, mysterious, and important journey always lasted exactly ten
days, during which time the daughters enjoyed the mild joke of calling
their mother “Madame Veuve,” and were solemnly requested by her not to
do it, for, as she said, it was a sort of joke that always sent a cold
shudder through her. She preferred being called “little bride,” which
took place once a year, on her wedding-day, an occasion which formed the
second of the exceptions referred to above. On this occasion papa always
provided mamma with the surprise of a glass of port at dinner, and all
the seven daughters had some too, though in their hearts they would have
preferred not taking it, for they detested it—and it always gave one
such a colour in the evening!
The third exception—which was only half a one—occurred when papa had a
relation or a friend from out of town on a visit, when mamma would take
a glass; and then the bottle had to be finished, for wine only turns
flat if it is left standing.
To-day, however, was merely an ordinary day. Papa had received no
instructions as to his journey, and the wedding anniversary was some
time off; though the friend from out of town was expected, and might
arrive any week. He was something more than a friend—he was a late
brother-in-law; for Mevrouw Van Arlen—Hortense Muggenhout, as denoted by
the initials on the tumbler—had had a younger sister, who had married
Heer Van Noost Prigson, a most respectable man, as appears from his
double-barrelled name, which was never forgotten, either by himself or
the Van Arlen family. Mijnheer Van Noost Prigson had lost his wife not
long after the birth of his only son.
Uncle Van Noost Prigson had written to-day he would come; but he was a
man of business,—of much business,—and he wrote so quickly that
three-fourths of each of his letters were illegible. Fortunately, papa
was also a man of business, and in his responsible position was brought
into contact with so many matters—cipher, among others—that he was able
to read the writing of Uncle Van Noost Prigson, at least the greater
part of it. This time, however, the most important part of uncle’s
letter was in figures, and he always made his figures very indistinctly.
He said he might possibly come on the 3rd (it might also have been the
8th), unless it were the 10th—or (for the figures might equally well
have stood for that) the 21st—while at the end of the letter he added,
with equal distinctness, that it was to be between the 14th and 16th,
for which again one might have read the 24th and 26th. Equally uncertain
was the duration of his visit; its purpose, indeed, was explained, and
this papa thought fit to keep to himself. It must surely be a matter of
importance, thought the eight ladies, for the thought that he—with his
vast experience of all sorts of business—should have failed to decipher
this part of the letter never entered their heads for a moment.
Papa filled a most important office,—it was in the year 1846,—and in
consequence of one thing or another, perhaps in connection with the
mysterious journeys, he had, one 6th of December, received a token that
the State appreciated his services. Since that day, the said token had
been inseparable from the black coat, without which no one ever saw
Mijnheer Van Arlen. It was quite in harmony with the impressive wrinkle
on his forehead, which looked as though Van Arlen had for years been
staring upward in a bent position,—in harmony, too, with the compressed
lips, which seemed in continual fear of letting a State secret escape;
while his hair had become quite white, probably from the anxiety
occasioned by the weighty matters which occupied his head. The daughters
found in papa the type of a handsome man, and at the same time of a
thoroughly respectable one; mamma adored him with the enthusiasm which
every good housewife is bound to feel for her husband, and never spoke
of him except as “Mijnheer Van Arlen.” Conversely, he always referred to
his wife as “_Mevrouw mijne echtgenoote_;”[36] and he preferred to
allude to his daughters in numerical order, unwilling to admit the outer
world to so great a degree of familiarity as to speak to it of his
daughters by their Christian names.
Either the bottle had stood too long on this particular day, or some
other cause had spoilt Van Arlen’s taste for it; anyhow, he did not
finish his glass, and, when dinner was over, fixed a penetrating gaze on
the door, and remained silent.
“Are you not well, papa?” asked Caroline.
“Quite well, my child!”
“Difficult business?” asked Mevrouw, sympathetically.
“Oh! all business is difficult, mamma,” said Van Arlen, weightily, and
stared into nothing more perseveringly than ever.
Mamma sighed, and the daughters looked sadly at papa. Could Uncle Van
Noost Prigson’s letter be the cause of the trouble?
“Will you have any dessert, papa?”
The dessert was standing ready, as usual, on the small side-table. A box
of flat biscuits, a butter-dish, a corner of cheese under a glass cover,
and a little dish of fruit, or, if there was none to be had, of
preserved ginger. But papa did not care for dessert, and never took any,
except when the above-mentioned relation or intimate friend from the
country was present; for “a dinner is not complete without dessert.”
“No, thank you, my dear? Will you?”
“Oh! you know I never do. Shall we say grace?”
Grace was said, reverent and short, as is befitting in a house where a
good tone prevails, and papa folded up his napkin neatly, and laid it
beside his plate; whereupon Leida fetched the matches, and gave papa a
light, which he accepted with a gracious nod, just as he had done
yesterday, and the day before, and all the year round, with the
exceptions aforesaid. Then eighteen-year-old Leida gave her papa a light
kiss on his forehead, just above the broad wrinkle.
“Why, papa! you must not be so gloomy; just let me kiss the trouble
away,” said she.
“What tricks next?” asked papa, sportively; and mamma called her a
monkey, and all the six sisters thought it such a good thing that Leida
was in such spirits, and had such a knack of getting papa into a
cheerful humour.
Van Arlen lit his cigar, and went slowly and thoughtfully to his own
room, whither he was called by his weighty official cares, and where a
mysterious locked portfolio lay ready for him. He turned the key in the
lock, sat down in his easy-chair, and went to sleep. He was quite right
to lock himself in,—a State secret might so easily have escaped him in
his sleep,—nay more, the secret of his after-dinner nap, which was
entirely unknown to his household and the outer world, might have leaked
out. About half-past seven there was a modest knock at the door; the
person knocking waited patiently till all the State secrets should be
covered up; and when the door was opened, the table before Van Arlen was
strewn with papers. The inkstand, however, remained on the mantelpiece.
But she who entered the room suspected no deception, and was not on the
look-out for traces of it. Year after year it had been Mevrouw Van
Arlen’s habit to bring her husband his “first cup” at this hour, and the
ten minutes which he was accustomed to give her served for the
discussion of domestic matters. Papa listened attentively to what mamma
had spent on milk and on bread, on peas and beans and matches,—nothing
is too small for a great man,—and then handed out the exact amount from
the secret drawer of his writing-table.
“And then, papa, Caroline and Frederica and Marie ought to have new
hats.”
“And the three others?”
“They can have the old hats of the three eldest done up with new
trimmings.”
“And what becomes of _their_ old ones?”
“They can use them for every day.”
Van Arlen tried to form in his own mind a visible picture of the change;
but his habit of considering affairs of State somewhat dimmed and
confused his sight in matters of everyday life.
“I do not rightly understand you, my dear. It seems to me that the three
eldest might just as well have the hats of the next three, as the next
three have the hats of the elder ones passed on to them.”
“Caroline, Frederica, and Marie are the eldest.”
“Is that a reason, mamma? Let us take, as our fundamental principle,
impartiality. Let us act without respect of persons—it is a wise rule, a
guarantee for the stability both of a government and a household. Let us
give no occasion for jealousy by measuring with two different measures.”
“But, papa——”
“Believe me, my dear, parents who show partiality are sowing the seeds
of unfriendly feeling, discord, hatred. Let us be wise, and not bow to
any antiquated principle of primogeniture. What human experience has
found to be fatal in society, must not be introduced into our smaller
circle by us, the individual units of society.”
“But in that case they might as well all keep their own hats, and trim
them up afresh.”
“Let it be so.”
How mamma was to settle matters with her daughters was her business; the
head of the family was concerned solely with the legislative, not with
the executive department.
“And Leida must keep her old hat because she has been so untidy; but she
will have to have a new ribbon on it.”
Van Arlen nodded assent.
They must have been great men who first preached impartiality, and
abolished the right of primogeniture. Here, in this individual instance,
was a saving of three new hats,—what economy would be effected by the
application of the system to a whole State!
“And you yourself, mamma?”
“I have been thinking of keeping on the mourning for another year. My
black dresses are all quite good still.”
“And we were so fond of poor Cornelia! When the mourning is worn out the
dead are forgotten, people say. We must show that it is not the case
with us.”
“Or that we have been careful of our clothes,” Van Arlen might have
added; but though this inference did not enter his head, another did.
“So we shall not go out this year?”
“I’m sorry, for the girls’ sakes; but it really is a duty. But, all the
same, we must not keep them quite shut up either.”
“No, of course not.”
Mijnheer and Mevrouw Van Arlen were silent for a little.
“We must not keep them shut up,” repeated the mother, thoughtfully. “Do
you think it possible you might some time be transferred, Van Arlen?”
“Oh, Hortense! don’t ask such questions.”
“It is not out of curiosity, but in the interest of our family. You are
in such favourable relations with people in high positions.”
“What do you think is the cause of this, mamma?”
“Well, your knowledge, your ability, your great——”
“Do you think that a man possessing such qualities—mind I don’t say I
possess them—has much chance of being sent away to a distance?”
“No, but—it is hard.”
“It may be hard,—but when a man is indispensable—I don’t say that I am
indispensable—he has to put up with it. The feeling that he is doing his
duty conscientiously to the State, ought to have most weight with
him,—and it certainly makes things easier.”
Van Arlen finished his tea, and handed the empty cup to his wife—the
usual sign that the audience was over.
“Another cup?”
“Yes, please—but no sugar.”
This condition was as stereotyped as the dessert; papa only took one cup
with sugar; the ladies did not care for sugar, except at evening
parties, when they took it to prevent mistakes and confusion.
Van Arlen then went to work,—read, signed documents, made a note here,
and drew his pen through a sentence there,—and became so absorbed in his
work that he never heard Marie come in on tiptoe, to set down the humble
domestic cup of tea on the table covered with State documents. At the
stroke of half-past nine Van Arlen rose, and once more made his
appearance in the family sitting-room, where an old-fashioned card-table
had been set out. After working all day, he found that his mind needed
some relaxation. His wife and two of the daughters,—who took turns in
this, as in other things, were already seated; the cards were dealt, and
he had only to begin. They were playing whist for recreation, and not
for money—therefore no reckoning was necessary; but the marking was done
with laudable accuracy, and every mistake was severely reproved—for the
furthering of every one’s enjoyment; for enjoyment without seriousness
does not deserve the name.
Papa never spoke a word except what was required by the game, and did
not like any talking to go on in the room; so that the five daughters
who were not playing, sat silent round the big table, each with her
needlework, thinking about the hats they were not to have, the mourning
that their mother was to go on wearing, the ball to which they were not
invited, the opera they never went to, the new fashions other people
were going to wear, the novel they were in the middle of, but which must
not be read aloud now papa was in the room, the riches they missed, the
enjoyment they did not know, the past that was so poor, and the future
that did not promise to be richer.
There was a ring at the bell.
All the ladies looked up; even papa laid down the cards he was just
about to deal.
“Brother Van Noost Prigson!” said Mevrouw, in a tone of some anxiety,—as
well she might, for there was no meat in the larder—in fact, nothing in
the house but a small angle of cheese, and a few ounces of ginger from
the uneaten dessert.
Van Arlen said nothing: he was never precipitate, and in all
circumstances of life preserved his presence of mind.
“What a quiet little ring!” said Frederica.
“Could it be a message from the Minister, papa?”
“Leen has not heard the bell—shall I ring?”
Mevrouw Van Arlen assented, and the sitting-room bell was heard—a
quicker and more excited ring than the heavy, respectable front-door
bell.
“The bell rang, Leen.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m here.”
“No—the front-door bell.”
“No, indeed it didn’t, ma’am.”
“We all heard it.”
“Impossible,” muttered the maid to herself, as she went to see; “or else
it must be some one who pulled the bell and ran away—and you can’t be
always on the look-out for that.”
All listened in strained expectation. The front door was opened, but no
sound of voices came from it; it was closed again, and Leentje was heard
shuffling off to the kitchen.
“She might come back and say who it was,” mamma assented.
Leentje was again sent for.
“Who rang the bell, Leentje?”
“Just as I thought, ma’am,—it was some boy that ran away.”
Mijnheer Van Arlen was inwardly very indignant that his family—among
whom so good a tone prevailed—should make such an exhibition of
themselves in the presence of a servant. Mamma blamed the girls’
curiosity, but could not unconditionally accept the theory of the
boy,—Leentje had been too long at the front door for that. If it turned
out that she had been speaking to a “fellow” there, she would have to
leave next day. That sort of thing would not do in a respectable house.
The girls likewise declined to believe in the boy—the bell had been rung
too quietly. They wanted to go out and look whether anything had been
pushed under the door. Then it struck Antoinette that the mysterious
ring might be connected with burglary, and this opinion gave rise to
some eager whispering, which caused papa to turn a frowning brow, not
once, but twice, in the direction of the large table. In an unguarded
moment Leida slipped out into the passage, to institute an investigation
_in loco_, but neither on nor under the door-mat was there any trace of
a paper. All conjectures remained fruitless.
If the little street-boy, with the newly mended kettle on his back, who,
merrily whistling his favourite tune, had crossed the quiet street, and
pulled the bell, to give his aunt’s sister-in-law a run from the kitchen
for nothing,—if that small evil-doer had known what a change and
excitement he had caused in a respectable family, insomuch that Van
Arlen himself, who filled such an important post, had laid aside for a
moment the business which occupied him, he would probably have repeated
the experiment on the following evening—if only out of pity for the
monotonous life of the seven ladies, to whom even the pulling of the
bell was an event.
The night has passed;—the little, sputtering, flickering night-light,
which burns in Van Arlen’s bedroom—for Van Arlen does not believe in
having no light in the house, one never knows what may happen—has
consumed all its oil and gone out. The insolent sun, which has no pity
for faded carpets and curtains, has penetrated everywhere; and if one
could walk through the Van Arlens’ house at this hour, when their high
tone is still asleep, one would lose much of the reverence inspired by
the important position, the refined manners, and the ceremonious
intercourse with each other of its inhabitants.
But at this hour in the morning no one walks through Van Arlen’s house
except the maid, who, by the terms of her engagement, is bound to “do”
two rooms before breakfast. This involves rising before five, though she
does not go to bed any earlier for that; she is also supposed to answer
the door, go out once in four weeks, “if it suits,”—and have neither
right nor claim to any extras beyond her wages, which are moderate, and
her perquisites, which are _nil_.
To be weighed against all this is the great advantage of living with
respectable people, and that is a great deal in these days, Mevrouw
says. Besides this, Leentje is a “whole” orphan, and therefore ought to
appreciate the privilege of finding a home with such a family—though it
is true that Mevrouw Van Arlen will never engage a servant with any
parent or relative living, to save trouble with their families.
But the Van Arlens are far too respectable to let us waste any more time
over their servant,—more especially as by this time they are all
assembled at breakfast, with the exception of the head of the house, for
persons who do much brain-work need more rest than those who only tire
their bodies—so Mijnheer says. Mevrouw is seated before the tea-tray—the
daughters take cold water. Nothing is wholesomer than cold water.
Moreover, butter—at least, much butter—is bad for the health. Bread in
large quantities is also unhealthy, and the ladies prove, by the extent
of their breakfast, that they quite subscribe to this opinion. The
“whole orphan,” also, is educated in the same doctrine, but she is
allowed to poison herself every morning with coffee—so long as she does
not exceed her two ounces a week.
“I don’t know how it is, mamma, but that ringing the bell last night
does worry me,” said Frederica, by way of morning reflection; and the
other girls reflected also, and talked it over, and objected, or
supported each other, as if there were really an interesting question at
stake,—till papa’s arrival restored silence. He cast one glance over the
paper, which no one was allowed to inspect before him, for fear the news
might evaporate, and then put it into his pocket,—for girls have no
business with newspapers, and his wife did not care to see it. During
the meal he spoke little—he was oppressed by the prospect of all the
important affairs awaiting him; and he ate his bread and butter, and
drank his tea, with a solemnity which made it difficult to realise that
they were only ordinary bread and tea.
Presently he rose. “Oh! papa! you scarcely give yourself time for
breakfast!” said his wife, and he did not dispute the proposition. He
kissed her and his daughters on the forehead in silence, put on his hat,
and went to his office, thoughtful and abstracted, as if bowed down by
the weight of his position. He did not even see people who bowed to him;
as for miscellaneous human beings, they were not worth his attention.
Suddenly some one stopped him.
“This is lucky! I was just on my way to your house!” cried this person
in a loud voice,—so loud that all the bystanders could hear Van Arlen
being addressed like an ordinary human being. “Have you been out to a
funeral this morning?”
A well-regulated smile hovered for a moment about the official’s
mouth,—“No, brother.”
“You look just like it. How are they all at home?—your youngsters
growing up—eh? Nothing particular going on?”
Thus talking, Brother Van Noost Prigson walked along beside Van Arlen,
and entered with him—no, actually preceded him—into the door of the
building where he exercised his important functions. Preceded him! Van
Arlen went down five per cent. in the estimation of his subordinates
that day; and when his own messenger, with a low bow, threw open the
door of his private office, Van Noost Prigson was again the first to
tread the magnificent carpet, on which inferior officials scarcely dared
to set foot when expressly summoned by their chief.
“Not much to do—eh?”
“On the contrary, I am very busy to-day.”
“Well, well—reading and signing documents, and all that sort of thing—I
could do that too.”
“I shall have to sign about three hundred and forty separate papers.”
“Well—I’d do that in half-an-hour; but if you really are busy, I won’t
keep you. I’ll come and dine with you to-day.”
“Very good—and in that case, I’ll see——”
“Don’t give yourself any trouble. I’ll call in and see Hortense myself.
You know you needn’t make any difference in your ways for me, and I
daresay you couldn’t very well afford it either.”
Van Arlen looked at his brother-in-law as if to ask, “Do you mean to
insult me,” but his expression changed as he met the glance of the
cheery but penetrating eyes. “Living is dear at the Hague,” he said.
“The more fool you, then, to stay here—and with seven daughters, too!
Just listen, Van Arlen,—I have a plan, but I can’t carry it out without
your help.”
“Let me hear it before I promise.”
“My plan is—to make Van Arlen rich.... Where did you get that ridiculous
thing?” he suddenly broke off.
“Which?” asked the official—following Prigson’s eye, which was directed
to his breast.
“Why—that bit of ribbon. I never heard of your getting it. From Santa
Claus, I suppose?”
“I don’t understand you, Prigson; if you mean my Order, I make it a
point of honour to wear it, and I don’t like its being made a joke of.”
“A joke, my dear fellow? I have the most fervent respect for all orders
of knighthood—especially if they are sent home on St Nicholas’ Eve....
Come in! Beg pardon—I forgot this was _your_ place. Can I stay?”
Van Arlen glanced at the door,—it was only a clerk with documents, and
Prigson was suffered to remain while the clerk waited and the official
signed.
“This is the sort of thing that goes on all day long.”
“Well—it seems to me you earn your money pretty easily. But say, Van ...
I suppose no one can hear us talking here?”
“No one.”
“Well,—it doesn’t matter to me, but I shouldn’t like it on your
account,—I want some money.”
Van Arlen drew the palm of his hand across his forehead, and stared at
his brother-in-law without answering.
“I’m so fearfully in debt that I don’t want to give the alarm. I should
be much obliged if you could let me have those thousand florins I lent
you. In a month or two you can have them again, if you want; but I’ve
got to live till then, and I have nothing left.”
“It comes at a very inconvenient time, Prigson.”
“My dear fellow, I would like nothing better than to give you a receipt
for the whole sum in full; for you’re a good fellow, and have to
struggle so hard, one ought not to make it harder for you. But, just say
now, when _would_ it be convenient?”
Van Arlen thought for some minutes.
“At the beginning of next year,” he said slowly.
“I wish I could wait so long. I wish I could; but I have an expensive
undertaking on hand, which will perhaps by next year put me in a
position to accommodate you. But, for the moment, I _must_ have money;
and I dare not try to raise it myself for fear of ruining my credit,
which I can’t do without just now.”
“Come in!” said Van Arlen, in answer to a knock at the door.
“His Excellency would like to speak to you,” said the clerk.
“So those fellows let themselves be called Excellency, do they? I
thought that was bad form now-a-days,” said Prigson, loud enough to be
heard by the clerk. But Van Arlen did not reply, he was too thankful for
the chance of escape from his brother-in-law.
“I suppose you’ll be gone some time? An Excellency like that has plenty
of time for talking; _he_ doesn’t work himself to death,” said Prigson.
“It may be a couple of hours before I can get away.”
“In that case I’ll say good-bye. By-the-by, is there any place where I
can see the papers? Are you a member of the Besogne Club?”
“At the White Club you’ll find all the daily papers.”
“And will one of your cards be enough to admit me?”
“I haven’t a card here, but——” Van Arlen looked round, and his eye fell
on the card of one of his subordinates. “This will do just as well.”
“_Merci!_” said Prigson, with a just perceptible smile, and left him.
When Van Arlen returned from the Minister’s private room, he sent to ask
the functionary whose card he had given to Prigson to come to him, and,
while waiting, wrote a note to his wife, informing her of that
gentleman’s arrival.
Before the note had reached its destination, however, the person in
question had already appeared on the scene. He had been shown into the
_salon_, where, after sending up his name, he paced up and down for
about half-an-hour, vainly seeking for diversion in the four framed
engravings representing the divisions of the day, typified by English
ladies in the large bonnets and short waists of a fashion forty years
old. The alabaster clock, with gilt ornaments, was not going—it had not
gone for twenty years,—and the vases were as clumsy in form as monstrous
in colouring.
“Everything dates from the year twenty,” muttered Prigson, after a hasty
glance at one article and another, “and these things never break! The
whole house and furniture is of the year twenty—the girls too. Is none
of them going to appear? Hortense surely doesn’t require to make such a
toilette.”
He pulled the bell. It had given no sound for the last ten years;—but,
as it happened, the maid was just passing the door.
“Look here, my girl—you seem smart enough—just run upstairs and tell
your mistress I have only ten minutes to spare, and I have to go out of
town again directly.”
“Thank Heaven!” thought Mevrouw, when the maid came up with the message,
“then he won’t stay to dinner!” and in another moment she was
downstairs, endeavouring, by extra cordiality, to remove the impression
which the long waiting must have produced on Prigson.
“I’m sorry, brother, you can’t stay to dine with us in a quiet way,” she
said after a time.
“If you really make a point of it, Hortense, I can alter my plans to
suit,” answered Prigson; “but you must not let me put you out in any
way.”
“Oh! not in the least; certainly not. You are always welcome, and our
table is large enough. And what are you doing just now?”
“At this moment I am living on my means, for the last enterprise came to
nothing. But now I really have my eye on something good. You must try
and persuade Van Arlen to take it up; it is certain to make him rich——”
He was interrupted by “Good-morning, uncle!” in three different voices;
and the three eldest Van Arlens proceeded to welcome Prigson, who, in
entire disregard of the tone of the house, embraced them one after the
other.
“Always the same,” said their mother, smiling, and shaking her finger at
him, and the three girls blushed and sat down. Then appeared the two
next, to be welcomed in the same way; and presently the two youngest
turned up, to be likewise honoured by their uncle. All seven were as
neat as if they had come out of bandboxes, and each had some fancy-work
in her hand.
When the subordinate official whose card Van Arlen had given to Prigson
appeared in the former’s room as desired, he was received with—
“Oh, Mijnheer Talm, I have just taken the liberty of using your name.”
“You do me a great honour, sir.”
“One of my relations, Herr Van Noost Prigson, from London, wished to be
introduced to the White Club, and you know I can’t go there!”
Mijnheer Van Arlen meant that his position was too important to allow of
his doing so. The official bowed—he quite understood that.
“I happened to have your card lying here, and I thought you would be
willing to do me that service.”
“Certainly, very much flattered. Can I be of any further service to your
relative? Take him about anywhere? But I don’t speak English.”
“Oh, he speaks Dutch quite fluently,” replied Van Arlen; “if one did not
know it already, one would never guess that he came from London. So it
might be as well not to mention it.”
“Very good, sir.”
Mijnheer Talm was about to withdraw, with a low bow.
“By-the-by, Mijnheer Talm, is Department Y in order?”
“I thought there was no hurry about it.”
“The Minister has been asking me about it to-day, so I should be glad to
have it as soon as possible.”
“I can promise to have it ready to-morrow.”
There was work enough in Department Y to occupy Talm all day and all the
evening, perhaps half the night as well; his meeting Uncle Prigson was
scarcely possible under the circumstances.
In any case, there was not much chance of this happening; for when
Prigson had left the Van Arlens’ house, with a promise to return at
dinner-time, he went straight to the White Club, and got himself
introduced by a Secretary of Legation; and when Leida went to the
confectioner’s to double the stock of dessert-ginger, she saw Uncle Van
Noost Prigson sitting at the club window! Her heart beat high with so
much grandeur.
And Talm’s conversation for the next six weeks consisted principally of
the English millionaire whom he had introduced at the White Club at his
chief’s request. He thought it would do him no harm at the next chance
of promotion.
We left Van Arlen alone in his private room at the Government office.
There are moments in life when one prefers not to be alone, yet has not
the courage to break away from solitude; moments when a seemingly
impossible resolution must be taken, when one would be thankful
if—instead of thinking and acting for one’s self—one could blindly
follow the dictates of another. All the weight of his important position
had never oppressed Van Arlen so much as the idea suggested to him by
his short interview with Prigson.
Imagine a man who, without knowing a note of music, is handed the score
of a symphony and told to read it. That was about his state of mind with
regard to the question Van Noost Prigson had asked him. He had not a
thousand guilders in the world—not even a hundred.
He walked up and down his room, staring at one thing and another, but
unable to forget that thousand guilders, and the smallness of his
salary. If he had a thousand—no, not one, but ten, twenty, a hundred
thousand—would he not be a happy man? Then he would really live, as he
now only had the appearance of doing;—distinguished society, pretty
dresses for his wife and daughters, all pleasant things vainly desired,
would be his! Imagination has peculiar force in such cases, and Van
Arlen’s painted this ideal life for him with rough but forcible touches,
till he was once more recalled to reality and the starting-point of his
reverie—the thousand guilders!
Where was he to get them? He _must_ have them. Sell his possessions? The
furniture was worth nothing. The pictures?—who knew if the English
engravings might not be rare and valuable? He did not understand such
things. He had indeed pretended to some knowledge of art, but he had
none. If he had only the smallest grain! What would a collector give him
for them? Two hundred and fifty guilders each? Surely they might be
worth that. Perhaps more—perhaps——
Then arrived documents for signature, and Van Arlen signed his
name—signed again, and yet again, and imagined that he was endorsing
bank-notes. Why was his name not of equal efficacy when written on a
cheque? He could always pay the amount later on; it was only for the
time he wanted it.
Suddenly Van Arlen stood still. “Temporary—only temporary—and if I pay
it back, no one will ever ask after it.” He opened a locked cash-box; it
contained more than enough to help him; it did not belong to him; it had
only been left in his care, to give account of when the sum was
complete. He stood up, and wiped his forehead, and once more paced up
and down.
Who was going to inquire after it? The Minister? He had other things to
think of. His colleagues? The affair did not concern them; they did not
even know of its existence. His inferiors? They would certainly mind
their own business; and if they did not,—after all, he was their chief,
and could give them what answer he thought fit. There it lay. He opened
the little parcel. Surely no one knew the numbers!
There was a knock at the door. Van Arlen started as if he had committed
a crime, yet kept looking at the money that had been entrusted to him.
It was in an unsteady voice that he said, “Come in.”
“Mijnheer Van Teuten would like to speak to you.”
“Van Teuten?—I’m busy—well, one minute, then. Tell him to come in.”
The man ushered into the private room wrote a magnificent hand. For the
moment that was nothing to the point—yet, after all, it was something,
for Van Teuten owed his career to it—“the best hand in the department.”
He did not write quickly—that was beneath his dignity—but for really
beautiful writing no one could come near him.
Van Teuten was visibly disturbed, as he stood facing Van Arlen, who sat
leaning over his desk. The cash-box was shut.
“Well, Mr Van Teuten?”
“Mr Van Arlen—I’m come—I hope you’ll excuse it. I’ve come to make a
request, on which my future depends.”
Van Arlen looked up from his paper, and coughed importantly, fixing his
dark eyes on the chief clerk, as though he suspected him of high
treason.
“You know perhaps that—that I have absolutely no means of my own, and,
with the title of assistant secretary (which I owe to my
handwriting)”—here Van Teuten raised his head with a certain pride—“in
spite of my handwriting, still only draw the salary of chief clerk.”
“Do you want to be promoted, Mr Van Teuten?”
“Promoted—that is to say, sir—not exactly; but, Mr Van Arlen, I can’t
live! I’m poor, sir, and—if I write a good hand—Heaven forbid, sir, that
I should boast of it; but, well, it is hard that one should have one’s
merits, and be forced to suffer from poverty.”
Van Arlen gazed fixedly at the owner of the fine handwriting, and asked
him for a definite statement of what he wanted—his time was valuable.
“Do excuse me, sir; but I’m nervous—I’m agitated. I shall have to pay my
rent on Saturday—three-quarters’ rent, sir,—and I’ve nothing—nothing—not
so much as _that_!”
“Very sad for you, Mr Van Teuten, but you know that I can be of no use
to you in this matter.”
“Nay, Mr Van Arlen, you can. I only want two hundred guilders—nothing
more, and then I am saved—saved! And, you see, if I stood alone, sir, I
shouldn’t care—I should find some way out of it,—but I have a wife and
five children. Oh, God! Mr Van Arlen, it’s my last hope. Don’t let me go
like this!”
Van Teuten pulled out a red pocket-handkerchief, and dried a few tears
with it. Van Arlen stared at him, still lost in thought, and forgot the
man’s request in the comparison he was drawing in his own mind, between
this case and his own. At last he asked slowly, “What do you want me to
do?”
“Lend me two hundred guilders, sir,—that’s all that I hope, I entreat, I
beg of you——”
“Just listen to me, my good Van Teuten, and don’t get excited,—tears are
not becoming in a man of your age. We’ve all got to work for our
families, and some men in this world happen to be better off than
others—but that’s no reason for giving way to passionate grief. As to
your request, it’s out of my power to grant it. Next time there is any
question of increase in salaries, I will do my best to improve your
position, but for the moment I cannot help you. If I did, I should have
all your colleagues asking me for the same thing to-morrow, and my
position will not allow of my coming to the assistance of officials in
this way.”
Van Teuten was searching his mind for a word—a sentence. To-morrow, when
he did not want them, he might think of hundreds; now, he could find
none that would add force to his entreaty. He soon gave up the effort,
and tried another tack:
“The Minister is rich, sir,—don’t you think he might give or lend me two
hundred guilders?”
Van Arlen looked straight at him. True, the Minister was rich, and what
he refused Van Teuten he might yet be induced to grant to Van Arlen.
“If you would only speak for me, Mr Van Arlen,—I don’t want to exalt
myself—and yet, I believe—don’t take it ill of me if I say so—I think my
services are worth something—and if His Excellency would be willing to
give me the money, I should be saved.”
“Probably His Excellency would have the same reasons for declining as
myself; but I cannot conceive, Mr Van Teuten, that there is not one of
your colleagues who would be willing to help you out of a temporary
inconvenience.”
Would Van Arlen himself have found one so quickly?
“Oh! plenty!—but they want security—they want a guarantee; and ... do
you think His Excellency would become security for me?—or you, sir—your
name will do anything you like.”
“My good friend, you understand that I, in my position, cannot afford to
get mixed up with any such affair, nor can the Minister either. Try and
come to some arrangement with your landlord, but don’t expect anything
from _these_ quarters, under such circumstances. We can’t have anything
to do with such matters.”
Van Teuten bowed his head—he had exhausted his arguments, and all to no
purpose; he had completely forgotten the eloquent address, thought out
last night; the courage with which he had armed himself had oozed
away—he went out silently. But suddenly he turned back.
“If it were _outside_ the official circle, sir, could you help me then?
I could get money at an interest of one per cent. per month—only I must
have the security of one of the superior officials.”
“I have told you, Mr Van Teuten, that I, in my position, cannot occupy
myself with any matters of the kind. I am sorry for you, but I can do
nothing.”
The man with the fine hand went away, slowly and dejectedly, and Van
Arlen was once more alone with—or rather without—his thousand guilders.
* * * * *
It is a mistake to suppose that, for the preparation of jugged hare, a
hare is necessary. Mrs Van Arlen understood very well how to give a
dinner, which, to the uninitiate, seemed the finest kind of “company”
dinner, and yet consisted of the most commonplace everyday dishes. But
there is an infinite difference between rice in a dish and rice in a
mould—more especially when the latter is served with lemon sauce. The
ham was prepared _à la mayonnaise_—Van Arlen was so fond of that
dish,—he always partook of it when on those mysterious journeys of his;
and then—you need not have a whole ham for it, a few slices are quite
enough. Moreover, there stood, on the side-table, besides the
never-failing ginger and cheese, a silver dish with ten little halfpenny
tarts on it. It was quite a splendid dinner; papa and uncle had each a
bottle to himself, and besides the ordinary wine glasses there were
others of smaller size for the better wine.
But, with all this magnificence, a certain gloom prevailed among the Van
Arlens. This is the way with the great ones of the earth; they enjoy
wealth and ease without appreciating them.
Prigson, on the other hand, was, as usual, in excellent spirits. He felt
in nowise overawed by the splendour of the feast, or the eight silk
skirts which rustled round about him.
“You see, it’s just our ordinary family dinner,” said madame, with a
pleasant little laugh. Prigson gave the obligatory answer, and paid no
attention whatever to the material part of the dinner.
“Which of you girls are going out with me this evening?” he asked. “I
can’t take all seven—three is the maximum—or else your father will have
to come too.”
“You know, Prigson, my position is such that I cannot devote a single
hour to mere enjoyment.”
Madame sighed, and said, in a compassionate tone, that brother could
form no idea of the life Van Arlen led.
“No doubt,” said Prigson; “but I admit that it is far from appearing to
most people what it really is.” Prigson made the remark entirely without
sarcastic intention, and went on, with a smile, “I would bet something
that you haven’t even read the paper yet, Van Arlen.”
Van Arlen usually read his daily paper from title to imprint while
taking his breakfast; but to-day he had entirely forgotten it.
“I haven’t once looked into it; and here’s the proof,” he said, taking
it still unopened from his pocket.
“So you haven’t seen my advertisement?”
“Your advertisement?—no—did you insert one?”
“Do you remember our talk at your office?”
Van Arlen had not forgotten it for one moment, and if Prigson had paid
more attention to him, and less to Caroline and Leida (who, in fact,
were very pretty girls), he would have noticed that Van Arlen’s looks
continually took the vague direction which indicated that his mind was
elsewhere. His wife, who noticed it, ascribed it to the responsibilities
of his office; his daughters were thinking, this evening, more of their
uncle than of him. Certainly papa was the very type of a handsome man,
but uncle had something very distinguished about him—especially since
Leida had told them about seeing him in the club.
“What advertisement is that, brother?” asked Mrs Van Arlen.
“Oh, my dear Hortense, it belongs to those matters which ladies can’t
understand; but if it comes to anything, and Van Arlen is willing to
take a hand in it, he has only to say the word. You can make your
fortune over it, Van Arlen.”
The word “fortune” awakened in the Van Arlens a feeling which used to
come over them day by day, and had as regularly to be suppressed. Now,
however, they were able to give way to it for a moment, and Van Arlen
himself—still under the influence of what he had endured that
afternoon—looked at Van Noost Prigson with interest.
“How could that be done?” asked Mrs Van Arlen almost indifferently;
while all the girls, holding their breath, looked at Prigson in order to
form their own conclusions as to whether his project were practicable.
“In the first place, you would have to give up your situation; in the
next, to leave the place; and in the third, to work rather harder than
you do at present; but, on the other hand, you would earn six times as
much money.”
“You evidently don’t know what the life of a Government official is,”
said Van Arlen, with a contemptuous smile at the mention of harder work
than his.
“Oh, dear, no!” said his wife; and the daughters looked in consternation
at the man who had dared to cast the slightest doubt on the extent and
importance of papa’s duties.
“Well, what now, Van Arlen?” said Prigson, seeing that his
brother-in-law seemed once more lost in a brown study, “are you off to
that office of yours again? You had better come to the opera with us
this evening; that is to say, if these ladies are inclined to come.”
A cold shudder—but it was one of delight—completely overpowered the
self-control of Frederica and Marie. They scarcely knew the opera,
except by name,—papa never went there,—and it was very long since they
had been invited by any one else.
“The opera?” said Van Arlen, “I don’t care about that; it’s a sin
against common sense.”
“I beg your pardon?” asked Prigson, perplexed.
“Why, all the people there die singing—I can’t get over that.”
“Eh?” said Prigson, evidently much taken aback; “well, I never thought
about that. But now I do think about it, I should say that the opera is
the most natural picture of life. There are so many people that weep and
wail all their lives; is that so very much more unnatural than that they
should sing when they die? But, granting that it is as you say, let’s go
to an opera in which nobody dies. Isn’t _Don Pasquale_ on to-night,
young ladies?”
“I think so, uncle,” answered Frederica, blushing, for none of the girls
even thought of looking at the theatrical announcements. What was the
good?
“Yes, yes—_Don Pasquale_. Come, Van Arlen—that’s a comic opera—just the
thing for you!”
Van Arlen shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t mind a comic opera—not if
it’s _really_ comic,” he said.
“Come along, then—you’re sure to like _Don Pasquale_.”
“No, I can’t—another time, perhaps—I’ve too much to do to-night,” said
Van Arlen, absently looking at the alabaster clock that did not go, but
nevertheless seemed able to tell him that it was now _his_ time.
“Yes,” said his wife, “and if we’re to go to the opera we shall have to
dress.”
“Hortense! Hortense!” said Prigson, with a mischievous glance.
“What do you mean, Prigson? Of course I can’t let the girls go to the
opera with a strange gentleman. I’ve always done my best, brother, to
give my daughters a _good_ bringing-up.”
Prigson was too polite to answer; Van Arlen had folded his hands,—his
wife did the same, and soliloquised in silence.
“Six of the ten tarts left over ... perhaps the confectioner would take
them back ... at any rate, one might try. Leentje might go and see....
The opera ... that has not happened in the last ten years—what are we to
do about dresses?—we shall have to be quick about it.... Amen.”
Her reflections were brought to an abrupt conclusion, for Van Arlen had
opened his eyes with a sigh, and once more saw Prigson before him. Oh!
what would he not have given not to see him—to have opened his eyes in
the consciousness that he had been sleeping! Sleeping, from the moment
of meeting his brother-in-law in the street; sleeping, when the latter
reminded him of the debt, when he had been alone after Prigson’s
departure, when Van Teuten stood over him; sleeping, too, that last
quarter of an hour, when he stood before his desk after Van Teuten had
left him.... But he had not slept—all, all was real ... and then to go
to a comic opera on the top of that!
“Excuse me, Prigson, but I must go back to work immediately, there are
some documents wanted in a hurry.”
“Oh! so things _are_ sometimes wanted in a hurry at a Government
office?” asked Prigson. “No, thank you—take one of my cigars—real
Havannah, fifteen cents—delicious—just try one.”
“Oh, uncle, it’s positively sinful!” said Leida, who had nearly
forgotten etiquette so far as to hand him a light, which at a ceremonial
dinner would have been highly unfitting.
“Sinful is it?... How old are you now, Leida?”
“Eighteen next birthday, uncle.”
“Good-bye, then—till later—no, don’t apologise. But don’t go to sleep,
Van Arlen,” Prigson shouted jocularly after his host, and then added,
turning to Leida, “A happy time of life, Leida, I wish it were mine
still;—but when I was that age, I didn’t think fifteen cents too much to
pay for anything I liked.”
“How do you mean, uncle?”
“Just what I say, my dear girl. What is life, after all? isn’t it always
seeking for what you like, whether you understand by that the smoking of
a good Havannah, or the consciousness of having done a good action?
Enjoyment means just what people like—and the older they are, the more
they want of it. It’s unjust of old people to say that it’s the young
ones that always want to enjoy themselves—the old ones are just as set
on it, but they get their enjoyment out of other things. Well, any man
who can get himself one enjoyment for fifteen cents is certainly not
cheated out of his money.”
“But, uncle, must one always have money to enjoy one’s self?” asked
Leida, naïvely, but very much _à contre cœur_—for her whole life was in
evidence to prove that, as a rule, one must.
“Certainly not, my very charming Leida,” said Prigson, rising, and
added, as he embraced his niece, “That’s a treat for nothing, do you
see?”
“Not for me, uncle,” said Leida, laughing mischievously, as she ran out
of the room.
“It’s really a pity that Van Arlen’s such a harlequin!” muttered Van
Noost Prigson to himself, and then went to join his elder nieces at the
window.
Van Arlen was once more in his room, and had locked the door—but he
didn’t go to sleep. He had his hand in his breast-pocket, and his
fingers were clutching a little packet that seemed to burn them.
Borrowed? No—not borrowed; it was stolen—it was not his. And yet he was
not a thief—he had already as good as put it back,—only the execution
was awanting to complete his intention. He strained his ears listening
for Prigson and the others to go out at the front door. As soon as they
were gone, he would hurry to the office and put back the money! Why were
they dawdling like that? If anything happened to prevent his going—if he
were to find the lock out of order. Why did they not start? If there
were a fire in a street he had to pass—if he were to meet with an
accident.... Do be quick, Prigson! the money is burning me—if I start
now, we shall be in the street at the same time—then I shall have to go
with him, and he will have to walk slowly on account of the ladies.
Which way shall I go? My hat—where did I put my hat? If Prigson were to
take my hat by mistake—happily it has a mourning band on it. Why don’t
you go, Prigson? Have you given up the plan?
There was a knock at the door, and his wife entered.
“Are you going out, Van Arlen?”
“No, my dear, no.”
“I thought you looked as if you were going to start.”
“Certainly not, certainly not! Go now, make haste, or you’ll be late.”
“Perhaps you’re going to give us a surprise.”
“No, no—I’ve too much to do—and I don’t care about operas, where people
die singing. Good-bye, Hortense, good-bye! Don’t let the girls come up,
I’m too busy.”
At last, at last, he heard the door close! and when Caroline, as the
eldest available daughter, came to bring papa his cup of tea, his room
was empty.
“Papa has surely gone too,” she said, as she went down again.
“I don’t think it’s very nice of him if he has. Why, he said that if he
went we should go too.”
“Papa doesn’t care for operas.”
“Oh! _I_ think he likes them well enough, really—only——”
She stopped herself just in time, keeping back the word, the great word,
which might be thought, but never spoken, in the Van Arlen household.
When the family came home that night Van Arlen was even more silent than
he had been at dinner, but his silence was a dull apathetic calm. The
ladies had enjoyed themselves “_awfully_”; their flushed cheeks and
dancing eyes spoke volumes for the effect of this unwonted gaiety.
“Oh, papa, you _must_ go some time!”
“Was it comic opera?” asked papa.
“Oh, yes! indeed it was—awfully!”
“Yes—but _really_ comic, _good_ comedy?”
“Oh, yes, very good,” said mamma.
Van Arlen’s position was too important for him to let himself be guided
by any chance person who chose to label an opera as comic. A thing must
really be what it is given out for.
“I suppose you care nothing at all for tragedy, then?” remarked Prigson.
“Well, not altogether that, but a tragedy must be _really_ tragic.”
The conversation, of which some fragments are thus reported, will
scarcely make the reader long to hear the rest. The Van Arlens
consistently kept up their depreciation of sour grapes, to the great
delight of Prigson, who amused himself by defending all sorts of
paradoxes. But though the hands of the alabaster clock unchangeably
pointed to half-past one, it was getting late. Uncle Van Noost Prigson
prepared to take his leave, and Van Arlen made no great effort to detain
him. He thought his brother-in law a good fellow, and, under certain
circumstances, an indispensable person; to-day, however, Prigson
reminded him of so much that he would willingly have forgotten, that his
presence became well-nigh intolerable. He breathed more freely when
Prigson got up to go; and it was with a certain cheerfulness that he
remarked, as he looked out at the front door at the stars, “I see you’ve
a fine night.”
“We’ll hope so,” said Prigson; “but now, business for a moment. I asked
you for something this morning—not for the sake of embarrassing you, but
of getting myself out of a hole. When can I have that money?”
“Will to-morrow evening do?” asked Van Arlen, with a sigh of
thankfulness that it was no longer in his pocket.
“Don’t let it be later than that—you know you’ve always told me I could
have it when I liked, otherwise I shouldn’t have asked at such a
moment.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble to me!” said Van Arlen, though he was wondering all
the time where the money was to come from.
“Now for my plan. I will guarantee that you get the money back three
days after the King has signed this concession—but then you will have to
work the Minister!”
“I?”
“No one is in a better position to do it; the business is honest enough,
but, like all business, it has a shady side to it: and the authorities
have a nasty way of seeing the black before the white. There _is_ some
black about it, I won’t deny; but if you can manage to show up the
white, we shall be that thousand guilders to the good.”
“But I don’t see——”
“No need you should, for the moment. Take the papers to your room, read
them, think over them, and, once more, three days after the granting of
the concession, your debt is no longer in existence.”
“Prigson!”
“Van Arlen!”
“What you ask—can it be reconciled with an honest man’s conscience?”
“What do you take me for, Van Arlen?”
Van Arlen was silent for a moment, and then said slowly, “For a man who
wants to be rich.”
“Quite right, my dear fellow, and you should do the same. With this
concession your fortune is made. You will have a situation with a salary
of ten thousand guilders.” And with a cheerful “Good-night,” Prigson
departed, while Van Arlen went up to his room.
It was many hours before he rose from his chair. The sun was shining in
at the window, but he had no inclination to sleep; he had been absorbed
in the documents. He read from beginning to end, thought for a while,
folded them up, and muttered—
“Heaven preserve me from it!”
Thoughtfully he went to his office that morning. He could find no
solution to the Prigson question, and there was nothing to help him.
He was summoned to the Minister’s presence, and found him
extraordinarily amiable—a bad sign.
“Sit down, Mr Van Arlen, sit down,” said His Excellency. Van Arlen
obeyed.
“Mr Van Arlen—it is possible I may be mistaken—but it seems to me as if,
just lately, you had shown—_passez-moi le mot_—less zeal for business
than I formerly thought was the case with you.”
“Your Excellency, I was not aware that I had felt less zeal for my
duties than at any other time.”
“Is there anything worrying you? Your health?”
“It is excellent, thank you.”
“Domestic trouble?—it might be indiscreet to inquire—but I take an
interest in all my subordinates. Is there perhaps any financial trouble?
Just tell me freely. Our salaries are not high, I know, but, if I am
rightly informed, you have some private means.”
“At your Excellency’s service,” assented Van Arlen.
“I thought so, otherwise we might have thought of offering you some
assistance in this respect. But as it is, I suppose the extent of your
work is such that it presses too heavily on one man; and so I have been
considering the feasibility of appointing one more official to my
department, subject to His Majesty’s approval of my nomination.”
Van Arlen turned deathly pale; now he understood the Minister’s
friendliness, and the fate that lay before him; he understood also that
the first offer was by way of gilding the pill. He had refused the
gilding from pride, but had to swallow the pill all the same.
“I assure your Excellency that I do not know what work could be
entrusted to such an official.”
“That is quite a minor detail,” said His Excellency, naïvely. “However,
I wished to consult you first about the matter, and perhaps you will be
so kind as to have the proposal drawn up. Baron Regenstein is the person
meant.”
“The son of your colleague?”
“I believe so; but he is a man of great acquirements, whose help will be
extremely useful to you. I shall want the paper before two o’clock.”
Van Arlen bowed and rose.
“Oh, as to salary, we shall give him eighteen hundred guilders.”
“Your Excellency will allow me to remark, that in that case you will
have exceeded the estimate for the department.”
“Then we must see how we can manage with the smaller salaries. Didn’t
some one die a month or two back?”
“Yes, an assistant secretary.”
“Very good; and I just heard this morning that we’ve probably lost
another. Van Teuten left town quietly last night.”
“Van Teuten!” exclaimed Van Arlen, in consternation.
“Yes. Do you know anything in particular about him?”
“He came and asked me for two hundred guilders yesterday.”
“Well, why couldn’t you let him have an advance? or you might have sent
him to me; if necessary, we could have helped him by getting up a
collection. But you’re too busy to attend to such things; it’s a good
thing we’re going to have some extra help. Good-morning, Mr Van Arlen.”
“That, too!” said Van Arlen, when he was back in his own room, and then
called out to the messenger that he could see no one.
“A gentleman has been here; he said he would come back.”
“Can’t see any one to-day.”
“Mr Van Arlen!” said a voice, just as the door was closing.
“Impossible, sir, the Minister is in a hurry.”
The door was shut, and the voice—and all persons with whom it
subsequently came in contact—were aware that there was “something up,”
perhaps a reorganisation of the whole department.... So much only was
certain, that no one knew what it was but the Minister and Van Arlen,
which still further increased the latter’s importance.
But the drawing up of a proposal for the appointment of a supernumerary
official was no joke. It was long since Van Arlen had such a ticklish
document in hand, and the only reason it seemed to him that he could
give was,—“Whereas it is our pleasure ... to supersede Van Arlen.” At
last, however, he found the way to do it. By noon the document was
ready, and one of the copying clerks, in whose discretion he placed
unlimited confidence, was sent for to prepare the mysterious paper for
its high destiny, in Van Arlen’s own room. At a quarter to two it was
fairly written out, and Van Arlen presented himself before the Minister,
who took the document, thanked him courteously, and glanced through it.
“You have forgotten the date when the new appointment is to begin,—the
1st of the following month,” said His Excellency, in a tone which
clearly conveyed: “Really, Mr Van Arlen, your work is too much for you.”
Van Arlen returned to his room with the paper in his hand, and found
Prigson at the door.
“Good-morning, Van Arlen.”
“Excuse me, Prigson; I haven’t a moment to spare.”
“What is it now? Country in danger? What’s that document?”
“Ministerial business.... Where is Mr Zuigman?” This to the messenger.
“Gone away, sir.”
“Tell him to come here immediately.”
But after his highly important activity in his superior’s private room,
the copying clerk Zuigman had understood that he was in need of some
slight recreation, and, alleging a commission in town, he had gone off
for a stroll round the square. His immediate superior had given him
leave at once. One doesn’t refuse modest requests like that to a man
perceptibly high in Van Arlen’s favour.
“What now?” said Van Arlen. “My head is going round. Zuigman must come
to my room the very first thing to-morrow morning.”
“Can I help you, Van Arlen? What is it has to be done?”
“Writing, man, writing!—a proposal addressed to the King that will have
to come before the Cabinet Council.... I don’t know what to do.”
“Can’t you do it yourself?”
“I!” said Van Arlen, in consternation.
“Well, a good writing is not your strong point,” laughed Prigson,
“otherwise you never would have risen so high. The man with the worst
hand gets on best, because they can’t keep him on as a copying clerk.
Just give me a pen.”
“But, Prigson, it’s a great document! strictly secret—no one is to know
anything about it!”
“I’ll promise not to tell; let’s have a look.” And before Van Arlen
could prevent it, his brother-in-law had already glanced over the paper.
“Heaven be good to us! a magnificent bargain!”
“A bargain?”
“Why, of course! Now-a-days it’s not their own sons that ministers help
forward; they do it for each other’s. Regenstein is to get this, and
your man’s son has just been put into a good thing by his father’s
colleague. Splendid exchange! Did you draw up the proposal?”
“I have no time now, Prigson. Do be kind enough to let me alone.”
Van Arlen rang the bell, and sent for one of the clerks. Van Teuten
entered.
“Mr Van Teuten!”
“Sir, I have—”
“We’ll see to that presently. Sit down, Mr Van Teuten, and
write—here—recopy this page; but mind you put in the insertion! The
first time a document of mine has been disfigured by an insertion! My
head’s going!”
Van Teuten wrote as he was told, and in a quarter of an hour the work
was finished. He perceived, with visible complacency, how much better
his writing was than that of his colleague.
“Two different kinds of writing! Never yet happened with a document of
mine; and it’s got to go to the King and the Cabinet Council!”
With these words Van Arlen rushed out of the room, leaving Prigson alone
with Van Teuten.
“Can you copy decently?” asked Prigson.
“I venture to say, sir, that there isn’t another hand like mine in this
department.”
“What do you earn at this work, now?”
“Six hundred guilders, sir. Mr Van Arlen has perhaps told you that I am
financially in circumstances of great difficulty.”
“Well, it is indeed too little for a man who writes a hand like that;
but surely you’re out of all your troubles now?”
“I?—I just wish I were!”
“Why, a man who knows all about a secret document like this need not be
poor any longer than he likes.”
“Secret, sir?”
“Most particularly so,” said Prigson, turning away, while Van Teuten
considered with himself whether it could really be the case, and
whether, if so, he could profit by it.
Van Arlen came back, thanked the copying clerk, and recommended him to
keep the matter secret.
Prigson stole a glance at Van Teuten, who was now convinced of the truth
of his words.
“Do you want anything, Mr Van Teuten?” asked Van Arlen, for the man
remained standing.
“May I venture to remind you of my request yesterday, sir? Perhaps you
know that ... that I ... yesterday....”
“Yes, I know—nothing takes place in this department without my
knowledge; but the Minister and I have agreed to take no notice of
such ill-considered action on the part of a member of this
department—provided, of course, it is never repeated.”
“No, sir, I give you my word it shall not. Oh, if you had only known
what I felt this morning, when I thought of my wife and children
searching for me! I couldn’t stand it any longer, sir, and I came back.”
“The wisest thing you could have done.”
“But that does not save me! I have obtained two days’ respite; but after
that—I am hopelessly lost, if no help comes. If you will allow me, sir,
I will go before the court to-morrow.”
“I’ll do better for you than that,—I’ll send a subscription list round
the office, and let you have the amount. His Excellency is sure to put
his name down too.”
“And if there is any deficiency, I’ll make it up,” said Prigson.
“Certainly a State secret,” thought Van Teuten, amazed and confused at
the turn matters had taken,—which he ascribed entirely to the secret. He
too was involved in it,—but, alas! he had read nothing, that was not his
habit. A good copying clerk never reads—he only writes. “To begin on
Aug. 1st,”—that was all he could remember. But it must be a secret of
the highest importance,—and the stranger who seemed to have the
principal share in the business was—yes, what could he be? Then he
remembered that Talm had spoken of an English millionaire, introduced by
him at the White Club, and somehow connected with Van Arlen;—but the
millionaire, according to Talm, knew not a word of Dutch—it was for that
very reason that Van Arlen had entrusted him to Talm’s guidance; and now
the secret document, and the unexpected help, and the change in his
fortunes—had Van Arlen, perhaps, been raised to the ministry?...
Van Arlen and Prigson were left alone.
“Did you look over my papers?”
“Yes.”
“And——?”
“I don’t want to be in it; your business is not—not honest.”
“What do you call honest, Van Arlen?”
“Perhaps I expressed myself rather harshly—it is not what it seems to
be.”
“_You_ say that?” sneered Prigson. “Come, Van Arlen, _that_ can be no
reason for you to dislike a thing. But we’ll grant that it is more
profitable for the contractor than for the State—that’s a matter of
course. Do you think we’re going to make the State presents, while the
Ministers put their sons into all the fat Government places? Just tell
me, on your conscience, Van Arlen, is that an honest business, that
appointment? I bet something you had a heap of trouble to give the thing
a decent appearance?”
Van Arlen nodded.
“Well, now, there’s a present of eighteen hundred guilders being made to
Regenstein. I suppose your Minister’s son is getting double that? And am
I to be fool enough not to get my share out of the ‘Widow Woman’ too?
Let’s be wise, and follow the good example set us.”
Van Arlen was silent.
“Shall I tell you something? The functionary now being smuggled in—for
whose coming you have been obliged to find the reasons—is really
appointed in order to oust you. He is to do your work, and you are to
become supernumerary, and then who knows how soon you’ll be pensioned
off?”
“Then I shall fall honourably.”
“Cold comfort that; it’s surely no dishonour to prevent the blow. Once
more, I’ll give you a receipt for that debt; I offer you a well-paid
position, and if the concern comes to smash—for that _might_ happen—I
will guarantee that you shall lose nothing.”
“So you admit that the thing is not honest?”
“My good Van Arlen, you’re the very type of infantile innocence. If it
were quite safe and certain to be profitable, I could do without your
help. One word more,—if you still refuse, Regenstein is a good friend of
mine; he gets his appointment on the first, and within a month from that
date I shall get what I want without applying to you. Just think over
that.”
“Prigson, you are a tempter.”
“Van Arlen, you are a fool.”
“If it should come out that I have been playing a double game?”
“If this Minister is still in office, just remind him of that
appointment; if there is another, you can lay the blame on his
predecessor, and the disorder occasioned by the unnecessary nomination
of new officials.”
“But—I took an oath——”
“And didn’t the Minister do so too? Come, shut up shop for to-day, and
come and dine with me.”
“With you?”
“Why not? Yesterday I was your guest, to-day you are mine. I am staying
at the Bellevue; but if there are too many princes there for your taste,
we’ll go and dine at the Badhuis restaurant.”
“Impossible; I can’t leave the office till four. If you’ll believe me,
Prigson, I envy the clerks, who can take their hats and go whenever they
like.”
“The burdens of greatness.... So you’re free at four, are you? Well,
I’ll drive round and fetch you.”
Accordingly, at four, Prigson arrived in a cab, and conveyed not only
Van Arlen, but his wife and Leida, to the garden restaurant at
Scheveningen known as the Badhuis. They dined sumptuously, and did not
even refuse champagne. This was an unheard-of event in their lives—but
they were not paying the bill.
After dinner, as they were sitting on the terrace, they perceived Mr
Talm. Mr Talm had on flesh-coloured kid gloves, and an eye-glass
prominently fixed in his left eye, the cord waving in the wind like the
web of a gigantic spider. Talm was quite presentable, and, being now of
opinion that the Van Arlens were presentable also, he accosted them, and
was honoured with an invitation to join their party.
Madame thought it would be nice to walk up and down the terrace, and
Leida also showed herself pleased with the idea. Talm offered his
escort, and Prigson was once more alone with his brother-in-law.
“The business is clinched now, isn’t it?”
“No,” said Van Arlen, “I have been thinking it over, and I must abide by
my first answer.”
“That’s a pity,” said Prigson—“a pity for you—for, as I said, the matter
will have to be got into shape without you; but I should have liked to
have you in it, because I’m heartily sorry for you. Just excuse me a
minute,” he went on, rising and signalling to a stranger, who was
casting sinister glances at the teacups—“it is my friend Valtoucourt,
one of the associate concessionaires.... I’m sorry, for I could have
introduced you to each other—in fact, I shall have to do it after
all,”—and Prigson, continuing in French, presented Baron de Valtoucourt
to his brother-in-law, for whom he invented a high-sounding title on the
spur of the moment. Van Arlen had never thought that his name would
sound so well in French. But French was not his forte, and now his
silence made him seem more solemn than ever; and he was convinced in his
soul that Baron Valtoucourt thought him the pivot of all the home and
foreign politics of Holland. Prigson did his best to strengthen this
hypothetical opinion. “You see, my dear fellow,” he said to the
stranger, “if Van Arlen is willing, he can do anything, but he is fond
of raising objections—_ce cher_ Van Arlen.”
The stranger muttered, with amazing rapidity, a long French sentence, of
which Van Arlen could not seize a word. He therefore confined himself to
ejaculating now and then “_oui_” or “_peut-être_,” and at the close
wrapped himself in a diplomatic silence. His wife and Leida returned
with their cavalier; the stranger greeted them with a bow, as deep and
solemn as though he were announcing her death-sentence to the Queen of
Spain; he then bowed no less deeply to Talm, who, on his part, was not
to be outdone, and, deeply impressed by the high solemnity of the
occasion, made another low bow before Van Arlen. The latter, having
witnessed the performance three times, involuntarily saluted his
assistant secretary in a similar manner.
It was, in fact, most impressively solemn.
The stranger was a man who knew life, and could understand that a man
might fill a highly important position without being an accomplished
French scholar. He therefore slackened the flow of his words, and
assured them that he should consider it a great honour to have Van Arlen
as a director.
“But,” said Van Arlen, “I never said that!”
“_Si, si_,” said the stranger, “we understand one another perfectly;”
and then he pressed his hand and gave utterance to a friendly wish,
whereat Van Arlen (unwilling to acknowledge even to himself that he did
not understand) replied, “_Nous verrons_.”
Next morning he sent for his wife and Leida to his own room, and
completely bewildered them, first by swearing them to secrecy with
regard to a conversation they had neither heard nor understood, and next
by completely losing his temper, when Leida innocently asked: “Why,
papa, you frighten me—one would think it was high treason!” He was so
violent that Leida went off into hysterics, the girls came up to see
what was the matter, and Van Arlen left for the office in a very bad
temper.
He found that Prigson had been there, and was coming back at three
o’clock.
The Minister not only refused to have anything to do with the
subscription list for Van Teuten, but hinted disapprobation of those who
had got it up; and let fall expressions which tortured Van Arlen all the
morning, making him wonder whether His Excellency had penetrated his
secret. At last Van Teuten came, and he was forced to acknowledge his
failure. The poor man, nearly in despair, was about to make a last
effort, and ask the Minister to become security for him, when Van Arlen
had a luminous idea.
“I will——” he said. Van Teuten was overwhelming him with thanks and
blessings, when he interrupted him:
“On these conditions I will become security. First, the money must be
here by two; secondly, you must borrow, not two hundred, but twelve
hundred; thirdly, the whole matter must be kept secret.”
Van Teuten was ready to promise anything,—he would willingly have made
him a present of his soul into the bargain. Not long afterwards a former
Government clerk, who was now “in business on his own account,” was
admitted to Van Arlen’s private room. The money-lender was inclined to
make objections—twelve hundred guilders was a large sum for a clerk
whose income only amounted to the half of that sum.
“If I don’t raise that difficulty,” said Van Arlen indifferently, “I see
no reason why you should.”
“Yes, you see—but you are mortal like the rest of us; you might have to
retire, or be put on half-pay—excuse my suggesting such things, but
they’re all possible.”
“You’re not lending money to me, but to Mr Van Teuten; if anything of
the sort were to happen, he would find you a new security.”
At last the matter was settled, at an interest of seven and a half per
cent. The money-lender produced the twelve hundred guilders, and carried
off the bill, duly stamped, and signed by Van Arlen and Van Teuten.
When the man with the handwriting was once more alone with his chief,
the latter said, “Two hundred guilders are all you want for the present;
I’ll keep the rest for you, in case you should get into difficulties
again. Never mind about the interest—I’ll pay that.”
Van Teuten was fairly dazzled by such liberality. There must be
something behind it—probably the State secret.
The news went like wildfire through the department how that unlucky
devil of a Van Teuten had been set on his legs again by Van Arlen!
Zuigman knew what to think of it—_he_ had seen documents; but he never
spoke, and that his colleagues knew right well.
Talm, too, had his say on the subject,—Talm, who had introduced the
millionaire, and had, yesterday evening, walked on the terrace at
Scheveningen arm in arm with his chief’s wife. Further and further
spread the fire, and every one made his conjectures. Van Teuten’s rescue
remained the great event of the day.
It struck three, when Prigson was announced. Van Arlen was deep in his
work.
“What zeal! But of course you want to leave the books in good order when
you go!”
“I’m not thinking of going, Prigson.”
“What do you say? And our agreement?”
“I have made no definite agreement; but, in so far as I have made any
promise to join you, I withdraw it.”
“What the deuce! Van Arlen, aren’t you right in your head?”
“On the contrary, I have come to my senses. When one has been an honest
man for thirty years, Prigson, one is thoroughly in love with honesty.”
“Especially the way it is appreciated! The reward of all your honesty
will be, that you fall from the tree, like an over-ripe fruit, and lie
there till somebody treads you flat.”
“Better so than trample on one’s self.”
“That is a gymnastic feat I would rather leave to a Münchausen. But
you’re mad, Van Arlen—the matter is getting into shape after all.”
“Do you think so?” Van Arlen stood up, and looked his brother-in-law
straight in the face. “Do you think I would ever allow it?”
“My good friend, you won’t be asked. Regenstein is going to negotiate
the business.”
“Then I’ll inform the Minister. The supernumerary will be on his guard.”
“Like the dying gladiator—_moriturus salutat_—it’s heroic, but comic
too. I’d be more sensible, if I were you, Van Arlen.”
“Prigson, when I came here this morning, with the feeling that I had
broken my oath and betrayed my country.... Oh! I couldn’t stay here a
day—I couldn’t live—I should lay hands on myself.”
“Treason—perjury—you do choose such fine words! and the real point is,
whether you’re going to depart from an old habit or not. Believe me,
you’re the slave of habit.”
“I prefer to remain so.”
Prigson looked at him, and saw that his mind was made up. But he had one
resource left, “Well, I suppose you’re your own master, and can do as
you like.... But I’m sorry—I shall have to remind you of what I asked
you for the other day.”
Van Arlen put his hand in his breast-pocket, and laid a small parcel on
the table before Prigson, “Will you kindly see if that’s all right?” he
said.
Prigson was disappointed. He did not need the money—in fact, Van Arlen’s
utter inability to pay would have been worth another thousand guilders
to him.
“I suppose it’s all right,” he said, glancing over the notes. “There,
Van Arlen,” he said, with a sudden change of tone, and a quaver in his
voice, “give me your hand, old fellow! you’re better than most men.
Good-bye! Stay as you are!”
He left the room, and Van Arlen, finding himself alone, felt like a man
saved from shipwreck.
It is some weeks after the first of August. The new official has long
been installed, and the Minister does nothing without consulting him.
Everything passes through Mr Regenstein’s hands.
It is Sunday afternoon. On Sunday afternoons, as a rule, it is too hot
for a walk; or, if not too hot, it is too cold. If neither too hot nor
too cold, it most likely threatens rain; and if none of these three
atmospheric conditions prevails,—well, formerly Van Arlen always had
urgent work to do. This Sunday, however, he is quite at leisure, and the
weather is perfect, but—it is the anniversary of Aunt Cornelia’s death.
Van Arlen looks over the blinds at the passers-by, most of whom are on
their way to the Bosch. Here and there a quietly dressed lady, with a
Bible in her hand, threads her way through the throng.
“I think I’ll go to afternoon church,” says Caroline. “Will you come,
Frederica?”
“Oh, yes, Caroline,” answers Frederica, with a little sigh, and they go.
Leida and Hendrika made a slight grimace.
“Papa really might go out for a walk with us.”
“Oh, fie! girls!” said their mother, “that would not be at all proper on
a day like this.”
“Couldn’t we keep the day just as well to-morrow, mamma?” asked Leida
simply. “I don’t see why we should have to keep it up for twenty years;
I’m quite sure that Uncle Van Noost Prigson himself doesn’t remember it
now.”
The name made Van Arlen look up.
“Oh, papa—have you heard anything more about the situation uncle was
talking about at dinner that day?” asked Marie.
“That’s all come to nothing, dear child; I have been talking it over,
but they say they can’t do without me at the office.”
“But, papa,” asked Hortense, “if they can’t do without you, how does it
happen that you have less to do than you had?”
“Does the importance of a position lie in the mere amount of work?”
asked Van Arlen, with dignity.
“Papa has this secret business now, you see,” said his wife, anxious to
help him out—she was looking straight before her. “This business is, by
itself, of tremendous importance.”
“Is that since Uncle Prigson was here?” asked Leida, going up to her
father, and laying her arm over his shoulder. “You’re not angry with me
any more, are you, papa?—you know—since that morning?”
Van Arlen bent down to his daughter and kissed her on the forehead. “No,
little girl,—I can’t be angry with you.”
“But you never travel now, papa. Has that part of your work been taken
away? That’s stupid!”
“The travelling has come to an end,” said Van Arlen thoughtfully,—“come
to an end for good and all.”
The item “Travelling expenses,” in the Van Arlen budget, was now
replaced by another, which was, “Instalments and interest on debt.”
“That’s a pity,” said Caroline, “because now you can never take two of
us with you, as you promised to do long ago.”
“That plan has come to nothing too, child. Besides, I’m getting old.”
“Oh, papa!—you old! that’s the first we’ve heard of it. It must be since
you gave up your glass of wine at dinner.”
“Papa has to keep his head clear, you see,” said Mrs Van Arlen. “That’s
the penalty of greatness, girls!”
She was silent, and they all followed suit. No one had anything more to
say. If only a caller would come!—but since papa had entered on his
important position as supernumerary in the office, callers had been
scarce. So the dull Sunday wore away. The two eldest girls came home
from church; the dinner hour drew near, and, still in silence, the Van
Arlens took their places round the big table, on which a soup tureen was
the only dish visible. It does not take long to eat soup, and the
dessert, as usual, remained untouched. Already Leentje had stuck her
shining Sunday face, and her hat with the flowers in it, through a crack
of the door, to give notice of her departure—for it was her day out, and
“it suited.” The family were still seated round the table. Why should
they rise?—the evening was long enough. Suddenly, however, they were
startled out of their inertia by the front door bell. Leida went to
answer it, and immediately returned with Van Noost Prigson. Van Arlen
felt himself turn pale—was he to be tempted again?
His wife, too, was seized with panic—supposing Prigson had not dined!
Fortunately, he set her mind at ease forthwith.
“I left the dinner-table before dessert, fearing that otherwise I should
not find you at home. I suppose you’re going to Scheveningen?”
“No; it’s rather too crowded for me at the Badhuis on Sundays,” said Van
Arlen, feeling that it would not quite do to allege to the widower the
anniversary of his wife’s death as their reason for remaining at home.
“Crowded! The father of seven daughters ought simply to revel in crowds.
What do you say, nieces?”
The nieces had no opinion to offer on that point.
“Really, Van Arlen,” Prigson went on, throwing himself back in his
chair, and surveying the seven girls, one by one, with a well-pleased
expression,—“really, my dear fellow, you ought not to stay at home on
Sunday evenings! At any rate you should send your daughters to church.”
The younger ones looked mischievously at Caroline and Frederica.
“It has always struck me as strange, Van Arlen, that there are so many
old maids at the Hague. What in the world is the cause of that?”
“Because the girls are rather hard to please, uncle,” said Leida.
“Oh, that’s the reason, is it?” said Prigson, with an air of simple
faith. “I’m sorry to hear it—I’ve just come to look for a wife at the
Hague.”
“For Cousin Cornelius, uncle?” asked Leida. “I suppose he’s about twenty
now, isn’t he?”
“Good for nothing, girl! And have you heard, Van Arlen?” he continued,
turning to his brother-in-law.
“What?” asked the latter.
“Oh! you know well enough,—you’re only pretending, because you want to
make out it’s a State secret.”
“On my word, as an honest man——”
“That’s worth something, as we know. So you haven’t heard? Next week
your Minister’s going to resign.”
“Prigson!”
“The day before yesterday, it was brought before the Cabinet Council,
and His Majesty made as little difficulty over the matter as I should
have done. He’ll get the Grand Cross now, and perhaps be Minister of
State—but _you’ll_ be rid of him!”
Van Arlen sat looking at his brother-in-law, without moving a muscle of
his face, and the girls felt convinced that papa knew just as much about
the business as Prigson.
“And the best of it all is, that your friend Regenstein has been doing
his level best to pull His Excellency down! Well—reap as you’ve sown!”
“Prigson, we’re not alone here.”
“I see no earthly reason why your wife and daughters may not know it. I
hate these mysteries. They may shout the whole thing from the housetops,
for all I care.”
“But think of my position!”
“It will be greatly improved, Van Arlen. Regenstein has made his own
terms, like a sensible man; but I’ll tell you about that later. As soon
as I heard that His Excellency was going to close his portfolio, I came
to the Hague at once; last night I had a talk with him, and now my
business is done. The Minister wasn’t of the same mind as a certain
fellow I know, when _he_ found himself set aside.”
“But, Prigson!”
“All men are not equally conscientious, my dear man. His Excellency had
too much common sense to make difficulties,—but that’s not to the point.
Enough that the matter’s settled! By Jove, but I’m sick of it! To
Amsterdam yesterday—to Rotterdam this morning—but now I’m going to get
some rest!”
Van Arlen shook his head doubtfully over such lack of principle.
“And are you remaining in town some days?” asked Madame, with
distinction.
“That depends, Hortense. I’ve told you what I came for.”
“Uncle is sorry for the Hague ladies,” said Leida. “But remember, uncle,
they’re very hard to please.”
“I think I shall have to run off with one. What would you do, Van Arlen,
if a fellow ran off with one of your daughters?”
“Prigson, my daughters are far too well brought up, ever to be exposed
to the danger of such a thing.”
“But supposing a man comes and proposes in due form?”
“I think it’s going to rain,” said Marie.
“Dear me! isn’t that picture hanging all on one side,” exclaimed
Hendriek, at the same moment.
“Mamma, have you noticed that the edge of the tablecloth is all ravelled
out here?” asked Hortense.
Frederica rose to pick up her napkin, which she had dropped.
“Shall we have tea in the front or back room, mamma?” asked Antoinette,
whose turn it was to see to the housekeeping this week; and they rose,
followed by Caroline, who went over to mamma, to whisper a very
confidential communication with regard to a ribbon in the latter’s cap.
Leida was lighting a spill for papa. “You might as well ask, uncle, what
is the amount of the dowry papa is going to give us,” she said, handing
Uncle Prigson a light at the same time.
“Pretty girls need no dowry,” answered Prigson.
“Thanks for the compliment to your nieces,” said Leida, with a roguish
curtsey, as she left the room.
Prigson and Van Arlen were once more alone.
“Prigson,” said the official, “I must repeat to you candidly what I have
already told you—you’re not playing a fair game.”
“Do you think I want to turn your daughters’ heads?”
“I didn’t mean that—your enterprise, which now seems about to succeed——”
“Say, which _is_ going to succeed; but let that matter rest just now.”
“Surely you have a conscience, Prigson?”
“An amazingly big one, Van Arlen; and, between ourselves, I think it’s
made of some elastic substance, most likely of the same material as your
Minister’s and your friend Regenstein’s.”
“Prigson! Prigson! a time will come——”
“Dear me! Van Arlen, what a platitude!”
“You’re scoffing, Prigson; but listen, you set store by the respect of
your fellow-creatures—mine, for instance; you told me once that I was
better than many men.”
“Well remembered; but have I forfeited that respect?”
“Not quite, yet—but still——”
“The greater part? Good. Now the proof of the sum; Van Arlen, I want to
ask you for the hand of your daughter.”[37]
“Prigson, do remember that we are discussing serious matters.”
“But, Van Arlen, I’m speaking as seriously as I ever did in my life.
Your Leida is a nice, pleasant, merry girl, with a good heart,
and—excuse my having seen a little deeper into your domestic economy
than perhaps you like—Leida knows how to keep house.”
“Your age!”
“Do you reckon by the heart or the head?”
“You might be her father!”
“If I had six more daughters, like you, I wouldn’t envy their position.
I don’t understand, Van Arlen, why you should make any difficulty about
it; a father of seven girls ought surely to be glad enough to get rid of
one of them.”
“You forget that a daughter’s marriage involves expenses too heavy for a
household like mine.”
“I will bear the cost of everything.”
Van Arlen was silent, and reflected. He had just been calling Prigson a
dishonest man,—was he going to give him his daughter? Could he answer
for such a step to his own conscience?... But it was a good match after
all ... and then ... seven daughters! And the outfit! But perhaps that
was only a nominal present after all ...; perhaps Prigson only meant to
reckon it as cancelling the money still due to him.
“Our debt—” he began.
“Cancelled on the wedding-day.”
The prospect was, in truth, a seductive one; but how could he give his
daughter to a man without a conscience? Suddenly there occurred to him a
way of escape, which united in itself all possible advantages.
“Prigson, with me everything must give way to my children’s happiness; I
have never forced any of them into a marriage” (in fact, the opportunity
had never offered), “and I would not attempt to prevent a union which——”
Van Arlen paused—Prigson waited.
“Which may, perhaps, lead to your happiness—even your higher happiness,
Prigson. The influence over you may have the power to inspire you with
better feelings, with—let me speak plainly—more moral principles.”
It was an inspiration of the moment,—but Van Arlen, by this time, was
quite convinced that it was his principal motive in consenting.
“Will you let us hope so, Van Arlen?”
“But——”
“Well?”
“Would not Caroline, who is nearer your own age——”
“I am convinced that Leida’s influence will act on me more powerfully,”
said Prigson, humbly. “What do you think of taking a drive out to the
baths now? I shall have a better chance of getting a few words with
Leida than here, where there are always six more of them sitting
sorrowing that the offer was not for them.”
“I do not think my daughters would take that view of each other’s
happiness.”
“Come! we’re getting on!—you call it happiness, do you? Will you have a
fly ordered?”
“The nearest driver is a Roman Catholic.”
“No, of course he must not drive us; that would begin to play the
mischief with the moral principles at once. I’ll go and find a Calvinist
cabman.”
That same evening Leida called her uncle by his first name; and in two
months’ time the Van Arlens were giving a ball in honour of the
engagement,—a thing they had never done before,—with Prigson’s money.
Talm appeared at this festivity; and the man with the handwriting, who
was accustomed to amuse his leisure hours with the clarionet (purely for
the love of art, of course), also assisted—at a distance. He told his
friends next morning that he had been one of the invited guests, and
that Mr Talm would probably get a good piece of promotion before long,
for he had been dancing all the evening with one and the same Miss Van
Arlen—who, moreover, gave him her bouquet when he left!
The ball had important consequences, moreover, for five more of the
Van Arlen girls; and the old man now lives on his pension, with his
wife and eldest daughter. He often calls to mind his important
position,—especially the time when he was entrusted with such very,
very confidential business, of which no one knew anything at the time,
and no one knows anything to this day.
GERARD KELLER.
_ROUGH DRAFT OF A NEW SET OF REGULATIONS._
FOR THE BENEFIT OF SERVANTS AND THEIR EMPLOYERS.
The milkman must be made to understand that it will not do to ring
people out of their beds at seven in the morning, and make them catch
cold at the front door.
Pianos are not to be locked by the family after using; the servants
would like a little music now and then.
The master and mistress must consult the servants before subscribing to
newspapers and magazines. The foolish choice that is often made in this
respect is very trying to the feelings of the latter.
Another practice that cannot be too strongly reprobated, is that of
carrying off books and magazines from the circulating library to
people’s bedrooms before the servants have read them.
Madame and the daughters of the house should always knock properly
before entering the kitchen.
When visiting the servants’ own rooms, they should always send some one
up to announce them first.
When the housemaid is sent to order a cab, it by no means follows that
she is to tell the cabman to drive her home by the shortest way.
If the master and mistress are medically attended by a Professor, it
will not do to let the servants be treated by an ordinary doctor.
Stale bread will no longer be eaten.
When a serious misfortune is impending—_e.g._, a bankruptcy or the
like—the servants ought always to be warned in time.
If the family have a box at the theatre or the opera, the servants
should have the full use of it.
The family should not speak French at table while the maid is in the
room, unless it has been previously ascertained that she understands
that language.
Tips ought to be compounded for, just as much as tithes.
_Uilenspiegel._
_THE STORY OF A BOUQUET._
Alfred possessed two qualities common to many young men besides
himself,—he was in love, and he had very little money.
His condition was therefore a sad one; but he cherished the hope that
the lovely Clara would not only make a good wife, but also put an end to
all his pecuniary embarrassments. So he neglected nothing that he
thought might please her.
Every one knows that homage when offered in the shape of flowers is, as
a rule, well pleasing to ladies. But, unhappily, the world is at present
so prosaically constituted, that even the perfumed children of Flora are
not to be had except for money,—and this point constituted, as we have
already seen, the Achilles sinew of our enamoured here.
Day and night his thoughts were occupied with this difficulty, and, when
it did not keep him awake, his sleep was filled with uncomfortable
dreams.
After one of these weary nights, another bright morning had dawned,—the
larks were singing, the roses were in bloom, and Alfred was busy
cleaning his pipe.
In the midst of this poetic occupation, he was suddenly inspired with a
practical idea. He sketched out a plan which would have done no
discredit to the most finished diplomatist, and executed it with an
energy worthy of a worse cause.
He had been accustomed to sell his cast-off garments to a humble citizen
of much experience in retail trading; and, considering the man’s
astuteness and eloquence, he had often been seized by a suspicion that
he (Alfred) had not got the best of the bargain.
This must be put an end to. He broke off his commercial relations with
the experienced dealer, and concluded a treaty with a nursery-gardener’s
boy, to whom he presented his worn-out clothes; in return for which the
boy engaged to gather him a bouquet, from time to time, late in the
evening, and bring it to him with the necessary discretion.
This plan answered well enough for a time. The boy brought the flowers,
and received in return, gifts of equal value,—a hat, adorned with dints
like a Homeric shield; a waistcoat, wofully stained down the front; and
a coat, whose collar shone like a meteor; and furthermore, a pair of
shoes, on which the cobbler’s art could no further go.
On the morning of a bright summer day, the gardener’s boy, being unable
to come in person, sent up by another hand a magnificent bouquet of
roses, which Alfred, without loss of time, despatched to his adored
Clara.
Full of joyous hope, and sure of a friendly welcome, he sped the same
evening to the house of his chosen one, but found, to his great
disappointment, that he was received with decided coolness.
“You sent me a note this morning,” began Clara, after an awkward pause.
“A note?” he asked, in astonishment; “I?”
“Yes, with the flowers—”
[Illustration:
“YES, WITH THE FLOWERS—”
]
“Yes, I did send some flowers—roses——”
“Into which this note was stuck,” went on Clara, freezingly. “Here it
is—do you deny having sent it?”
And she handed the miserable man a piece of paper, on which he read, to
his consternation—
“_Don’t forget the old boots you said you would give me last week._”
_Uilenspiegel._
[Illustration:
“TO HOLD UP FOR THE KISS.”
]
_UNBIDDEN GUESTS._
I.
Notary van Elst generally comes home from his office about five in the
afternoon, and his return to the bosom of his family is a pretty sight.
The Van Elsts’ neighbour,—unsociable old bachelor that he was,—noticing
how eagerly this return was watched for every afternoon and greeted with
joyful acclamation, had a way of turning away his head, and muttering
crossly, “I might have known that sort of thing too, if only——”
In the _bendy_[38] sent to fetch Van Elst, the curly head of his eldest
child was always to be seen; Nonnie and little Ada were always watching
for him on the verandah steps when he drove up; and no sooner did the
wheels crunch over the gravel than a pretty little wife would come
flying out with the brightest, pleasantest face imaginable, which she
never forgot to hold up for the kiss which was always forthcoming,
unless the children interfered, clinging about him as they did, and
clamouring for attention.
Then came an interval of peace. Papa went to dress, and mamma sent the
little ones out for a walk; and when the old bachelor returned to his
verandah,—having been away for his bath meanwhile,—he would see his
gentle little neighbour seated at the tea-tray as placidly as if she had
not been busy the whole day running here and there,—now urging a
perverse “boy” to work, now disposing of a contumacious pedlar or
unreasonable _lengànan_,[39] or, most frequent occupation of all, flying
to soothe the children in the countless infantine woes and accidents
which were always occurring.
[Illustration:
“WHEN THE OLD BACHELOR RETURNED TO HIS VERANDAH.”
]
It really _was_, and not merely in the old bachelor’s fancy, a pretty
sight.
The wife got all the newspapers and letters, and the master of the house
innumerable cups of tea. He would retail all the items of news,—she, the
children’s pretty sayings and doings; and if she felt a craving to
unburden herself of domestic grievances, she found him ready to listen,
as far as appearances went, at least.
“Is there no news to-day?” she asks, when the little disturbers of the
peace have been sent out, and her husband throws himself back
luxuriously in his lounging-chair.
“Oh! yes, a great piece of news. Just guess.”
“Oh! come; do tell me. You know I hate guessing.”
“Well, then, a letter from our cousins the Martendijks. Where on earth
did I put it? Oh! here it is in my coat pocket. Well, there’s not much
in it, except that they ask if we will have them on a visit.”
“The _Martendijks_!” Jo exclaims, her face lengthening. But immediately
she recollects that they are relations of her husband’s; and as this is
rather a sore point with him, she hastens to add: “What do _you_ say to
it, Max?”
“Well, you see,” answers Max, “I have been wondering whether we should
not write that you are not yet strong enough for visitors.”
Jo does not indeed look strong, with her fitful colour, and that languid
droop of the eyelids, but, like most mothers of a family who know how
ill they can be spared, she is loath to allow that she is not robust,
and does her best to persuade herself and every one else that, once she
has got over this or that, she will be perfectly strong.
“No; you must not do that. We can’t let them stay on at that hot
Soeka-Manies, especially with the bad season coming on. When do they
propose to come?”
“On the 5th.”
“Good gracious! the day after to-morrow! And I have to put clean
curtains on the beds! They might have given us longer notice, I think.
Surely Emily knows as well as I do that there are always some
arrangements to make in a busy household.”
“Then am I to write that they are welcome?”
“Yes; we can’t well do anything else. Another cup of tea, dear?”
Here follows a pause. Mr Van Elst puffs away contentedly at his cigar,
while his wife begins to fidget a little. At last, laying her hand on
her husband’s, she says, hesitatingly, “Do you know why their coming is
not very convenient just now, dear boy? the _godown_ is nearly empty.”
“Empty _again_? My dear Jo, what on earth becomes of the things?”
And as if this remark—a favourite one with married men, and generally as
unjust as it is senseless—were not enough, he continues, in an aggrieved
tone: “Good gracious, child! it is not three months since I ordered in a
whole supply. Are the four boxes of wine finished? And all those tinned
things? And all the casks of butter?”
“No, not yet. If no visitors were coming, we could easily hold out for
another month; but you absolutely must order in a new supply now.”
“A new supply! And the beer not paid for yet at the bazaar! It’s all
very well for you to talk, but you forget it’s easier to order than to
pay.”
“Oh, Max! how can you speak so?” was Jo’s only answer. She might, if she
chose, have retorted that it was he who drank so much wine,—though
certainly _she_ required the stimulant more than he did,—that the tins
were rarely opened except on the numerous occasions when he brought home
friends to dinner, and that it was he who grumbled if the dinner ever
chanced to be a little scrimp. But she made no remark, and merely turned
a piteous little face to her husband, which resulted in his immediately
exclaiming: “Well, dear! don’t worry about it.” And then he continued,
impelled to vent his wrath on something,—“But living is so confoundedly
dear here, that a fellow is at his wits’ end to know what to do. And
then come visitors to ruin you altogether.... They asked for an answer
by wire,” he added, after a pause.
“Well, it does cost a good deal of money,” said Jo; “but, oh dear! if it
is to please them!—”
When the morning of the 5th came, the Van Elsts’ neighbour over the way
congratulated himself on his single blessedness, remarking to his dog,
“That’s what comes of getting married.” He relented after a little,
however, when his cup of coffee had put him in a somewhat better humour,
and added: “After all, Van Elst is not so much more tied than I am. It
isn’t often he’s interfered with. It’s a marvel how that woman always
finds time for everything.”
To-day, however, Mrs Van Elst found it rather difficult to fit in
everything. She was dreadfully busy; and, as might be expected, lost her
temper a little, got cross with the “boys,” gave Nonnie a push, and Max
a sharp answer, and then was stung with remorse, and said, resentfully,
“that she could not understand why Cousin Martendijk had not written
sooner; it was such short notice,—such a nuisance!”
It was indeed. For when Van Elst came home at mid-day, and she met him
with the query if everything did not look nice? he saw by her flushed
cheeks, and the dark rings under her eyes, that she had over-exerted
herself.
“Yes, very nice indeed; but you have been doing far too much again,” he
said, reproachfully. “Do take a rest now,” he added, pouring her out a
glass of port.
“Thanks, dear; but I must go and dress first.”
“Yes, yes, presently,” he said, as he seated himself beside her on the
couch, holding her back as she struggled to free herself, and then
resorting to endearments and caresses which he well knew would retard
her escape.
Presently a carriage drove up to the door. Jo sprang up in dismay, and
made a bold attempt at flight; but she was caught in the act, and found
herself face to face with the Martendijks! Very smart did Mrs Martendijk
look in her white gown, flounced and embroidered; and Jo became
painfully conscious of her own dishevelled hair, her soiled and crumpled
_kabaja_, and old faded _sarong_[40].
“My wife was just going to dress,” remarked Van Elst, aware of her
embarrassment; “we did not expect you before two o’clock.”
“Yes, so we wrote; but we changed our plans. It would have made us so
late for luncheon, and that does not suit my complaint, you see,” said
Martendijk.
“If you had sent me word, I’d have made a point of being ready,” said
Jo.
“Well, of course, I had not time to think of that with all the bustle of
starting. How d’ye do, Njo?”[41]
Now the reader must know that Njo, to whom Mrs Martendijk addressed this
remark, was the Van Elsts’ pride and joy. They had two dear little girls
besides—very fine children, too,—but Njo; their Njo! when _he_ came into
the room, the father’s and mother’s eyes wandered involuntarily in his
direction, and instinctively they would pause in their conversation to
allow their visitors an opportunity of expressing their admiration, and
their amazement, over “_Such_ a fine little fellow! Such a _huge_
child!”
“Our Njo” looked perfectly charming to-day. Mamma had brushed the pretty
brown curls herself, to do him justice in the eyes of her husband’s
relations; and it was with his most roguish expression, and his usual
winning manner, that he held up his little face with a merry laugh for
the new aunt to kiss. And Aunt said nothing but “How d’ye do, Njo?”
Max glanced at his wife; but she replied by a sign which was meant to
convey some such remark: “You can’t blame her for it; she doesn’t
understand children,” and that checked Max’s rising resentment.
All this time the poor hostess was sitting very ill at ease; she kept up
the conversation for a few minutes, and then asked if her cousin would
not like to be shown to her room.
But Mrs Martendijk preferred to drink a glass of port first, so Jo had
to remain sitting in the _kabaja_ and _sarong_, which seemed to her more
soiled and faded every moment.
II.
It was doubly annoying to the dainty little hostess to be surprised in
such slovenly attire, because this was her first introduction to the
Martendijks, and she had set her heart on making a good impression on
them.
Though Emily and Johanna now met for the first time, their husbands were
cousins and old acquaintances. Van Elst had been under some obligation
to Martendijk’s father; and although he had not much in common with his
cousin, he had always remained on friendly terms with him, in
acknowledgment of his uncle’s past kindness.
They had both gone abroad at the same time, and after the lapse of ten
years they thus met again, both married—the one managing partner in a
sugar factory, the other notary in a prosperous place in the eastern
province of Java.
There was no resemblance, not even a trace of family likeness, between
the cousins.
Max was a strongly built man of middle height, broad-shouldered, and
remarkably robust, with clear blue eyes, fresh colour, a full beard, and
a laughing mouth; while Piet Martendijk was one of those long lean men
whose appearance suggests that they have not been over fed in their
young days, with scanty whiskers and hair, a long neck, and alarmingly
thin legs; his complexion was sallow, his eyes lack-lustre, and his lips
without a smile, which made some ladies pronounce him interesting,
others distinguished, and men declare it a sin that he should have such
a fine-looking wife.
She _was_ a good-looking woman, with her handsome and graceful figure,
her regular features, her luxuriant mass of dark hair, and her tasteful
dress. But, after a few days’ acquaintance, one found oneself wondering
curiously if there was nothing could call forth a change in the
expression of her eyes,—so cool was their gaze, and so indifferent, that
a warm heart involuntarily shrank before them. Impassive faces of that
sort have sometimes a certain fascination,—one is ready to imagine that
the well-controlled features mask some deeply hidden sorrow, some tragic
secret, that there is warm blood in the pale cheeks, and a passionate
heart beating in the seemingly placid bosom. But Mrs Martendijk’s whole
personality was so insignificant, her talk so trifling, and her smile so
cold, that it would have been difficult for the most romantically
inclined to find her interesting; and for the Van Elsts it was
absolutely impossible, as they knew her whole history.
A most commonplace one it was. The eldest daughter of a man who had made
his money in the cheese trade, she had known Martendijk for years
without thinking of a tenderer relationship, and had got engaged to him
by correspondence, after he had been some time in the Indies, and the
idea suddenly occurred to him of winning her as his wife. As soon as the
old cheesemonger had made satisfactory inquiries into the prospects of
the sugar trade, all arrangements had been completed by letter, and she
had “come out.”
[Illustration:
“ONE OF THOSE LONG THIN MEN.”
]
It was a childless marriage. Both professed themselves highly satisfied
with this state of matters,—an assertion which usually suggests the old
story of the fox and the grapes, but which might gain credence in this
case considering the peculiar tastes and dispositions of the couple.
Fresh from her toilet, in her dainty white _kabaja_, with the faintest
touch of colour lending a downy softness to her pretty little face, Mrs
Van Elst stood in the verandah awaiting her guests.
With the self-complacency of an active housewife she let her eye rove
over the tempting table, to the sideboard with its sparkling crystal,
and to the side-table where the dishes stood ready to be handed round.
“What a shame to let everything get cold,” she said to herself, greeting
Max as he entered with the query if the “boy” had not announced
luncheon.
“Yes, and I have called them myself too,” says Max, a little crossly,
for he loves to have the curry served hot, “but they don’t seem to be
ready yet. How splendid it looks,” he continues, and, with a furtive
glance round to make sure that the children are out of the way, he helps
himself from one of the dishes to a leg of roast fowl. He has abundant
time to pick the bone leisurely before the guests appear, with the
immediate request from Emily that the door may be closed.
“Oh, cousin,” Max exclaims, “it will be so frightfully stuffy here!”
“Yes, but there’s such a draught just now; and that’s so dangerous for
Piet’s complaint, you see. So—if you don’t mind?”
They seat themselves, and the “boys” begin to wait. Jo is glad to see
that the cook has exerted herself to the very utmost, and throws a
contented little nod across to her husband, as much as to say, “Now,
haven’t you a clever little wife?” to which he replies convincingly by
helping himself very liberally from the various dishes.
All at once Jo discovers that Cousin Martendijk is eating away at _dry
rice_!
“Won’t you have some curry?” she asks; “or perhaps you would rather——”
“No, thank you, cousin, I often eat my rice dry.”
“Do have a little piece of fricassee, then!” she exclaims in dismay, as
he lets even that indispensable dish pass.
“No, it’s so dangerous to eat fricassee. You never know what it’s made
of. And when one is a martyr to indigestion——”
“Oh, come,” Max exclaims impatiently, “you don’t need to be afraid of
anything of that kind here. Jo always makes the fricassee herself, and
most delicious it is, I assure you.”
“Well, a small piece then.”
Mrs Martendijk ate very little also; and Jo could not help noticing how
Cousin Martendijk, who was rather shortsighted, gave a disdainful sniff
every now and then at one or other of the dishes, and how his wife,
without even honouring them with a glance, sent away one after another
with a brief but decisive “_tida_.”[42]
My gentle readers will admit that this was a very trying experience for
a hostess. Jo begins all at once to doubt her own domestic capabilities,
and the painful conviction grows upon her that the fowl must be very
tough, and the fish not fresh, and that there is a want of variety. A
sort of dumb rage at the cook gradually takes possession of her,—she has
such a trick of making the _sambalans_ too hot; and she casts a
vindictive glance at the “boy” when he forgets to hand round the
pickles. And when the pickles are likewise smelt, and examined, and
declined, she feels her face blaze, and her appetite vanish, and a wild
longing comes over her for the moment when she can give the signal to
rise from table.
“My dear cousin,” began Emily the next morning, following Jo into the
store-room, where she was busy giving out provisions, “I think you were
rather hurt at our eating so little yesterday, were you not?”
“Well, to tell the truth——”
“Now then, to put it all right, I’ll just tell you what was the real
reason. You use cocoa-nut oil, don’t you? and you don’t make it at home!
I tasted that at once.”
“No, that is true; the cook has enough to do as it is.”
“Oh, my dear! don’t you pay any attention to a cook like that. They can
easily get through all their work. And do you know why Piet ate so
little? Everything was too strong for him. I’m just telling you, you
know, so that you may manage things better another time.”
“Yes, but that won’t be so very easy,” Jo ventured, “because—well, you
see, my husband likes his food very highly seasoned.”
“That _is_ a pity. But,” continued Emily, with an amiable little laugh,
“I know what you can do. Have some _sambal_[43] made separately for him,
and he can mix it with his food. We must adapt ourselves to one another,
must we not?”
“Oh, certainly,” said Jo, “if there happens to be anything else you
don’t care for, or that is bad for Cousin Martendijk’s inside——”
“Oh, no, thank you! We had a delicious dinner yesterday evening. Your
cook is a capital hand. Oh, wait a moment, though, I had nearly
forgotten. My good man is accustomed to have a cup of _bouillon_ about
eleven o’clock, and I a cup of chocolate—but it must be _chicken_-broth;
he is not allowed beef-tea.”
“Very well,” said Jo, a vision immediately rising before her of the
wrath of her cook when told that not only was she expected to make the
cocoa-nut oil herself, but to prepare _kaldoe_[44] and chocolate at the
very busiest hour of the morning. It was enough to make her give notice
on the spot.
Mrs Van Elst, to tell the truth, stood in considerable awe of this cook,
who was highly proficient in her art, used little butter, and did not
appropriate much of the marketing money; and, I appeal to you, what
mistress would not tremble at the thought of losing such a treasure?
She paved the way, therefore, with some friendly remarks, and even went
the length of promising a new _sarong_ before she broached _the_
subject; and flattered herself that all was going to end smoothly, when
cook all at once snatched up a basket of potatoes with one vicious jerk,
and with another laid hold of the rice, and closed the door of the
store-room behind her with a bang that thrilled her mistress from head
to foot. Jo knew what to expect.
For the rest, Emily supplied a ready answer to the great question which
haunts Indian no less than Dutch housewives: what are we to have for
dinner to-day? It was virtually she who proposed the _menu_ every day.
“Do you know what I’d make to-day?” she would remark to Jo;—“one of
those dishes of macaroni, with ham and cheese.” Or, “If you want to give
Martendijk a treat, dear cousin, give him asparagus, he’s wild about
that.” Or, “Do you never make tarts, Jo?—You do?—Well, I have a
delicious recipe for one I can lend you if you like.”
It was really very kind of Emily, Jo thought; and she had little more
cause to complain of her guest’s want of appetite, especially as Mrs
Martendijk had taken upon herself to make sure that nothing came to
table which might prove injurious to her husband’s digestion.
III.
Visiting is more of a burden than a pleasure in Holland, where people
are confined within such narrow limits, and where the usual routine of
daily life must be gone on with as usual.
The Dutch host may express the hope that you will “make yourself quite
at home,” adding that you are perfectly free to do what you like; but
when bedtime comes, he also informs you that they breakfast at eight
sharp, and his wife asks you in the sweetest manner possible to be so
good as not to keep the light burning; and both are rather hurt if you
do not evince any great anxiety to cultivate the acquaintance of all
their friends, and think it rather “strange” if you go out on your own
account.
Only in the Indies can one “make one’s self quite at home,” and that
undoubtedly accounts for the interchange of visits being so much more
common there than with us, and for people who are barely acquainted
beforehand finding it possible to stay weeks and even months with one
another without inconvenience to host or guest.
Even in the Indies, however, much depends on whether or not the visitors
are located in a detached part of the house. This is an arrangement
which commends itself especially to those who have children with them.
There are so many details to be attended to, and arrangements made in
that case, that the close proximity to strangers is a little awkward,
and the visitor has rather an anxious time of it in Holland. Every
mother knows the haunting dread lest the baby should take it into its
head to indulge in a prolonged fit of screaming in the middle of her
host’s mid-day nap, and she is painfully aware that childish freaks and
misdemeanours may not always meet with sympathy in their new
surroundings.
But in the Indies these fears and worries are unknown. The children are
quartered in the detached part of the house, where they may romp and
scream to their hearts’ content; and there is no risk of interference if
punishment is required, nor need to blush for shame at one’s
powerlessness under the rule of a spoilt four-year-old tyrant.
Others, besides happy parents, have reason to be grateful for the Indian
arrangement,—the young man with his late hours, the young lady with her
delicate little traffic in _billets-doux_ and bouquets, for instance.
And it commends itself highly to many a young couple, when the husband
takes a fancy to revive the days of courtship, or the young wife has set
her heart on a charming blue dress in the bazaar,—so cheap, and blue is
just the colour he likes her best in,—and so on. (We all know the sort
of talk that goes on, and how it ends.) And should it happen—for such
things _do_ occur—that they have a slight disagreement, and the tender
husband’s tone waxes warm, and his sweet little wife has recourse to
tears,—well, the courtyard is wide, and the host and hostess are totally
unaware of any disturbance; so, presently they trip into the verandah as
staid and as charming as if they never heard of “spooning,” not to speak
of squabbling. It is not at all unlikely that the host himself may have
profited by their absence, “_pour laver son linge sale en famille_.”
The Van Elsts had a very nice visitors’ room detached from the rest of
the house, with a verandah opening on a pretty flower-garden. Jo was in
the habit of having her visitors’ breakfast set in this front verandah,
chiefly because she liked to devote the morning undisturbed to her
husband and children, and because, moreover, it was more convenient for
all domestic arrangements.
But the very first morning after their arrival, Emily came, laughing, to
say that they thought it would be so much more sociable to breakfast
altogether, especially as Piet fancied it was a little damp over the
way, and he had to guard carefully against damp on account of his
complaint.
The Van Elsts thought it charming of their guests to be so sociably
inclined, but it was a little awkward nevertheless; and Jo wondered,
with some surprise, how Emily did not understand that, though it might
be pleasanter for herself, it might be decidedly inconvenient for the
mother of three children to have her visitors about her so early.
Jo had a great deal to do in the mornings, like all Indian ladies,
though Dutch housewives, we know, are inclined to be sceptical on that
point. The children had to be bathed,—an operation she liked to
superintend in person,—the clothes to be looked over, the washing and
sewing given out, the dinner ordered, and the thousand and one little
domestic duties attended to; it was generally eleven o’clock before she
was ready to sit down quietly.
There was, of course, more than usual to do with the Martendijks in the
house, but Jo was ready at last, and having just about an hour to spare,
she was anxious to finish the little frock over which she had been busy
for some time, and which was only waiting for the buttons and trimming.
“I hope I’m not intruding, Cousin Jo?” said a suave voice, and Emily
came in, and continued, regardless of the frock Jo held in her hand,
“Look here! I have a skirt which doesn’t hang well; do you think you can
see what’s the matter with it? I hear you are so neat-handed!”
Jo laid the little frock aside with a sigh, and began with deft fingers
to examine the drapery. The fault was soon detected. The skirt must be
unpicked, the folds relaid and pinned down; and in the middle of this
process, Emily suggested sweetly that it was more than time Piet had his
broth. Jo ran off with all speed to the kitchen, where cook received her
with a withering glance, and when her mistress asked for the _kaldoe_,
assumed an air of dense stupidity which checked all further inquiry.
Only by dint of lifting one lid after another did Mrs Van Elst at length
discover a fowl floating in tepid water.
Jo was not accustomed to yield,—not even to her invaluable cook,—nor had
she forgotten how to work in the Indies; so, soon she had the _kaldoe_
simmering over a moderate fire, and the chocolate all ready save the
boiling water. But to procure boiling water seemed to require some magic
quite beyond the powers of an ordinary cook; an immense kettle, full to
the brim, was suspended over a low fire, the wood was apparently damp,
the kitchen full of smoke, and not a single clean saucepan was to be
found.... When Mrs Van Elst at last carried in the two cups, it
certainly was not only the heat which flushed her cheeks and made her
hands tremble!
Emily did not seem to notice her agitation; she thanked her cousin quite
cordially for the trouble she had taken, evidently found the fragrant
chocolate very much to her liking, tasted the _kaldoe_ critically, and
when Jo expressed the fear that it was not strong enough, she smiled
good-naturedly, and had no doubt it would be better to-morrow!
Her next proceeding was to beg Jo to try on the altered skirt, so that
she could judge better of the draping, and the time was spent in pinning
and laying folds till the “boy” came to announce dinner.
Jo laid away the unfinished frock, hoping that perhaps to-morrow she
might make up for lost time. But next morning Emily proposed a visit to
the Chinese quarter, if her cousin would be so good as go with her,—she
had some shopping to do. And the third morning, just as Jo had once more
produced her work, Emily, who was sociably inclined, and did not care to
be alone, came to beg her cousin to be so very kind as to explain to her
how that lovely collar was made that she had on yesterday.
Oh, certainly! Jo would tell her,—so much embroidery, and lace, and....
“Wait a minute!” cried Emily; “I’ll just fetch what we need, and you can
help me; you are so clever at these things—much cleverer than I am! This
is a splendid chance, Jo, for me to go over my wardrobe; it is so much
cheaper to do up things one’s self than to be always going to a milliner
or dressmaker—and you _will_ help me, won’t you?”
IV.
“Just listen to this!” exclaimed Van Elst, reading the foreign telegrams
at the tea-table that afternoon. “Russia has declared war against
Turkey.”
“Indeed!” remarked Martendijk indifferently. “Well, I thought it would
come to that in the end.”
“It’s really terrible,” Max went on. “How many wars does that make
within our recollection? And in our much-vaunted nineteenth century too!
I hoped they would have been able to avert this.”
“Have your people Turkish or Russian bonds?”
“No; why on earth should you think that?”
“Oh, because you are so interested in that war. You would be in a bad
way in that case. It is great folly. We don’t have anything to do with
that sort of thing either—do we, Emily?”
“No, indeed,” said Emily. “As far as we are concerned, all Europe can go
to war.”
“Alas!” cried Jo, who had not been listening to this dialogue between
the couple. “What terrible news, Max! To think of the waste of strong
young lives, and all the wives and mothers who are left at home.” And
instinctively she drew little Jan towards her, and pressed him close.
“Well, there’s no danger for _him_ in the meantime,” said Martendijk;
and Mr and Mrs Van Elst glanced at one another, as they had so often
done during the past few days, as if to ask what manner of people these
cousins could be.
Mrs Martendijk was also glancing through a newspaper, and, suddenly
turning to her husband, she exclaimed, “What did I prophesy, Piet? Van
Dalem is in the bankruptcy court.”
“Well, well!” said Piet. “After all, what else was to be expected. It’s
the last straw breaks the camel’s back! It is the man’s own fault. You
must understand, Max,” he continued, addressing his cousin, “this Van
Dalem was a near neighbour of ours. He came into a splendid business,
and might have been rolling in wealth in a few years; but you never saw
such a spendthrift. He was always thrusting himself forward, always
entertaining, always having visitors——”
“Yes,” affirmed Emily; “and the worst of it was, while his wife was
giving parties, he was lending money right and left,—standing security,
advancing money to every beggar who came to him; he said he could not
refuse.”
“Real good-natured folk, then?” asked Van Elst.
“Oh, yes, good-natured enough as far as that went. I can’t tell you how
many widows he has given shelter to, how many little waifs she took in
from the native village (they have no children of their own), how many
forced sales he has put a stop to——”
“Poor fellow,” cried Max, “I wish I could do something for him.”
“It’s easy to say that, Max,” interposed Martendijk; “but,” and he
pulled his thin whiskers meditatively, “it comes to be a question if it
is right to sympathise with people of that kind. Is it not their own
fault that they have gone down in the world? Is it not inexcusable to
run through one’s money in that way?”
“Inexcusable? I don’t agree with you there. At least he has run through
it in a way which speaks well for his heart, if not for his good sense.”
“I am anxious to see if people will help him in his turn,” said Emily,
in a tone which irritated Van Elst beyond measure.
“Of course they will,” he said, curtly.
“Do you think so?” asked Martendijk, with some expression for once in
his weak face. “People are, as a rule, more ready to look you up when
they need you than when you need them. He certainly had a great many
friends; but we know what that amounts to. In any case,” he continued
after a pause, “it is safest to make sure that you will never be
dependent on any one’s help.”
“That is true,” said Max. But as he spoke he left his seat abruptly, and
went to have a look at the flowers with little Jan. Jo very soon
followed him. It was very evident that he had lost his temper; and she
was always ready in such an emergency to do her best to drive away the
clouds as quickly as possible.
“What’s the matter, dear?”
“Oh! nothing. Rather disgusted; that’s all. How do you like the
Martendijks, Jo?”
“Oh! not particularly. Perhaps it would be better to suspend our
judgment of them for a little, Max.”
“I don’t see it,” said Max, sharply. “But, Jo, do you know what we might
do?” he added, hastily, seeing her shrink at his vehemence, “go for a
drive just now; then Jan can go too.”
“Oh! yes, papa,” cried Jan, delightfully, “and sit on the box.”
“My dear, the horses have been too far to-day already. Emily drove to
the Chinese camp, and was out for more than two hours.”
“_Indeed!_” said Max. “Well, then, for goodness’ sake, let us stop at
home. That will be very nice too, won’t it, Jan? and we’ll build a
fortress.”
Jo was satisfied that the clouds were fast dispersing; she took her
husband’s arm, and exerted herself to be specially bright and charming,
chattering to him about the children, and all sorts of interesting
things, and finally assisting at his toilet,—a favour he particularly
enjoyed,—and prattling all manner of pretty compliments to him.
Max was in high good-humour when he left her to go for a turn with Jan.
When Jo appeared, after a hasty toilet, she found their cousins in the
verandah before her, busy with the illustrated papers.
That was a most innocent pastime certainly; but, alas! Martendijk had
taken possession of Max’s place and chair.
Now Mrs Van Elst was the most accommodating little person imaginable,
and would have given up _her_ chair to any one in the world; but she was
quite different where _Max_ was concerned.
“Oh! there’s my husband coming,” she exclaimed in a minute or two, as he
came up the drive with Jan; and as Martendijk showed not the slightest
disposition to take the hint, she added, as pleasantly as she could,
“Martendijk, I’m sure you are not aware that that is Max’s place?”
“Yes, dear cousin,” said Martendijk, stretching himself with an air of
contentment. “To tell you the truth, I was quite aware of the fact; but
Emily chose this place for me, because there are such draughts
everywhere else.”
“Oh! I am sure Cousin Max will be glad to give up his place to you for a
little,—won’t you, Max?” Emily struck in.
To Jo’s relief, her husband assented, and Martendijk made himself as
comfortable as he could in his host’s chair.
The children came in from their walk, and stayed as usual with papa and
mamma till bedtime,—a habit as pleasant for parents as for guests.
They formed a pretty group, the three innocent child-heads, and at the
sight Max’s and Jo’s beaming eyes met, and at last the happy little wife
could not refrain from the question,—
“Don’t you two think our children are little angels?”
“Yes, darlings!” responded Emily. “So good and sweet-tempered;
especially little Jan, he doesn’t give you much trouble now.”
“_Trouble!_” exclaimed Jo. “Oh! not one of them gives any trouble,—only
a very little when they are ill. But as long as they keep well I have
nothing but pleasure in them.”
And she spoke the truth, for all cares and anxieties were light to her,
because so willingly borne.
“I’d not mind having a boy like this, about three or four,” Emily
continued, drawing little Jan to her caressingly; “but a baby like
_that_” (with a glance at “charming little Ada”) “I consider
_horrible_.”
“_Horrible!_” Jo shrank from her in dismay, indignant that any one
should speak so. But her anger was transient, for she immediately
remembered that it was not poor Emily’s fault that she had such strange
ideas; she really did not know what it was to have children of her own.
V.
The Martendijks had been about three weeks with the Van Elsts, when the
solitary bachelor over the way began to observe some change in his
neighbours.
The notary began to go earlier to his office, and to come home later.
The little wife, of whom he was growing rather fond by dint of watching
her so long, did not take her walks so regularly; and when she played
with the children in the garden in the morning, her laugh sounded less
merry than it once did. When the old gentleman (who seemed to have
assumed this privilege of observing his neighbours with special interest
because it _might have been_ his lot to have just such another family)
noticed that Mr Van Elst looked cross, and his wife very wearied, he
began to grow uneasy, and at last set on foot inquiries through the
medium of his own “boys” and those of his neighbours, which resulted in
the reassuring news that no one was ill. After that the old bachelor did
not know what to make of it.
And yet the explanation was simple enough!
To be ousted from your favourite seat, to have tasteless food set before
you, to see your delicate wife tired to death, your horses over-driven,
your store-room plundered, all this is very easy to bear,—nay, may even
be reckoned among the pleasures of hospitality, if your visitors are
agreeable people, whose society compensates for the lack of the usual
cosy _tête-à-tête_, and whose cordial interest in all your concerns
proves that they like you and appreciate the friendship you show them.
But, when you see that your guests regard you merely as convenient
people to spend some time with,—that they take advantage of your
hospitality, and honour you with no special cordiality in return,—when
they remind you, by their treatment, of certain fruits you throw away
once the juice is squeezed out, it is impossible to submit to the
visitation with a very good grace!
That certainly was the case here.
Van Elst, moreover, with his warm temperament and strength of character,
could ill brook his cold-blooded cousin. He liked men to be firm, and
women tender-hearted; and Piet was so weak, and Emily so cold, and the
two couples so directly opposed to each other in all their sentiments
and opinions, that the most innocent conversations often led to
collision. When, for example, Van Elst brought home the news one day
that one of their acquaintances had been suddenly taken ill, and Jo
asked, with a quaver in her voice and tears in her eyes, if she could do
anything to help the poor wife, Emily scarcely listened, and Piet only
to inquire anxiously what was the matter—he hoped nothing infectious!
With regard to society, there was great diversity of opinion between the
couples. Up country in the Indies it is possible to live on such terms
with all the Europeans as to avoid giving offence, while at the same
time one cannot be intimate with all. One comes across many people there
who are wealthy, who entertain, and are to a certain extent admitted
into society, but of so low a stamp intellectually and morally that it
is impossible for respectable families to associate familiarly with
them.
The Van Elsts had thus soon chosen their own friends, and to this select
circle they had introduced their guests.
But the Martendijks struck up acquaintance with a family with whom they
had no wish to become intimate.
“Good gracious!” said Max, who did not approve of this at all; “what is
there in that man to take your fancy?”
“Not much,” replied Martendijk.
“Surely his wife isn’t the attraction, then?—a stupid insignificant
creature like that!”
“Yes, she is very stupid,” said Martendijk. “But she is a capital cook,”
he added, after a moment.
“Well, but they’re not people to get so very intimate with. Perhaps you
don’t know that he has a very shady reputation,—it is well known that he
got that factory into his hands by a very dirty trick. They say he made
the former owner drunk, and then——”
“That’s very likely true,” interposed Martendijk coolly; “he looks to me
just that sort of man. But that does not prevent his keeping capital
wine, and being very generous with his help——”
“For any sake hold your tongue!” cried Max, suddenly turning his back on
his guest.
But the most violent explosion took place one morning at the
breakfast-table, when the conversation turned upon one of their aunts—a
sister of Martendijk’s father and Max’s mother—who was in great poverty,
and had been very unfortunate.
“I have not troubled my head about her for years,” said Piet. “I may
tell you I make a point of interesting myself only in my respectable
relatives.”
“You mean in those who have got on well in the world,” observed Max.
“Aunt Liza is a worthy respectable woman, whose only fault is her
poverty.”
“But she had no position at all in Delft,” said Emily. (Martendijk was
silent: he preferred not to argue with his cousin when Max’s eyes
flashed like that.) “She dealt in tea, I think, or knitting-cotton, or
something of that kind.”
“Yes, just so, in _tea_,” said Max; “exactly in the same way as your
husband deals in sugar, and your father in cheese. Good-morning!”
“Good gracious, Jo, what a temper your husband is in!” exclaimed Emily,
who was determined not to take offence, because she was very comfortable
with Martendijk’s relatives, and the building at their own place at
Soeka-Manies—the real reason for their visiting—was still going on.
“Yes,” said Martendijk, the courage of his opinions returning as soon as
he heard Max drive away; “I don’t see why on earth he should get so
excited!”
What surprised the Van Elsts more than anything else, was the relation
of the couple to one another. The same man and woman, who had not one
grain of sympathy for the troubles of others, or for the most terrible
national calamity, and who were totally impervious to the sufferings of
even their friends and relations, were full of devotion to one another.
If Piet was not quite the thing, Emily was full of anxiety; and if she
looked worried, Piet did his best to conquer his despondency. In short,
disagreeable though they were in every other respect, they were a model
couple. It was difficult for a third person to start any subject of
conversation with them, because nothing interested them which did not
affect themselves directly or indirectly; but they were never at a loss
for a subject when by themselves, and their conversation was
inexhaustible so long as they could devote themselves unreservedly to
the discussion of their own affairs, bringing every effort of mind to
bear on what concerned them alone.
_Money_ was a favourite topic: how they could enjoy this or that
together—it was always together!—without much expense; how to manage
their domestic expenditure most satisfactorily; how to invest a small
sum securely—and so on.
They spent so long over these interesting details, that it was
impossible for outsiders to take any part in their discussions.
VI.
“Just look here a minute, Max; is it my fancy, or does Jan look a little
pale to-day?” asked Mrs Van Elst one morning, as she went out to the
verandah to see her husband off.
“Of course it is your fancy,” said Max, who made a point of never
allowing that any of the children were ill,—a device intended to calm
their nervous mother, but which always had precisely the contrary effect
“Come here a moment, Njo; your mother says you’re not well. Come, my
boy, tell me what’s the matter with you,” he added less carelessly, as
Jan, usually anything but slow to respond to his father’s call, dragged
himself listlessly towards them, and sank down upon a chair.
“Not comf’ble, papa—headache!” was all he vouchsafed.
Max took him on his knee, and glanced at his wife. Yes, the old story;
she was pale, her lips trembled, and her eyes were bent tenderly and
anxiously on the child. It was this readiness to take alarm which caused
Jo more suffering than the patient, whenever her husband or children
were ailing.
“Shall we just send for the doctor, dear?”
“No; did I ever!” cried Max. “The man would think we were mad. Because
Njo has a little headache, forsooth! Come, my boy, go and play.”
“_Play!_ Good gracious! Max, just feel how hot his head is.”
“Well, put him to bed then. You can do that at least,” and he laughed,
as it seemed to her, heartlessly, and called her “a silly thing”—a
jocular remark which was met by none of Jo’s usual repartees.
“Papa must come too,” was Jan’s command, and we know that no general is
better obeyed by his soldiers than a sick child by its parents. So Max
carried his boy first over one shoulder, then over the other, after
which he had to creep on all fours round the room, roaring like a lion,
before Njo would be laid down. The patient was not particularly disposed
to go to sleep; he allowed papa to coddle him, and mamma to bring him
lemonade, and did as many children do when much notice is taken of their
ailments—made himself out much worse than he really was.
When it was really impossible for his father to remain longer, he coaxed
and whimpered a little, and finally cried himself to sleep, so that Jo
was free to enjoy a quiet hour by his bedside with her work-basket, for
every available moment must be snatched to make up for the time lost
through Emily’s visit.
Their visitors had gone out very early that morning to call on one of
their new acquaintances, a sugar manufacturer like Martendijk. It was so
pleasant to come across some one in your own line, he remarked; they
could discuss one thing and another while driving or walking together,
and one got many a hint and idea in that way.
On their return home, the “boy” told them “Sinjo Jan” was ill.
“Oh, dear! that’s always the worst of visiting where there are
children,” said Martendijk, as he sipped his _bouillon_; “there’s always
something wrong.”
“Well, this would not be much to speak of,” said Emily, “only I’m afraid
it may interfere with to-morrow evening.”
It must be explained that the Martendijks had talked so much about the
attention shown to them on all sides as the Van Elsts’ guests (and they
certainly had not been slow to avail themselves of the social advantages
of the neighbourhood), that Jo felt at last obliged to give a small
party in acknowledgment of the courtesy shown to them.
Her guests need never know all it had cost her to talk Max over, and
how, when one argument after another failed to win over her perverse
lord and master, she had at last taken refuge in that weapon which loses
its power when too often used, and is the very last resort therefore of
a clever woman—I mean tears.
For, though Jo would hardly admit the fact even to herself, Max had not
been just altogether pleasant to deal with of late,—indeed, he had
really been quite disagreeable and cross, and very unwilling to
acknowledge himself in the wrong.
His liver had been bothering him for some little time (no wonder he
grumbled), and Jo, only too ready to find satisfactory excuses for his
ill-temper, was glad enough to reiterate constantly to her visitors, who
had also a good deal to stand from his bearish ways, how the liver
affects the temper, and how wretched it makes one feel.
This did not prevent their cousins from assuring one another repeatedly,
once they were safe in their own room, that Max was a disagreeable
fellow, and that were it not for the comfortable quarters they were in,
and the building going on at home, they would remain no longer. For so
wrapt up were they in themselves and in one another, and so absorbing
was their _egoïsme à deux_, that it was impossible for them to realise
how actions and remarks like theirs affected others; therefore, of
course, they blamed Cousin Max for the rather strained relations which
had come about.
As soon as she had drunk her chocolate, Emily betook herself to the
nursery to see what were the prospects for the party.
“Well, dear cousin,” she began, making no attempt to lower her somewhat
harsh voice, “what is this I hear? Is little Jan ill?”
“I am very much afraid he is,” said Jo; “he is so restless in his
sleep.”
“A little feverish, perhaps,” said Emily, taking the child’s hand in her
own for a moment. “I’d give him a good dose of quinine,” she continued,
“and he’ll be all right by to-morrow evening.”
“Why to-morrow evening,” asked Jo, puzzled.
“Did I ever! Have you forgotten all about that? Why, it was to-morrow
evening we were to have that party.”
“Dear me, so it was,” cried Jo. “I’d nearly forgotten all about it. But,
of course, if he is ill it will have to be put off.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” said Emily, “if he is ill. But it’s surely nothing
serious. You always get frightened so quickly.”
“Yes, I do, it is true; and it really can’t be anything. But oh, Emily,
he is such an angel, my Njo! and you always see that particularly sweet
children don’t live long.”
The wet eyelashes and quivering lips were not without their effect even
on cold Mrs Martendijk.
“Well, well,” she said kindly, “I would not worry about that. Jan has
his naughty fits just like other boys; and besides, if all the children
were to die whose mothers consider them ‘almost _too_ good’ for this
world, there would not be many left.”
Seeing how nervous Jo got, and how the event generally proved her fears
groundless, Max was always making resolutions not to yield to such
exaggerated anxiety another time. So when he came home at mid-day and
found his wife still occupied with the child, he coolly carried her off
to another room, and gently but firmly forbade her to leave it until she
had rested for a few hours.
Jo was too tired to resist, and soon fell asleep. She did not awake till
late in the afternoon, for which she could not forgive herself, though
it was, in fact, the best thing that could have happened, considering
the disturbed night she was to have. It did not need much persuasion to
induce Max to send for the doctor next morning.
Emily took care to be in the verandah when he stopped to say a few words
to Mrs Van Elst after his visit to the little patient.
“There’s not much the matter is there, doctor?” she asked.
“No—at least I think not,” was his reply. “It’s not easy to predict in a
case of illness, but, as far as appearances go, it seems to me an
ordinary cold.”
“There, you see, Jo, what did we all tell you? You do get anxious so
soon!”
“Well, you see, I have so much to lose,” said Jo deprecatingly.
“If it gives you any pleasure to worry,” said the doctor, “you had
better do so about yourself, and not about that sturdy little chap,”—and
with a compassionate glance at the young wife, who had already been so
often a patient of his, he took her hand in his own. “You’re not looking
so well as you did, Mrs Van Elst,” he said. “You wear yourself out, and
don’t do enough to get up your strength. I shall have to scold in good
earnest—or speak to Van Elst.”
“Oh, no, for goodness’ sake, don’t do that!” exclaimed Jo, glad that Max
was safe in his office. “How angry he would be!”
“Well, Jo,” said her guest, when the doctor had gone, “that _is_ a
relief. An ordinary cold, it will be better in a day or two. Now let us
set to work to get ready for the party.”
“Oh, dear Emily, what do you think? Shall we not rather put it off?”
“Put it off? and why? Come, Jo, what’s the matter with you? All the
invitations are out already.”
“I’d like to have it for your sake,” Jo began again; “you know that,
don’t you? But I am _so_ tired! I never closed an eye last night; and
there is so much to be done—baking, and all that.”
“Well,” said Emily, “surely your maid can help you?”
“Siah? Oh, no; she must stay with Njo—she’s his old ‘baboe.’[45] No,
really, it can’t be managed. Oh, if you only knew how dead tired I am!”
and the poor little woman sank into a chair, and closed her eyes as if
to shut out the mountain of work that the mere thought of the party
conjured up.
“If _I_ undertook all the trouble,” asked Emily, after a moment’s
reflection, “could we go on with it then?”
“Oh yes,” said Jo, “if you would be so very good.”
She was too much absorbed in her sick child to trouble herself much
about the success of the party, else she would have been decidedly
uneasy; for it had gradually dawned upon her that Emily did not know
much of the noble art of cookery. Notwithstanding her great readiness to
recommend dishes and to lend recipes, she had never yet concocted
anything herself; and even when Jo had begged her to help with a few
domestic duties on specially busy days, she had always tried to get out
of it. To-day it was quite different, however.
She asked for the keys, and in ten minutes had all the “boys” and maids
hard at work; while she herself was here, there, and everywhere,
thinking of everything,—making cakes, planning the _menu_, and all with
a deftness and briskness which were quite enviable.
“Oh dear!” thought Jo, when she saw her cousin’s activity, “if she had
only helped me like that sooner, how much nicer it would have been
having visitors.”
Jo arranged the flowers; Martendijk the card-tables; Emily superintended
the supper; and by mid-day everything was ready.
Emily went to take a nap, while her hostess did the same, so as to be
bright and fresh when the evening came.
And so probably she would have been, after a quiet undisturbed sleep;
but the little patient grew worse about the middle of the day; and when
his father came home, he saw at once that the child was feverish.
“Oh, dear Max,” sighed Jo, “what a worry! A sick child, and that party
in the evening!”
“_Party!_” cried Max, to his wife’s great consternation. “It’s out of
the question. Did you think I’d ever allow that? Certainly not. What a
mad idea to think of having people here to-night! Emily’s at the bottom
of that, I’ll be bound.”
“No, indeed, dear. I was quite anxious for it too,” pleaded Jo,
shielding her guest at the expense of her own truthfulness. “And oh,
Max, Emily has been so good; she arranged everything, and I have had
nothing at all to do.”
“Of course she helps you now, as it’s her party, and she is bent on
having her own way,—but I’ll soon see who is master in my house. The
party will _not_ go on, I tell you. I’ll have the people put off. Where
are the boys?”
Van Elst had spoken so loud in his passionate outburst, that it needed
no eavesdropping to find out his intentions; and perhaps that was the
reason that Emily appeared so opportunely just then.
“Oh! excuse me, cousin,” he exclaimed apologetically, running against
her in his hurry. “Do you know where the boys are?”
“They are round at the back,” said Mrs Martendijk, looking brighter and
livelier than he had ever seen her. “Look here, cousin,” and she took
his arm confidentially to lead him to the back verandah, “have we not
worked well to-day? Everything is ready——”
“But the party can——” began Max.
“And should you like to see what you’re going to have to-night?” And in
the same friendly manner he was conducted to the pantry. “Just look at
that magnificent trifle. And are not the tarts a success? But the
_pâtés_ are _the_ thing. They look just as if they came straight from
the best confectioner’s—do they not?”
“I am really sorry you have had so much trouble, and I must say it all
looks beautiful; but the party cannot possibly go on,” repeated Max,
firmly.
“What do you say?”
“Yes; it’s a great pity, and I can understand how annoyed you feel; but
Jan is decidedly worse....”
Emily had recovered her composure by this time.
“Jan worse! My word! I had no idea of that,” she cried. “Gracious!
cousin, if I had known that an hour sooner; and now the punch is made!”
It was now Max’s turn to be disconcerted.
“What do you say?” he exclaimed.
“Well, it was time it was done, you see;” and Emily seated herself. “One
would really need to know everything beforehand,” she went on, coolly;
“then we should at least not have opened those fine wines and the
expensive champagne. The supper will cost a great deal too, to be sure,
and the money’s all thrown away now; but we can eat everything some time
or other among ourselves.”
“The _punch_ won’t keep, I suppose?” asked Max.
“Oh no! it _is_ a pity Jan is so ill.”
“Oh, he’s not so very much worse!” exclaimed Max impatiently. “But what
a wretched amount of stuff,” he added, after a moment, when he had made
a rapid mental calculation of the needless expense, and realised how
odious it would be to see Piet and Emily devouring all the dainties. “If
only Jo was not so very tired.”
“Yes; it would be very unfortunate if she were not able to appear. But
we can always see how Jan is; and if she were to decide at the last
moment to stay with the child,—well, I’d be glad to do the honours.”
“For goodness’ sake let it be, then,” said Max; and as his guest made
her escape as fast as she could, without prejudice to her dignity, he
sent a wish after her which was more expressive than courteous.
Emily only enjoyed a little laugh at his helpless fury, congratulating
herself on the success of her diplomacy, for on hearing about
half-an-hour before that the child was worse, she had given orders to
have the punch mixed; and when she stepped into the store-room, she was
met with a request from Piet, who had been told off to superintend, to
taste and see if the ingredients were right.
VII.
Jo did _not_ appear that evening. Jan complained of sore throat; and the
mother, in her dread of diphtheria, sent for the doctor at once, and
remained at the child’s bedside, in spite of his assurances that nothing
was the matter. Emily did the honours, and appeared to enjoy it.
Though each of the guests had privately resolved not to stay late for
the little boy’s sake, it was two o’clock before the last had departed,
and three before the house was quiet. Indeed absolute quiet there never
was that whole night, for Jo, as she lay awake, heard first all sorts of
unaccountable sounds proceeding from the guests’ apartment, and then an
excited calling out for servants, who either could not or would not
hear, followed by a knocking at her own door, and an agitated demand for
laudanum, and a confused story about salad and punch, which might be the
death of people who suffered from internal complaints. Tea must be
infused, and hot-water bottles filled; but when Jo sprang up eager to go
and help, her husband held her back authoritatively. He had feigned to
be asleep all the time, but when the door was shut, while the strange
sounds continued to be heard, then he was seized with such an
uncontrollable fit of laughter, that Jo was infected by his merriment,
and lay in mortal terror lest Emily should hear them, or Jan be
awakened.
But Jan was the last to think of awaking. He slept not only the whole
night, but far into the morning. Max was not permitted to go to his
office before he should awake, for just as she would have thought it
“very alarming” if he had not slept at all, so it seemed to be “very
alarming” that he should sleep so long.
At last, about nine o’clock, he opened his eyes. The rest seemed to have
done him good, for not only did he demand bread and butter, but, as soon
as his glance fell on the new box of bricks papa had bought for him the
day before, he jumped out of bed, and seated himself on the floor to
play, as if nothing had happened.
“How is the poor little throat?” asked Jo, as soon as she had recovered
from her glad surprise.
“My throat?” repeated the child wonderingly; “my throat is not ill.”
Max was so relieved, and thought it such a capital joke that he burst
out laughing; even the Martendijks laughed; and Jo tried to join in, but
the joy was too sudden after the anxiety she had undergone, and she
broke into a hysterical fit of weeping instead.
“There you are now! I told you so—insisting on the party like that!”
cried Van Elst, losing his temper completely.
“What kind of an outbreak is that?” asked Emily, forgetting the repairs
at home for the moment, in order to give vent to her indignation.
“What is it? It is your fault, Emily, if she is laid up. I could have
told you beforehand,—Jo is not fit for all that worry and fuss!”
Emily followed her husband from the room—the thought of the building
recurring to her; while Van Elst led his wife away.
When the doctor came, he spoke of over-excitement, nervous strain, and
prescribed strong beef-tea, absolute quiet, and keeping to her room. Jo
submitted. Jan was nearly all right again; it had been a mere cold, and
in her joy and gratitude for his recovery, she could have submitted to
much; to remain in one’s room, however, is a trial to appreciate which
one must be the mother of three children.
“Your visitor can surely manage the house for a few days?” the doctor
had said. But, strangely enough, now the party was over Cousin Emily
seemed totally incapable of domestic duties.
So Jo lay listening to piercing cries from Nonnie, who was evidently
tumbling downstairs, and hungry little Ada’s wails would penetrate to
her ears; or the maid would appear one moment, the “boy” the next, to
ply her with questions. Worse than all were the fears she created for
herself,—Jan would be sure to catch cold, or the children would venture
too near the well or the cistern; who was to put away all the plate and
crystal? and would not the servants appropriate all the remains of the
feast?
Luckily Van Elst came home early; but he brought no balm to Jo’s heart,
for when he saw that she was no better, he began by scolding her, and
then abruptly left the house.
This was the very opportunity his neighbour over the way had been
watching for.
With apparent unconcern he sauntered across his own grounds, where he
had lain in ambush for some time; for ever since he had witnessed the
doctor’s repeated visits, his curiosity had known no bounds.
“Well, Mr Van Elst,” he began, feigning great surprise at meeting him
there, “and how are you all at home?”
“Oh, first-rate,” said Van Elst; “mother sick, child sick, and husband
no longer master in his own house!”
“Bless me!” said Mr Smits. “Come, I’ll walk up and down a bit with you.
I understand how it is when the wife is ill, especially a wife like
yours, but we’ll hope she’ll soon be herself again. And then things will
be all right, won’t they?”
This was very diplomatic on Mr Smits’s part; he wanted to know about
more than the wife’s illness. It was a well-calculated move, for the
whole story came out.
“_All right!_ No, indeed, we shall not. What upsets my temper is those
guests of mine. You will hardly believe, Mr Smits, what a tiresome,
irritating fellow that Martendijk is, with his terror of infection, and
his eternal complaints about his health. And what a heartless creature
his wife is! But, above all, what studied egoists they both are!”
Mr Smits had to hear it all; how worn-out Jo was; how their guests had
taken advantage of them; how he had been driven into giving that
confounded party. “And if I could once for all just give them a piece of
my mind—but you see I can’t, as they are my guests. My wife is always
giving me nudges and winks to keep me quiet; and if I do break loose
occasionally, I get nice little scoldings from her into the bargain. Oh,
there’s no standing the life I lead just now!”
“And is there no chance of their leaving soon?” asked Mr Smits.
“Oh, no! they talk of remaining another month at least,” replied Van
Elst, in so despairing a tone, that his neighbour pitied him from the
bottom of his heart.
“But if there are unwelcome guests in one’s house, it’s surely easy to
find some way of getting rid of them?”
“I don’t know any way. They are not particularly sensitive on some
points.”
“You may ask what old Smits has to do with it,” began the bachelor; “but
you must remember I have gradually grown to take an interest in you and
your wife.”
“Take care, Mr Smits, I am jealous,” cried Max, who had totally
recovered his good-humour now he had unbosomed himself.
“Absurd! an old fellow of sixty!” said Mr Smits, not a little flattered.
“But what I wanted to ask you was, may I try to devise some plan for
your deliverance?”
“Oh, yes; and if you succeed I’ll be grateful to you all my life.”
The first thing put into Van Elst’s hand next morning, when he sat down
to his early coffee in the verandah, was a carefully sealed note from
his old neighbour over the way. It was concise, and to the point.
“FRIEND,—Your wife is feverish. Your cousin has a dread of infection.
Is there any danger of typhus?—Yours,
“SMITS.”
With a heartier laugh than he had indulged in for a long time, Van Elst
sprang to his feet. “The very thing! What a capital idea!” He would take
steps at once.
“How is Cousin Jo?” asked Emily half-an-hour later at the
breakfast-table.
“No better,” said Max gravely; “I would not go near her if I were you,
Cousin Emily; I think she’s asleep.”
The doctor came, and pronounced the patient convalescent; so he sat
chatting sociably with her for some time, and then left her, prescribing
a tonic.
Scarcely was he gone when Max joined his cousins in the front verandah.
“What a long time the doctor stayed,” Emily remarked. “It’s nothing
serious, is it?”
Van Elst preserved an ominous silence.
“Cousin Jo will soon be going about again, I hope?” asked Martendijk,
with some concern; for domestic affairs had not gone so smoothly, nor
had they, personally, fared so well, since Mrs Van Elst had been laid
up.
Max’s face assumed a very serious expression. “Going about! No, indeed,
not for a while yet.”
“What do you say?”
“Well, you see—h’m—after all,” said Max, as if making a sudden resolve,
“I think it’s best to tell you frankly, the doctor is afraid of typhus
fever.”
“_Typhus!_” shrieked Martendijk. “Good Heavens! Emily, d’ye hear?”
“Yes,” said Emily, and, to her credit, we must confess that her first
thoughts flew to the poor husband and children, who, if the worst should
happen, would lose so devoted a wife and mother. “Alas! Cousin Max,” she
said, “how terrible.”
“Was the doctor quite sure of it?” asked Martendijk, his face blanched
with mortal terror, the remembrance of which long remained an unfailing
source of amusement to Van Elst.
“No, not at all certain; he thought it might perhaps be small-pox,” he
replied.
Martendijk stared at him in the wildest consternation.
“Good God!” he stammered, “that’s no trifle either. Small-pox and typhus
fever! One every bit as infectious as the other!”
“Yes,” said Max, “small-pox especially. Well, I’m off to the office,” he
concluded. “Good-morning, you’ll go and see after my wife every now and
then, won’t you, Emily?” he asked, as he sprang into his _bendy_.
“No, Emily, indeed you’ll do nothing of the kind, I hope,” cried
Martendijk, as soon as Van Elst was beyond earshot. “You might bring
back infection, and——”
“Ah! Piet, you really are rather a coward in that respect.”
“Yes; but, Emily, _small-pox_! Just fancy if you were to take it——”
“Well, of course; but you need not be so ready to accept it as a fact.
If Max were sure of it he would not have been so calm about it.”
“Dearest,” and Piet’s voice was as meek as any child’s, “I hope you
agree with me, we must get away from this _at once_.”
“What would people say if we left Jo——”
“Oh! my dearest wife, do not agitate me with all these objections!”
“It looks so cowardly, Piet. And the climate here agrees with you so
well. And the building is not finished yet.”
“Well, we must just make the best of it. Anything rather than remain in
this infected atmosphere. Oh, Emily, dearest Emily, have you no more
affection for your husband? O Lord! the pain, the pain! The shock has
set it going again!”
* * * * *
When Van Elst came home from his office at mid-day, his “boy” brought
him another letter. It was not from Smits this time, however, but from
the Martendijks.
“DEAR COUSINS (it ran),—You will quite understand our haste to get
away, now your house is attacked by such a terrible epidemic. We would
willingly have remained much longer, and it is our intention to repeat
our visit soon.
“In the meantime accept our cordial thanks for the hospitality you
have shown to us.
“Though your behaviour to us has not been all it might have been, dear
Cousin Max, we do not bear you the slightest grudge, and are quite
ready to excuse it, knowing what a bad effect the liver has on the
temper.
“We wish dear Jo a speedy recovery, and earnestly trust that she may
be spared to her husband and children.—With our kindest regards, your
affectionate cousins,
“P. & E. MARTENDIJK.”
“Hurrah!” exclaimed Van Elst. “Hurrah! Jo! our guests are gone!”
Though Jo received the news with considerable consternation, and
thought it disgraceful and inexcusable in Max to joke about anything
so terrible as typhus fever (in which Max agreed with her penitently),
it was amazing how rapidly she sprang out of bed,—the departure of her
guests proving more effective than all the doctor’s tonics.
So when their old neighbour strolled past the Van Elsts’ house a
little later, with an air of indifference, and Max rushed out to tell
him the glad news, and to thank him for his friendly and timely help,
he found Mrs Van Elst in the verandah, as bright and merry as ever,
ready to assure him—though she insisted on thinking it a disgraceful
proceeding!—that he had done her a great service by his lucky
inspiration.
An invitation to a quiet dinner on the following day was the result;
and the dinner was so good, the host in such excellent spirits, and
the hostess so sweet, that the solitary old bachelor caught himself
thinking, as he always did when a spectator of the Van Elsts’ domestic
bliss, “I might have known this sort of thing too, if only——”
ANNIE FOORE.
BIOGRAPHICAL INDEX OF WRITERS.
[Illustration]
BUNING, ARNOLD WERUMEUS, born at Uithuizen (Groningen), in 1846, and
served in the Dutch navy from 1861 to 1876, when he was forced by
ill-health to retire on a pension. He then settled in his native
town, but afterwards removed to the Hague, where he now lives. He
is the author of a great number of short stories, mostly more or
less naval, and one or more novels, of which the principal is “The
Burgomaster’s Inheritance” (Leyden, 1873), and frequently
contributes to _Eigen Haard_ and Elsevier’s _Geïllustreerd
Maandschrift_. He is not remarkable for the subtleties of humour,
his genius being more akin to the rattling fun and boisterous
spirits of such writers as Captain Marryat and the late Henry
Kingsley. But he can be touching too, and there is unaffected
pathos as well as fun in the little volume, “Marim-Schetsen,” from
which our extract is taken. The education of the orphan boy by his
father’s old mate, “The Red ’Un,” who trains him up with unsparing
rigour in the way in which all good sailors should go, is good in
both ways; so is the sketch (in _Verschillende Ouwe Heeren_) of
old Jan Hallema, the Hilligermond pilot.
CATS, JACOB,[46] born at Brouwershaven, in Zeeland, 1577; died
September 12, 1660; and was buried in the Kloosterkerk at the
Hague. He studied law at Leyden, and then travelled in France and
Italy. Returning, he practised as a lawyer in his native town for
some years. His health gave way, and he visited England in order
to consult Dr William Butler, at Cambridge, but received no
benefit. He went home to die, but was unexpectedly cured by a
strolling alchemist. He then settled at Middleburgh, and married.
His profession seems to have left him abundant leisure for poetry,
and for enjoying the society of his family at his country place of
Grypskerke. It was during this period he produced his “Emblems of
Fancy and Love,” “Galatea,” “Mirror of Past and Present,” and
“Marriage” (Houwelick). In 1621 he was appointed Pensionary
(stipendiary magistrate) of Middleburgh, and in 1623 transferred
to the same office at Dordrecht. In 1627 he was sent on a
diplomatic mission to England, and knighted by Charles I. After
his return he lost his wife, and dedicated to her memory the
_Trouwringh_ (“Wedding Ring”), published in 1635. In 1636 he was
chosen Grand Pensionary of Holland, resigned his office in 1651,
and in 1657 went on another unsuccessful embassy to England, where
he delivered a Latin oration before the House of Commons. On
coming back to Holland he retired to his villa of Zorgvliet, near
the Hague, where he devoted himself once more to farming and
poetry, and died at the age of seventy-three. He has always been a
most popular writer in Holland, his mixture of canny morality and
shrewd homely wit being in thorough accordance with the national
genius, which found his long-windedness no drawback. His
reputation for “soundness,” and his tendency to preach also, no
doubt secured his popularity among a nation peculiarly suspicious
of heterodoxy, frivolity, and anything “without a moral at the
end,” though it must be said that his notions of propriety appear
to be somewhat large when judged by present-day standards. It may
seem difficult to believe, after all this, that he possessed the
faintest spark of humour; but his shrewd mother wit makes him
sometimes amusing, even to an outsider, and now and then he
records a touch of that “detached outlook in life, which goes to
the making of a real humorist.” Southey, who read Dutch among
other things, and was probably introduced to a great deal of Dutch
literature by the poet Bilderdijk, has a highly complimentary
reference to him in the epistle to Allan Cunningham:
... “Father Cats,
The household poet, teacheth in his songs
The love of all things lovely, all things pure.
Best poet, who delights the cheerful mind
Of childhood, stores with moral strength the heart
Of youth, with wisdom maketh mid-life rich,
And fills with quiet tears the eye of age.”
Cats’ works used to occupy in Dutch households the position of the
“Pilgrim’s Progress” and Fox’s “Book of Martyrs” in old-fashioned
English ones. He is still popular, not only among his Protestant
countrymen, but even in Belgium, and a complete edition of his
works has lately been issued at Antwerp. It includes a large
collection of proverbs, some of the quainter ones being given in
the text. A translation of some of his “Zinne-Beelden” was
published, under the title of “Moral Emblems,” by Richard Pigott,
in 1860, in a large and handsome volume, with reproductions of the
original woodcuts.
CREMER, JACOBUS JAN, born at Arnheim in 1827, is now living at the
Hague. He devoted himself for a time to painting, but in time
entirely abandoned the pencil for the pen. He is most successful
in his village stories, the best being located in his native
“Betuwe,” which he calls “The Paradise of Holland.” The list of
his works, which include novels, short stories, and sketches
(published in serial collections), and plays, is far too long to
reproduce. Like Dickens, he was at one time conspicuously
successful in giving readings and recitations from his own works.
DEKKER, EDWARD DOUWES, best known by the pseudonym of _Multatuli_, was
born at Amsterdam, March 2, 1820. He went to Java in 1840 or 1841,
with his father, the captain of a vessel, and shortly afterwards
obtained a Government clerkship. After a succession of
appointments in different places, at one of which he made the
acquaintance of the lady who afterwards became his first wife,[47]
he became “Assistant Resident” at Lebak,—a post which he threw up
in 1856, because the Governor-General would not listen to his
representations with regard to the extortion and tyranny practised
by the native chiefs, and (indirectly) by the Dutch Government.
Coming home, he embodied his opinions and experiences in the novel
of “Max Havelaar,” which, crude and formless as a literary
production, startled the reading public with its origin and
audacity, and, having regard to the effect it produced, may fitly
be called the Dutch “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.” For some time after
landing in Holland he and his family were in the greatest
distress, as through his hasty resignation he had forfeited the
pension which would have been due to him in another year or two.
He obtained some grudging help from his wife’s relations, who
offered to provide for her entirely if she would leave him, and
were righteously indignant at her refusal. With the appearance of
“Max Havelaar” his success as a literary man was assured, and from
thenceforth he was able to live by his pen, though continually
harassed by debts (he was careless, generous, and extravagant, and
had a constitutional incapacity for accounts), controversies, and
quarrels, well or ill founded, with friends or foes. After the
death of his first wife, he was married a second time—to Mej.
Schepeles—and made his home in the Rhineland, first at
Niederingelheim, and then at Wiesbaden. He died at Mainz, in
February 1887. Perhaps his best work is to be found in the _Ideen_
(filling in the collected edition of his works some seven
volumes). They are a kind of continuous rambling _causerie_,
contributed to a Dutch daily, the _Dageraad_, and ranging over
every possible topic, full of aphorism, paradox, epigram, and with
an occasional story woven in here and there. The most important of
these is the delightful fictitious biography of Wouter Pieterse,
which, though certainly not an autobiography, incorporates many of
the experiences of his childhood and youth. It was never finished,
and proceeds in a most capricious manner, being frequently
interrupted by digressions for dozens of pages together, and then
suddenly taken up again. Some extracts are given from this and
other parts of the _Ideen_. Most of his other works, except the
dramas “The Bride in Heaven” and “The School for Princes,” are of
a more or less occasional and fugitive character. But Multatuli’s
position is not to be measured by the mere number and extent of
his works. He is a distinct force in modern Holland, and a name to
conjure with to the younger generation of Dutch readers.
EEDEN, F. VAN, is the editor of the _Nieuwe Gids_, and author of
novels, sketches, critical articles, &c., besides the poem
“Ellen,” and some plays, including the comedy from which our
quotation is taken, and a farce, “The Student at Home.”
FOORE, ANNIE, is the pseudonym of Mevrouw W. J. F. Ijzerman, whose
maiden name was Francisca J. J. A. Junius, daughter of a learned
theologian, the minister of Tiel. She was born at the latter place
in 1847, and married an engineer, at Padang, Sumatra, in 1873. Her
principal works are the novels, “The Colonial and his Superior”
(1877), “A Family Secret,” “Florence’s Dream,” and several volumes
of short stories. The specimens in the present volume are taken
from “Family Life in the East Indies.” She has great power of
observation, a fine sense of humour, and an easy flowing style of
narrative, though sometimes her stories are defective in
construction. Her pictures of colonial life are admirable. For the
translation of the story “Unbidden Guests,” I am indebted to Miss
Margaret Farquharson, of Selkirk.
HUYGENS, CONSTANTIJN, born 1596, at the Hague. His godfathers were the
Admiral Justinus von Nassau and the City of Breda; he was named
after the “constancy” shown by the latter to the House of Orange.
He enjoyed a singularly complete and brilliant education, studied
law at Leyden, and became, in 1625, private secretary to Prince
Frederick Henry. He was on friendly terms with Hooft, Cats, and
the beautiful and talented daughters of Roemer Visscher,—Anna and
Tesselschade. Like Cats, he had visited England (in 1618), where
he made the acquaintance of John Donne, whose poems he afterwards
translated, and whose influence is visible in his writings. He was
knighted by James I. in 1622. He married in 1627, and the loss of
his wife, ten years later, was the great affliction of his life.
He had four sons, the second being the celebrated mathematician,
Christian Huygens, and one daughter. He continued his political
activity till 1672, when, being to a certain extent superseded on
account of his advanced age, he devoted himself to literature and
(like most Dutch gentlemen) to gardening at his villa of Hofwijk,
near the Hague; he died there in 1687. His works are of various
kinds,—didactic and descriptive poems (“Batava Tempe”), satires
(“The Costly Request”), epigrams (we give a few translations), the
frightfully coarse farce of “Trijntje Cornelis” (taste of the
times again!), &c. His best poem is “Oogentrost” (Eye Comfort),
dedicated, in 1647, to a friend, Lucretia van Trello, who feared
she was going blind. He also wrote a Latin autobiography, under
the title “De Vita Propria Sermones.” He published his collected
poems under the title “Corn Flowers.” Personally he seems to have
been in every way worthy of respect, and is described as “one of
the most lovable men that ever lived.”
KELLER, GERARD, born at Gouda, February 13, 1829. He was for some time
stenographer to the Dutch parliament, and afterwards editor of the
_Arnheimsche Courant_. He is a clever journalist, and voluminous
writer of fiction, in which latter department he would appear to
have been influenced by Dickens. His earliest novel, “The Tutor’s
Family,” appeared in 1857; “Overkompleet,” the sketch from which
our extract is taken, appeared in a volume with other short
stories in 1871, but has been reprinted in a complete edition of
his “Novellen,” of which three volumes have already seen the
light. Among his other novels we may mention “The Mortgage on
Wasenstein” (1866), “The History of a Halfpenny, and other
Stories” (1872), “Off the Rails” (1872), &c. He is also the author
of several volumes of travel-sketches, among which we may mention
four illustrated quarto volumes, “Amerika in Beeld en Schrift,”
and a lively description of a tour in Scotland (“Een Uitstapje
naar de Schotsche Hooglanden”), which has appeared quite recently.
Keller acted as a newspaper correspondent in France during the
Franco-German War, and his experiences there resulted in two
books, “Paris Besieged” and “Paris Murdered.” Besides all this he
has written several comedies, and numerous contributions to
periodical literature, and is now, we believe, the editor of the
monthly magazine, _Vreemd en Eigen_, having previously edited, at
different times, _Kunst Kroniek_ and the _Geldersche Almanach_.
His style has a lightness of touch, perhaps due to French
influence, and conspicuously wanting in all but some of the most
recent Dutch authors, with the exception of Multatuli.
LAMBERTS-HURRELBRINCK, L. H. J., is a young writer, living at Leyden,
who has published more than one collection of short stories,
mostly dealing with the province of Limburg and its people. His
first volume, “Limburgsche Novellen,” was reviewed, with perhaps
undue severity, in _De Gids_ for July 1890—a judgment which, it is
said, was not altogether uninfluenced by party spirit. A later
volume is “Van Limburg’s Bodem.” The sketch in the text appeared
in _Elsevier’s Maandschrift_ for September 1892, and is to a
certain extent founded on fact.
LENNEP, JACOB VAN, one of the best known of modern Dutch writers.
Belonging to a literary family, he was born at Amsterdam in 1802,
studied at Leyden, and took a law degree in 1824, and settled as a
lawyer at Amsterdam. In 1854–56 he was a member of the Second
Chamber of the States-General. He died at Oosterbeek (Gelderland)
on August 25, 1868. His literary industry was so prodigious that
we cannot attempt to give a list of his works, which were chiefly
poems, novels (published in a collected edition of 19 vols.),
plays, and historical studies. Perhaps his best novel is “Klaasje
Zevenster,” from which the bit of description we have quoted is
taken. We give his comedy, “The Village on the Frontier,” entire.
SEIPGENS, EMILE ANTON HUBERT, born at Roermond (Limburg), August 16,
1837. He was at first in the brewing business, but is now a
teacher of German language and literature in the “Rijks Hoogere
Burgerschool” of his native town. He has written several plays,
some of them in the Roermond dialect, and two or three volumes of
short stories, most of them strongly “Limburgsch” in local colour.
The extract here given is taken from the volume entitled “In en om
het klein Stadje” (Amsterdam, 1887). Another collection is
entitled “Langs Maas en Geul.” He is an occasional contributor to
the monthly magazine _De Gids_, and also to Elsevier’s
“Illustrated.”
-----
Footnote 1:
The oldest “Chambers of Rhetoric” (or _Collèges de Rhétorique_—the
name probably originated in the French influence introduced by the
House of Burgundy) date back to about 1400, or some years previous.
The oldest would seem to be the “Alpha and Omega,” at Ypres, and the
Antwerp “Violieren” (wall-flowers). The most famous, perhaps, is the
Amsterdam association, “De Eglantier,” better known perhaps under the
name of its motto, “In Liefde Bloeiende” (Blooming in Love). They held
poetical competitions, placed upon the stage (usually with great
magnificence) plays written and acted by their members, and arranged
the most splendid pageants and processions on the occasion of any
festival or public rejoicing. They also celebrated festivals of their
own, the most important of which were known by the name of
_Landjuweelen_. In 1496 a great Landjuweel was held at Antwerp by
twenty-eight societies, at which the Eglantier gained the first prize.
But the most famous of all was the Landjuweel of 1561, also held at
Antwerp, beginning on the 3rd August, when the chambers of Brabant and
Flanders vied with one another in magnificence. The Brussels society,
“The Book,” was represented by 340 members, all on horseback in
crimson mantles. This festival was revived on the occasion of the
jubilee of the Belgian Academy of Antiquities, August 1892.
Footnote 2:
The plot of the “Bride in Heaven” is briefly this:—Many years before
the opening of the play, Major Huser had killed Baron Van Bergen in a
duel. There was no personal enmity between the men,—indeed they were
intimate friends; it was only public opinion and a barbarous etiquette
that forced on this ending to a trifling dispute. Huser was
broken-hearted at the way it ended: he accepted the charge of Van
Bergen’s only son as a sacred trust; and when he died, shortly
afterwards, made his own son, Gustaaf, promise to be a friend to young
Van Bergen at any sacrifice. Van Bergen turned out wild and
dissipated, and Gustaaf redeemed his promise by taking on himself a
forgery committed by his friend when in desperate straits for lack of
money at the university. No one knew the truth of this affair but
himself, Van Bergen, and the latter’s worthless valet, Frans. The
proofs of the whole were contained in certain letters in Van Bergen’s
possession. Huser disappears from society, and is supposed to have
fled the country. As a matter of fact, he is getting his living as a
music-master, under the name of Holm, and as such he is introduced to
us in the play. His principal pupil is Caroline, daughter of a high
government official named Van Wachler,—a shrewd, honourable, and
upright man, of simple tastes, meeting with little sympathy from his
fashionable and affected wife, with her would-be French manners, and
the aristocratic connections she will not allow him to forget. Mevrouw
Van Wachler is young Van Bergen’s aunt, and exceedingly anxious to
marry her daughter to the scapegrace, who, for his part, is not
unwilling to accept such a way of escape from his embarrassments. Her
husband is less dazzled by the match, and declares his intention of
letting his daughter choose for herself. He questions her, and finds
that her affections are set on Holm. Holm, who has meanwhile awakened
to the fact that he is in love with Caroline, has made up his mind
that he must leave without a sign; but Van Wachler’s genial kindness
wins his secret from him, and, finding that the statesman respects him
for himself, and is willing to take his position and his past for
granted, and that all he has to do is, to consent to the engagement,
he can only shut his eyes for the moment, and accept the offered
happiness. In the second act, which, with a few unimportant
abridgments, is given entire in the text, General Van Weller, brother
to Mevrouw Van Wachler, and the elder Huser’s old friend and comrade,
returns from the Indies, determined to clear up the mystery of Gustaaf
Huser’s disappearance, and is unwittingly helped on to the right track
by Frans. In the third act, Holm and Van Bergen meet—the best side of
the latter comes uppermost, and he has a passing mood of repentance
and reconciliation. But Frans’ influence is too strong; he is
persuaded to take a base advantage of his rival, and tells the Van
Wachler family, in Holm’s presence, that the latter is not only
passing under a false name, but is an outlaw and a convicted felon.
Holm (who had previously made up his mind, for the sake of their old
friendship and his promise to his father, to renounce Caroline, in the
hope that her love—could he succeed in winning it—might save Van
Bergen) is stunned and driven to despair by this treacherous attack,
goes home to his lodgings, and is about to commit suicide, when he is
interrupted by a visit from a man whose children he saved from a fire
a year ago, and who has now brought them to see him. This man (Wolf)
discovers his purpose, and does not leave till he has persuaded him to
forego it. Scarcely has he gone, when Caroline comes in. She tells
Holm that she has come to bid him farewell, but that nothing that has
happened can make any possible difference to their love. If she may
not belong to him on earth, she will be his bride in the other life,
and wait for him there. So they part.
Van Wachler is full of indignation at the way in which he considers
himself to have been deceived by Holm, but Van Weller arrives in time
to explain everything,—tells the whole story, sends for Holm, or
Huser, and sees his old friend’s son triumphantly righted, while Van
Bergen retires in disgrace. (See _A Rascally Valet_, p. 65.)
Footnote 3:
Strictly speaking, “Dominie,” in Holland, is a title reserved for
ministers, the old-fashioned designation of the schoolmaster being
simply “Meester.” But as the former title has, with us, become
inseparably attached to the latter profession, it has been thought
best to use it as the translation of “Meester.”
Footnote 4:
Equivalent to the French _garde-champêtre_ and the German
_Feldschütz_,—an official who is something between a gamekeeper and a
policeman. His duty is to patrol the fields and orchards with a gun,
and see that nothing is stolen.
Footnote 5:
Readers of Motley will not need to be reminded that this was the name
of William the Silent’s murderer.
Footnote 6:
“Wethouders:” corresponding to the “selectmen” of a New England
village.
Footnote 7:
_Doe wel en zie niet om_ (Do well, and don’t look behind you), was the
motto of the Knights of the Union. King Louis of Holland (Napoleon
I.’s brother) was but an indifferent Dutch scholar, and the tradition
goes, that, having to preside at a chapter of the above Order, he was
provided with a French phonetic version of their motto, as follows:
_Doux lainsi nid d’homme_. With the aid of this guide to pronunciation
he is said to have acquitted himself all right; but on another
occasion he came to grief by describing himself as the “friend and
rabbit” (Konijn, _quasi koning_, king) of his audience.
Footnote 8:
The Dr Watts of Holland.
Footnote 9:
A society at Amsterdam, which, besides fulfilling the usual functions
of a club, holds picture exhibitions and gives concerts, and founded
the zoological gardens in that city (hence often referred to as
“Artis,” _tout court_), to which its members have free right of entry.
Membership in “Artis,” as implied in the text, is a trustworthy
guarantee of respectability.
Footnote 10:
The hierarchy of Dutch etiquette is as follows, beginning from
above:—_Mevrouw_, _Juffrouw_, _Vrouw_.
Footnote 11:
_I.e._, confirmation.
Footnote 12:
Erroneously so. For, even though this is _not_ humour, it is quite
true that jokes of this sort are given out as such; and Master
Pennewip’s question can only have referred to this. The wig’s doubts
are therefore unfounded, and I would recommend to it the attentive
perusal of Professor Oosterzee’s treatise, “De Sceptici mo caute
Vitando.”
Footnote 13:
Two outlying districts of Amsterdam.
Footnote 14:
“_L’eau de reine_,” _i.e._, “eau de la reine de Hongrie,” known in
England as “Hungary water,” a fashionable perfume and restorative when
eau de Cologne as yet was not. Dutch ladies used to take it to church
with them instead of smelling-salts. Juffrouw Pieterse’s version of
the word is pronounced as spelt, the _y_ being long like that in the
English word _my_.
Footnote 15:
Intended for “marchand de parapluies.” The words in the above form
were the refrain of a favourite Amsterdam street song some seventy
years since.
Footnote 16:
The official known in a Dutch church as _Kerkmeester_ combines in
himself functions analogous to those of the English clerk and
churchwarden, or the Scottish beadle and precentor.
Footnote 17:
The Nes is a low part of Amsterdam, full of taverns and music-halls of
the worst description.
Footnote 18:
20 stivers = 1 florin = 1s. 8d.
Footnote 19:
5 stivers.
Footnote 20:
Two Leyden theological professors in the early part of this century.
Footnote 21:
The “Authorised Version” of Holland, published by order of the States
General, and in consequence of a resolution of the Synod of Dort, in
1610. It was completed in 1634.
Footnote 22:
“Rederijkers” (_i.e._, “rhetorikers”) Kamer is the name given to the
literary societies which still flourish at the Dutch universities. The
name has come down from the fifteenth century, and the most famous
societies were those of “In Liefde Bloeiende” and “De Eglantier,”
further reference to which will be found in the Introduction.
Footnote 23:
There are two provinces of Limburg; one of them being part of Belgium,
the other of the Netherlands. In the latter (which is the one meant
here) the people are Romanists and call themselves Flemings, not
Hollanders.
Footnote 24:
Fourth part of a _stuiver_.
Footnote 25:
This story appears to have several morals, the reader being left free
to choose the one most in accordance with his own views. The author
himself is strictly impartial. Perhaps the most obvious is, that it is
not good to match your wits against those of the Roman Catholic
clergy, unless you have capital to back your opposition, and not
always even then. M. Seipgens does not obtrude his own views, and we
are not quite sure whether the conclusion is meant to be serious and
edifying, or whether there is an underlying _pointe d’ironie_. The
story gives a lively picture of life and manners in the Limburg
district, that picturesque and little known region which, though part
of Holland, is in some respects so un-Dutch. The language spoken there
is less like Dutch proper than some broad and harsh dialect of German,
such as they speak about Cologne. After some hesitation between the
two, we have given this sketch of Seipgens’ in preference to “Kobus
Mulders’ Vote,”—which also turns on politics and clerical influence,
and is, in some respects, more characteristic; but the crisis—when
Mulders and his family are cut off by the flood—comes too near tragedy
for such a book as this.
Footnote 26:
The scene of this play is laid on what is now the frontier between
Holland and Belgium,—the time is 1830,—when the southern provinces of
the Kingdom of Holland revolted. The Liberal (French) party allied
itself with the Clerical Ultramontanes against the Government, and the
news of the Paris Revolution precipitated the outbreak of a riot at
Brussels (August 25), which soon spread over the country.
Footnote 27:
This is an allusion to one Kissels, who had been getting his living by
exhibiting a whale’s skeleton at Amsterdam, and joined the Belgian
side on the outbreak of the war.
Footnote 28:
A Flemish expletive.
Footnote 29:
“Up with Orange!” the Dutch national war-cry.
Footnote 30:
_I.e._, is born to be hanged. The site of the gallows is the
_Rabenstein_ in old German ballads.
Footnote 31:
“Grease” here has the sense of what is figuratively called “palm-oil.”
Footnote 32:
An illustration of comfortable, “Philistine” selfishness. The pumping
is supposed to be going on either on board a leaking vessel, or at a
break in the dykes.
Footnote 33:
_I.e._, cotton and pepper.
Footnote 34:
This is puzzling at first sight, but apparently is a comparison
between the three nations in point of foresight and prudence,—the
knife standing for anything needed in case of emergencies. The
Hollander is always prepared, the Frenchman never, the Scot makes
assurance doubly sure.
Footnote 35:
Another uncomplimentary proverb has it that the Portuguese apprentice
wants to cut out clothes before he knows how to sew.
Footnote 36:
Lit. “Madam my consort.”
Footnote 37:
This marriage would be legal in Holland.
Footnote 38:
Two-wheeled trap or dogcart (a Malay word).
Footnote 39:
Chinese trader.
Footnote 40:
_Kabaja_ is a long loose jacket, and _sarong_ the Malay petticoat,
forming the usual morning dress of Dutch ladies in the Indies.
Footnote 41:
_Njo_ is the Malay title given to the eldest boy in a family (like
_baba_ in Hindustani); for a girl it is _Nonnie_.
Footnote 42:
“No.”
Footnote 43:
_Sambal_ answers to the curry of British India, and is as various in
its composition.
Footnote 44:
Broth.
Footnote 45:
The Javanese equivalent to “ayah.”
Footnote 46:
_See_ Introduction.
Footnote 47:
She was Everdine Huberte, Baroness Wynbergen, a portionless orphan of
good family, whose property, seized by rapacious relatives, afterwards
cost him a series of lawsuits. Having picked up a lady’s handkerchief
at a ball, he chose to interpret the initials worked on it as “Eigen
Heard Wel Waard” (“A hearth of one’s own is worth much”) and at once
declared his intention of finding and marrying the owner. She is the
_Tine_ of “Max Havelaar.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
4. Superscripts are denoted by a caret before a single superscript
character or a series of superscripted characters enclosed in
curly braces, e.g. M^r. or M^{ister}.
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