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 andcadetjeswith 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 thecadetjesand 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.
“IN ONE HAND A HAIR-BRUSH, IN THE OTHER A COMB.”
“IN ONE HAND A HAIR-BRUSH, IN THE OTHER A COMB.”
“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 handsomesinjo; 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 themaster 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 tothe 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 suspiciouslook 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.
Annie Foore.
Annie Foore.
Annie Foore.