Chapter VI

Chapter VIIt was Wednesday, and the Pieterses were going to give a party. Juffrouw Laps had been invited, also the Juffrouw living over the dairy, whose husband was employed at the “bourse.” Further Mrs. Stotter, who had been a midwife for so long and was still merely “very respectable.” Then the widow Zipperman, whose daughter had married some fellow in the insurance business, or something of the kind. Also the baker’s wife. That was unavoidable: it was impossible to buy all kinds of pastry and cakes without her finding out what was up. Then the Juffrouw living below and to the rear. Of course she wouldn’t come, but the Pieterses wanted to show that they had forgotten the late quarrel over the broken window-pane. If she didn’t come that was the end of the matter, so far as Juffrouw Pieterse was concerned. She would have nothing more to do with the Juffrouw from below. I may add that the lady from below did not come, and that her name was stricken from the calling-list of those higher up.The children were to go to bed early, with the promise of a cup of sage-milk for breakfast if they would not make any noise the entire evening. This drink largely took the place of tea then. It was thought that the “noise” made by children would not be appreciated. Walter got permission to go playwith the Halleman boys, who were thought to be very respectable. He must be at home by eight o’clock; but this was said in a tone that gave him no cause to fear a reprimand in case he should stay out later. Laurens, who of course was an apprentice to a printer, and usually came home about seven o’clock in the evening, was big enough to be present with the guests, but must promise to sit still and drink only two glasses. The big girls were to be present as a matter of course: They had been confirmed. Stoffel presided. His business was to meet the gentlemen when they came for the ladies about ten o’clock, and entertain the company with stories of Mungo Park.Leentje was to remain till the people were all there, as it was so inconvenient to have to open the door every time. She could make herself useful in arranging the table and doing other things incident to such occasions. But she “must move about a little brisker,” otherwise they would prefer to do everything themselves.The eldest of the girls, Juffrouw Truitje, must look after the “sage-milk.” Pietje had charge of the sandwiches; but Myntje was to see to it that the butter was spread a little thicker, for the last time the bread had been too dry.Everything was going to turn out so nicely, “if only Juffrouw Laps wouldn’t talk so much.” That was her failing. And, too, they hoped that the widow Zipperman would “brag a little less about her son-in-law.” This was considered a source of weariness. And the Juffrouw who lived over the dairy “might be more modest.” She had “never lived in such a finehouse”; and as for the shop—that was no disgrace; and on the top floor—but one cannot tell how it will be.No one understood why the baker’s wife used so many French words, which was not becoming in one of her station. “If she does it this evening, Stoffel, say something to me that she can’t understand, then she will find out that we are not ‘from the street,’ that we know what’s what.”“It’s all the same to me,” Juffrouw Pieterse continued, “whether the Juffrouw downstairs comes or not. I don’t care a fig about it.—Four, five—Louw can sit there, but he must keep his legs still—and a chair there—yes—so! It’s a good thing she’s not coming; it would have been too crowded. Leentje, go to work—do blow your nose! No, run over to Juffrouw Laps’s and ask the Juffrouw if the Juffrouw could spare a few stools—without backs, you understand; because the chairs there by the chimney—yes, ask the Juffrouw for a few stools, and tell the Juffrouw that they are for me, and that I expect the Juffrouws about seven. Give my compliments to the Juffrouw and wipe your nose.”Juffrouw Pieterse didn’t like to use personal pronouns; it was impolite.On this afternoon Walter went to his bridge early. It was now not so useless as usual, for the rain of the day before had filled the ditch with water, which was even running, so that the straws which Walter thoughtlessly, or full of thought—both are about the same thing—threw into the water were carried down to the pond, where the logs lay that were to be sawed up by the “Eagle” and the “Early Hour.” Thesewere the names of the sawmills that for some weeks had been the witnesses of Walter’s daydreams.Glorioso was gone, and could not be replaced; but on those afternoons when he was free Walter returned involuntarily to the spot where he had had his first glimpse of the world of romance. How rough and crude the colors in that first picture! Perhaps it was the very roughness of the colors that attracted him and changed him, till he could not conceive how he had ever found enjoyment in the little cakes on the corner.A peculiar prospective had opened up before him. He dreamed of things that he could not name; but they made him bitterly dissatisfied with his present condition. He was anxious to do everything prescribed to get to Heaven; but he thought it would be much easier to pray in such a cave with wax candles. And as for honoring his mother, a point upon which she always laid great stress—why didn’t she have a train like the countess? Certainly he ought not to have sold the Bible; and he wouldn’t do it any more—he had vowed it; but then he ought to have had a box filled with florins, and a feather in his cap, just as it was in the book.He was disgusted with his brother Stoffel, and his sisters, and Juffrouw Laps, and the preacher and everything. He couldn’t understand why the whole family didn’t go to Italy and form a respectable robber-band. But Pennewip and Keesje shouldn’t go; that was certain.He wondered what had become of his verses. Every Wednesday such pupils as had been well-behaved,and, for that reason, deemed worthy to contest for the “laurel,” handed in a poem written on some subject suggested by the teacher. This time the subject assigned to Walter was “Goodness,” which probably had some reference to his former behavior, and was a hint for the improvement of his moral character. But Walter had already put goodness into rhyme so often, and found the subject so dry and tedious and worn-out that he had taken the liberty of “singing” something else. He selected the theme nearest his heart—robbers!Like all authors he was greatly infatuated with his work. He was convinced that the teacher, too, would see the excellencies of his poem and forgive him for deviating from the path of goodness. The verses would undoubtedly be sent to the mayor, and he would pass them on to the Pope, who would then summon Walter and appoint him “Court-robber.”And thus he dreamed and threw his straws into the stream. They moved away slowly and disappeared between the moss-covered timbers. Involuntarily his fancy had transmuted them into the characters of his world of romance. There went the countess with her long train, which got caught in the moss and held the countess fast. The virtuous Amalia met with no better luck; she got tangled up in the water lentils. And now came Walter himself. He approached Amalia, in her green robes, and was just about to rescue her, when he was swallowed by a duck. This was most unkind of the duck, for it was Walter’s last stalk of grass; and now in the rattling and buzzingof the sawmills below he could hear Amalia repeating in a reproachful voice:“Warre, warre, warre, we;Where is warre, warre, wall—Walter, who will rescue me?”This annoyed him, and he could not resist the temptation to throw a rock at the duck whose greediness had caused Amalia to doubt his chivalry.The duck chose the better part, and retired after she had done Walter all the damage she could. But the sawmills paid no attention to these happenings and continued to rattle away.Walter heard now in the noisy clatter of the mills all kinds of songs and stories, and, listening to these, he soon forgot Amalia and the Pope. That the reader may not get a wrong impression of these mills, I hasten to say that there was really nothing extraordinary about them. They buzzed and rattled just like other sawmills.It often happens that we think we perceive something which comes from the external world, when in fact it is only a subjective product in ourselves. Similarly, we may think we have just imagined something, when really it came to us from the world of the senses.This is a kind of ventriloquism that often gives cause for annoyance and enmity.I wonder which turns the faster?—Walter listened to the mills. Now—I think—no, begin together. Good! No, the Eagle was ahead! Once more—now!Which will get there first? No, that won’t do. Once more together. Look sharp, Morning Hour,—out again! I can’t hold my eye on it—what a whirling and buzzing!You are tired, are you? I believe it.If I might only sit on such a big wing, wouldn’t I hold on tight? And wouldn’t the sawyer look?Why are you called “Morning Hour”? Have you gold in your mouth? And “Eagle”! Can you fly? Take me with you. What a big play-ground up there, and no school!I wonder how the first school began. Which came first, the school, or the teacher? But the first teacher must have attended a school. And the first school must have had a teacher.So the first school must have just started itself. But that is impossible. “Eagle,” can you turn yourself?—with the wind? Can you turn yourself some other way? Try it. Beat “Morning Hour.” Quick, quick—beautiful!Now, once more alone. Good!Now, together again! Karre, karre, kra, kra—stretch your arms out and take me with you. Will you? Put your hat on, Eagle; how the ribbons fly.—Who are you? Warre, warre, ware, wan—I can’t help it; it was the duck. Tell me what your name is. Fanny, fanny, fanny, fan—— Is your name fan? And you, Morning Hour, what is your name? Ceny, ceny, ceny, ce. What kind of a name is Ce? Now together—sing a song together:Fanny, fanny, fanny, fan—Ceny, ceny, ceny, ce—Fanny, ceny, fanny, ceny,Fanny, ceny, fan—cy.Fancy—what do you mean by that? Is that the name of both of you? And what is it? Has it wings?“Morning Hour” and “Eagle” had fused into something that had wings and was called fancy.Fancy lifted Walter up and bore him away.When she brought him back to the bridge again it had already been dark for a long time. He shook himself as if he were wet, rubbed his eyes and started home. We shall see later what awaited him there; but first we must go back a few hours. I hope the reader will not disdain an invitation to Juffrouw Pieterse’s. Remember that her husband never made anything, but bought everything ready-made in Paris.In passing by I should like to make Master Pennewip a short visit.Chapter VIISchool was out; and the seats looked as if the pupils had just left the tediousness of it all lying there. The map of Europe looked down peevishly on the heap of writing-pads. There lay the mutilated and well-worn goose-quills, which since time immemorial have opened up the gates of learning. True, the black-board vaunted itself with the heavy results of the last lesson in “fractions”; but the school was no more. The spirit had fled: It was a corpse.Yes, the “Geist” had gone out with the children; for the reader will see in a moment that they carried about with them a tremendous amount of that article.We already know that this was the great day when Pennewip was to criticise the poetical effusions of his young geniuses. There he sat, his restless wig sharing all the poetical feelings and emotions—and motions—of its owner. We will just look over his shoulder and read with him those inestimable treasures of poetic art; and perhaps we too shall be moved to emotion.Wig: In the middle, resting quietly.Lucas de Bryer: “Our Native Land.”Cake and wine and native land,Out in the moonlight I take my stand;Our native land and cake and wine,And I hope the moon will shine;Five fingers have I on my hand,All to honor our native land.“Melodious,” said the teacher, “very melodious; and very profound. Cake and wine, with our native land as a climax.”Wig: On the right side.Lizzie Webbelar: “My Father’s Vocation.”The cat is sly, I know;My father is a dealer in Po-Tatoes and onions.“Original, immediate! But I don’t like the way she cuts her potatoes in twain.”Wig: On the left side.Jeanette Rust: “The Weather-cock.”He stands on the chimney since long ago,And shows the wind which way to blow.“Smooth, but not quite correct,ifexamined closely—but I’ll let it pass as poetic license.”Wig: Down in front.Leendert Snelleman: “Lent.”In Lent it is always nice,My brother’s birth-day is in May,He says his feet need warming,So that Lent we must be praising,And then we’re going to celebrate,Easter brings eggs and a holiday.“It’s too bad that he’s so careless with his rhymes. His imagination is extraordinary. Very original.”Wig: Down on his neck.Keesje, the Butcher’s Boy: “In Praise of the Teacher.”My father has slaughtered many a steer,But Master Pennewip is still living, I hear;Some are lean, and some are well-fed,He has slipped his wig to the side of his head.The wig actually went to the side of his head.“Well, this is curious. I hardly know what to say about it.”The wig slipped to the other side.“What’s the connection between me and steers?”The wig protested vigorously against any implication of relationship with steers.“H—mm! Can it be that this is what our new-fangled writers call humour?”The wig sank down to his eyebrows, which signified doubt.“I will call up the boy and——”The wig passed again to the zenith, to express its satisfaction with the teacher’s determination to interview the butcher’s boy.Lucas de Wilde: “Religion.”Religion very nice must be,Much it pleases the people we see.“The fundamental idea is very beautiful,” said the teacher, “but it ought to have been developed better.”The wig noddedacquiescence.Trudie Gier: “Juffrouw Pennewip.”The path of virtue she shows us each day,And we are glad to go that way;And as there’s nothing to do more fitting,She teaches us sewing, darning and knitting.The wig fairly leaped with pleasure, and the curls embraced one another. This out-pouring of Trudie’s heart was borne at once to Juffrouw Pennewip, and was later hung by the fireplace in honor of the poetess and the subject of the poem.Then followed a sublime poem on God by Klaasje van der Gracht, the son of the Catechist. He was thirteen years old, and had not been vaccinated—out of regard for predestination.“If only his father didn’t help him!”The wig was rigid with astonishment.Louwtje de Wilde: “Friendship.”Friendship very nice must be,Much it pleases the people we see.The wig seemed dissatisfied. The “Religion” of Lucas de Wilde was pulled out and compared with Louwtje’s “Friendship.”“H—emm. It is possible. Another example of how one thought can originate in two heads at the same time.”Wimpje de Wilde: “Fishing.”Fishing very——“What’s that?”Yes, really, there it was again:Fishing very nice must be,Much it pleases the people we see.The wig was moving continually. It looked as if it were fishing too.The teacher looked hurriedly through the remainingpoems and picked out the offspring of the entire Wilde connection. His worst suspicions were realized. Mietje de Wilde, Kees de Wilde, Piet and Jan de Wilde—all uniformly declared that religion, friendship, fishing, dreaming, cauliflower and deception “very nice must be,” and that they were also very pleasing “to the people we see.” A regular flood of the nice and pleasing.Now, what do you suppose the wig did? It did the best thing that could be done under the circumstances. More could not be expected of a wig. As soon as it saw the futility of its efforts to comprehend the difference between fishing, friendship, deception, dreams, religion and cauliflower, it merely ignored the whole matter, readjusted itself and assumed an expression of expectancy for what was yet to come.Leentje de Haas: “Admiral de Ruyter.”Pulling the rope with emotion,To the top of the mast he came,And then he went to the ocean,And won for himself great fame.And very much more he perfected,Saleh he vanquished, too;A hero he was then elected,With nothing else to do.The wig lifted itself, the curls applauding enthusiastically. It was evidently pleased.Grete Wauzer: “The Caterpillar.”The caterpillar, free from care,Crawls on the tree just over there.“Descriptive poetry. A daring idea—the caterpillar crawling on the tree free from care.”Wig: Quiet.Ah, the pleasure of a wig is short-lived! And how soon was this one—but I will not anticipate. Soon, all too soon, the reader will know the worst.Walter Pieterse: “A Robber Song.”“Aha, what’s this? And ‘goodness’? But where has he written on goodness?”The teacher could scarcely believe his eyes. He turned the sheet of paper over and examined the back side, hoping to discover there some lines on goodness.Then he saw that on Walter’s sheet there was not a trace of “goodness.”Oh, wretched wig!Yes, wretched wig! For after it had suffered as never wig had suffered before, after it had been pulled at and tugged at and martyred in a manner beyond even the imagination of the Wilde family, Master Pennewip snatched it from his head, twisted it convulsively in his hands, stammered a short “Heaven-human-Christian-soul-good-gracious-my-life—how is it possible!” slapped it on his head again, covered it with his venerable cap and burst out the door like one possessed.He was on his way to Walter’s home, where we shall soon see him arrive. As a conscientious historian, however, it will be my duty first to give an account of the happenings there.Chapter VIII“Goodness, I’m glad to see you! And so early, too! Leetje, place a chair over there and get the footstool, but be in a hurry, or I’d rather do it myself. And how are you? Juffrouw Laps is coming too, you know—Myntje, you’d better be thinking of your dough and stop combing your head. That girl can’t keep her hands off of her hair when there’s company. But do take a seat—no, not in the corner; there’s a draft there.”There was no more draft in this corner than is usual to corners; but Mrs. Stotter was only a Vrouw, and not a “Juffrouw.” She had no right to the seat of honour; for on all occasions a Juffrouw takes precedence of a Vrouw, just as a Mevrouw takes precedence of a Juffrouw. Everyone must keep his place, especially those in III, 7, b1; or c., where etiquette is observed more closely than at the court of Madrid. The care and anxiety of the mistress of ceremonies make her work most trying, and, too, not merely for Juffrouw Pieterse.“Ah, my dear Juffrouw Pieterse, I was so surprised when Louwie came to invite me, for I had just remarked to Wimpje, who makes caps, you know—no, thank you, Pietje, I don’t care for any just now—I said to Wimpje, I wonder what Juffrouw Pieterse is doing, for I hadn’t heard from you in so long, you know—yes, just throw it aside, it’s my old one; Iknew you wouldn’t mind my wearing my old one—and then Wimpje said——”What Wimpje really said I don’t know. Mrs. Stotter’s garment, which she had described as her “old one,” was removed and placed on the foot of the bed in the back room. The children, who were piled together there like sardines, were duly admonished not to stretch out their feet, lest in doing so they injure Mrs. Stotter’s “old” garment.“And now, my dear, be seated—yes, that’s for us, twice already. Leentje, where are you hiding now? Can’t you hear that somebody is ringing?—It’s probably Juffrouw Zipperman. Juffrouw Zipperman is coming, too, you know.”Again I am at a loss: I don’t know whether it was Juffrouw Zipperman who had rung, or somebody else. But the reader need not scold me for writing a story that I don’t know myself. I cannot be sure whether it was Juffrouw Zipperman this time or Juffrouw Mabbel, from the bakery, or Juffrouw Krummel, whose husband is at the bourse, or Juffrouw Laps—but she didn’t need to ring, as she lived in the house. Anyway, by half past seven the entire company was assembled, and Stoffel was smoking his pipe as if his life depended upon it. Leentje had gone home without her piece of bread and butter. She “could get it to-morrow”; to-day there was “so much to do,” and “one can’t do everything at once, you know.”“And then she got another one right away—don’t you know? One with a wart on her nose.”“Ah, it’s an ordeal one has with girls,” said Juffrouw Pieterse. “Take another piece, don’t waitto be insisted upon; it’s a cake from your own dough.”“Excusez,” said the Juffrouw from the bakery, with a mouth like a rabbit, a style of mouth signifying graciousness and good breeding.“You must eat more, or I shall think you don’t like it.” She had baked it herself.“Then I cannot refuse, Juffrouw Pieterse. Obligé and many thanks.”“And you, Juffrouw Laps, what can I pass you?” Juffrouw Laps selected ginger cake.“Fill the cups, Trudie! Yes, Mrs. Stotter, when you are here you must drink with us. You are welcome to anything we’ve got. Pietje, wipe off a table—such a girl! And now go and look after the baby, and tell her that I don’t want to hear any more noise. Ah, Juffrouw Mabbel, children are a great deal of trouble. And your little Sientje—how is her cough now?”“We’ve got a magnetisier, but that isn’t enough. We must have the clairvoyange of the sonnebule.”“You don’t say so! One can hardly believe it. And when is he coming, the cler—cleek—clar——”“It’s in the nerves, Juffrouw Zipperman. But he has the little nightcap and nightgown, in which she has sweated, you know; and he says that it will come all right now.”“Who would have thought it! What will you do now?”“That’s just it; the sonnebule must tell us what to do.”Juffrouw Laps could not agree to this.“I wouldn’t do it—I wouldn’t do it—not for anythingin the world! I tell you, what God does is all right. Just mark my words!”“Yes, Juffrouw Laps; but the Juffrouw at the provision store did it, and her child is lots better.”“That’s whatyousay, Juffrouw Mabbel, but I tell you there is something in her eye that I don’t like.”“What then, Juffrouw Laps?”“She has a look, a look—and it’s sin—I tell you it is. It’s wrong, it won’t do. What God does is all right.”“Come, Stoffel, talk some. You sit there like a stone. Recite a poem, or tell us something about your school. Would you believe it, Juffrouw Mabbel, he knows a whole poem by heart. And he has memorized all the verbs of the feminine gender.”“Mother, what are you talking about?” said Stoffel, displeased. “Don’t you see I’m smoking?”“Yes, dear, I meant when you were through smoking. Then you can repeat the words. You will be surprised, Juffrouw Zipperman, and wonder where he learned it all. How does it go? ‘I would have been drunk, he would have been drunk’—of course, you know, he was not drunk, it belongs with the verbs. You will kill yourself laughing when he begins. Fill the cups, Trudie, and blow in the spout; there’s a leaf over it.”The reader will not take it amiss, I trust, if I pass over the subsequent history of this leaf, and, too, make some deviations from the text of the conversation during the further course of Juffrouw Pieterse’s tea-evening. Stoffel spun off his conjugations and the ladies fairly shrieked when he related how “he hadbeen drunk” and that “he would be drunk.” Thereupon followed general and particular criticism of the neighbors. The Juffrouw below received her share, as a matter of course: She was absent.Religion and faith play an important part. Juffrouw Laps was for organizing a prayer-class. The preachers of to-day, she insisted, take their work too lightly and don’t sweep out all the corners.“I tell you, it’s in the Bible that man is only man,” she cried; “that’s what I want to tell you. Man must not try to know better than God himself. Salvation comes through grace, and grace through faith; but if a man is not chosen, then he has no grace and can have no faith. That’s the way he is damned, don’t you see? I tell you, it’s just as certain as twice two—understand? And for that reason I want to have a prayer-class. Not for the sake of money or profit—God help me, no! At most just a trifle for the fair, or for New Year. What do you think of the plan, Juffrouw Mabbel?”That lady expressed the opinion that her husband would be opposed to it, for he liked to go out of evenings, and then she must stay in the shop. Besides, it was so difficult to get through with the work. No one could imagine what a laborious occupation baking was.“What do you say, Juffrouw Zipperman? Don’t you think it would be a go? I would serve coffee; and the people could leave something on the saucers. Really, I am not doing it for the money. We would begin with the Old Testament—and then—exercise, you know; practice—understand?”Juffrouw Zipperman thought it would be very nice; but her son-in-law had said that the preachers are paid to do this, and that any additional “exercise” was merely an unnecessary expense.“What do you say to it, Juffrouw Krummel? Don’t you think that such a class—just a small class——”Juffrouw Krummel said she practiced with her husband when he came from the bourse.Juffrouw Laps was now forced to turn to Mrs. Stotter, though she felt that she was letting herself down in appealing to a Vrouw.“Ah, my dear Juffrouw Laps, if you had been a midwife as long as I have you’d take no interest in a prayer-class. Now there is M’neer Littelman in Prince Street. I’ve been at his house—always in respectable houses—and he always said—it’s a house with high steps, and in the hall there’s a big clock about the wind and rain—and he always said: ‘Vrouw Stotter,’ said he, ‘you’re a good woman,’ said he, ‘and a faithful midwife. I always tell the people that,’ said he, ‘and,’ said he, ‘all of my connection must send for you,’ said he, ‘but,’ said he, ‘when people tell you this you must act as if you didn’t hear it’—thank you, Juffrouw Pieterse, my cup is turned over. Just as I said: Everyone must know what he’s doing.”“But just a little exercise like that, Mrs. Stotter!”“It’s possible, it’s possible. But I’ve had so much experience in such things. I go my own way; and that’s the best way, too. For I’ve been in the home of M’neer Witte, who has an uncle in congress—for I always go to respectable places—and he always said, because he’s so funny: ‘Child-woman, child-woman,you’re nothing but a child-woman.’ I was just going to say that I know what I’m doing, for I’ve seen a lot in my life. There’s M’neer—what’s his name? There in Prince Street—no, no,Market Square. Oh, what is his name!”The reader will have noticed that Mrs. Stotter digressed from the theme. But other folk do the same.“And Juffrouw Pieterse, what do you think of the idea? Just a little exercise.”“Ah, my dear, I have exercise enough with my children. You don’t know what it means to bring up nine. I always worship with the children, for the Bible says—Trudie, go to the baby; I hear her again.”There was something noble in Trudie’s gait as she walked into that back room. One could see that she felt flattered by the transmission to her of maternal dignity. Little Kee, the baby, was less flattered.“What were we talking about? Yes, that is my religious service. The children keep me busy. You don’t know anything about it; if I bring them up properly—run, Pietje, and straighten out Simon. He’s pinching his sister again; he always does it when there’s company.”Simon was straightened out.“Whenever we have company the children behave so badly. There it goes again. Myntje, go and see what’s the matter and tell them to go to sleep.”Myntje went, returning immediately with the report that they had “turned something over.”General indignation. Angry message from the Juffrouw below. It was unpleasant for the Juffrouw below when the children of the Juffrouw above turnedover things and flooded the back room. Terrible excitement.Finally the children were straightened out.Juffrouw Zipperman again sat in the corner where there was such a “draft.” This only goes to show that earthly greatness has its dark side, and that a son-in-law in the insurance business entitles one to rheumatism.Juffrouw Laps was greatly pleased with the hearty manner in which punishment was meted out to the children. It was exactly according to Scripture, she said; and then she cited a text or two in which the rod was prescribed. It’s in the Bible somewhere, I don’t know where. The Bible mentions everything, and the “rod” especially.“Now, Stoffel,” said the hostess sweetly, “recite something for us.” She wanted to show that her children could do something else besides pinch and turn things over.“I don’t know anything,” said Stoffel, but without a trace of Socratic arrogance.“Just say for us what you said the other day. Come, Stoffel. That’s the way he always is, Juffrouw Mabbel. One has to pull him up on his feet before he will do anything. But then he goes all right. Forward, Stoffel! He’s tired now. Teaching in such a school is hard work. Yes, Juffrouw, he’s as smart as he can be. Would you believe it? All words are either masculine or feminine. Aren’t they, Stoffel?”“No, mother.”“No? But—and the other day you said—it’s only to get him started, you know, Juffrouw Zipperman,it takes a little time, because he’s worn out with his school work—but you said that all words——”“No, mother. Masculine, feminine or neuter, I said.”“Yes, and still more,” said Juffrouw Pieterse. “You will be astonished when you hear him. What do you suppose you are, Juffrouw Krummel?”“I? What I am?”“Yes, yes, what you are—what you really are.”“I am Juffrouw Krummel,” she said, but doubtfully; for she read in the triumphant look of Juffrouw Pieterse and the tightly closed lips of Stoffel that she might easily be something entirely different from Juffrouw Krummel.The tension did not need to be farther increased; so Juffrouw Pieterse passed now from the special to the general. Her glance took in the entire company.“And you, too, Juffrouw Mabbel; and you, Juffrouw Laps; and you, Juffrouw Zipperman; and you, Mrs. Stotter—what do you all think you are?”No one knew.This will not be surprising to anyone who knows how difficult knowledge of the “self” is; but Stoffel had something else in mind. There was a deeper meaning involved.Juffrouw Laps was the first to answer, and she spoke with proud self-sufficiency:“I am Juffrouw Laps!”“Wrong, wrong—entirely wrong!”“But for Heaven sake, am I not Juffrouw Laps?”“Y-e-s. Of course you are Juffrouw Laps; butStoffel didn’t ask who you were, but what you were. There’s the fine point.”“What I am? I’m Dutch Reform!”“Y-e-s. That you are, too; but—it isn’t that. The question is, Whatareyou? Help her out, Stoffel.”Between puffs of smoke, and with the air of a professor, Stoffel proceeded to “help”:“Juffrouw Laps, I wished to know what you were from a zoölogical standpoint.”“I won’t have anything more to do with it,” said Juffrouw Laps in the tone of one who feels that he is going to be insulted.“I am a midwife,” said Mrs. Stotter, “and I’m going to stick to it.”“And I am the baker’s wife,” cried Juffrouw Mabbel, with a positiveness in her tone which showed her intention to hold to this opinion.“Certainly, certainly, Juffrouw Mabbel; but I mean from a zoölogical standpoint.”“If it’s going to be indecent, I prefer to go home.”“I, too,” added Juffrouwen Krummel and Zipperman. “We came here to be entertained.”“But you’re not going to get angry about it! I tell you, it’s in the book, Stoffel—you will laugh when you hear it, Juffrouw Mabbel; and the best part of it is, that it’s in the book, and one can’t say anything against it. Tell her, Stoffel!”“Juffrouw Laps,” said Stoffel with dignity—an important moment in Juffrouw Pieterse’s tea-evening had arrived—“Juffrouw Laps, you are asucking animal.”I admit frankly that I cannot adequately describethe crisis that followed these two words. If Stoffel had only said mammal, perhaps then my task would have been easier.Juffrouw Laps’s face took on all the different colors that are generally supposed to express anger. She had been attacked more openly than the others, it is true; but her attitude toward the prayer-class would go to show that she was naturally polemical.In French novels people used to turn green; but Juffrouw Laps did not read French, so she stopped at a terrible violet and screamed—no, she didn’t. She didn’t scream anything; for she was choking for breath. But she did pulverize that piece of ginger cake; and she looked at Stoffel and his mother in a manner that would have been most damaging for her if those two persons had happened to die that night.Imitating the trick of the cuttle-fish, no doubt unconsciously, Stoffel managed to escape this fatal stare by enveloping himself in a heavy cloud of smoke. Juffrouw Pieterse, however, not being a smoker, was at the mercy of Juffrouw Laps. She stammered humbly: “It’s in the book, really it’s in the book. Don’t be angry, it’s in the book.”By this time Juffrouw Laps was getting a little air, so much that there was now no danger of her suffocating. She threw the mutilated remains of the ginger cake on the table and began:“Juffrouw Pieterse, you are nothing but a low, vile, filthy—you may even be a sucking animal, you and your son too. I want you to understand that I’ve always been respectable. My father sold grain, and nobody’s ever been able to say anything against me!Ask everybody about me—if I’ve ever run with men-folk, and such things; and if I haven’t always paid my debts. He was manager I would have you understand, and we lived over the chapter-house, for he was in the grain business, and you can ask about me there. Thank God, you can ask about me everywhere—do you hear? But never, never, never, has such a thing happened to me. What you put on me! If it wasn’t for lowering myself I’d tell you what I think of you—you sucking animal, you and your son and your whole family. My father sold grain, and I’m toorespectablefor you to——”“But—it’s in the book that way. For God’s sake believe me; it’s in the book.”“Just hold your lip about your book. Anybody who sells God’s holy word on the Ouwebrug needn’t talk to me about books.”This accusation was false; for Walter, and not his mother, had sold the Bible; but this was no time for such fine distinctions.“Stoffel, go get the book and show Juffrouw—my God, what shall I do!”“Go to the Devil with your book and your sucking animals. You’ve got nothing to show in your book. I know you—and your lout of a son, and your wenches of daughters, that are growing up like——”Truitje, Myntje and Pietje, understanding from this that there was something radically wrong with their growth, began to screech too. Other members of the party bawled a word from time to time, as opportunity presented itself. Then came another message from the Juffrouw below. This time she threatened tocall in the police. The children, taking advantage of the general excitement to break the ban under which they had been placed, had left the bed and were now listening at the keyhole. Juffrouw Pieterse was calling for the camphor bottle, declaring that she was going to die; Mrs. Stotter was clamoring for her wrap—her “old one”; and Stoffel was playing cuttle-fish as well as he could.All had got up and were going to leave. They could “put up with a good deal,” but that was “too much”! Juffrouw Krummel was going to tell her husband; Juffrouw Zipperman was going to let everybody in the insurance business know about it; Mrs. Stotter was going to relate the whole story to the gentleman in Prince Street; and Juffrouw Mabbel—I forget whom she was going to tell it all to. In short, every one of them was going to see to it that the affair was well aired.Who knows but what these threats would have been carried out, if the good genius of the Pieterses had not at that moment caused someone to ring the door-bell? It was that worthy gentleman whom we left in such a state of pious despair at the close of the last chapter.

Chapter VIIt was Wednesday, and the Pieterses were going to give a party. Juffrouw Laps had been invited, also the Juffrouw living over the dairy, whose husband was employed at the “bourse.” Further Mrs. Stotter, who had been a midwife for so long and was still merely “very respectable.” Then the widow Zipperman, whose daughter had married some fellow in the insurance business, or something of the kind. Also the baker’s wife. That was unavoidable: it was impossible to buy all kinds of pastry and cakes without her finding out what was up. Then the Juffrouw living below and to the rear. Of course she wouldn’t come, but the Pieterses wanted to show that they had forgotten the late quarrel over the broken window-pane. If she didn’t come that was the end of the matter, so far as Juffrouw Pieterse was concerned. She would have nothing more to do with the Juffrouw from below. I may add that the lady from below did not come, and that her name was stricken from the calling-list of those higher up.The children were to go to bed early, with the promise of a cup of sage-milk for breakfast if they would not make any noise the entire evening. This drink largely took the place of tea then. It was thought that the “noise” made by children would not be appreciated. Walter got permission to go playwith the Halleman boys, who were thought to be very respectable. He must be at home by eight o’clock; but this was said in a tone that gave him no cause to fear a reprimand in case he should stay out later. Laurens, who of course was an apprentice to a printer, and usually came home about seven o’clock in the evening, was big enough to be present with the guests, but must promise to sit still and drink only two glasses. The big girls were to be present as a matter of course: They had been confirmed. Stoffel presided. His business was to meet the gentlemen when they came for the ladies about ten o’clock, and entertain the company with stories of Mungo Park.Leentje was to remain till the people were all there, as it was so inconvenient to have to open the door every time. She could make herself useful in arranging the table and doing other things incident to such occasions. But she “must move about a little brisker,” otherwise they would prefer to do everything themselves.The eldest of the girls, Juffrouw Truitje, must look after the “sage-milk.” Pietje had charge of the sandwiches; but Myntje was to see to it that the butter was spread a little thicker, for the last time the bread had been too dry.Everything was going to turn out so nicely, “if only Juffrouw Laps wouldn’t talk so much.” That was her failing. And, too, they hoped that the widow Zipperman would “brag a little less about her son-in-law.” This was considered a source of weariness. And the Juffrouw who lived over the dairy “might be more modest.” She had “never lived in such a finehouse”; and as for the shop—that was no disgrace; and on the top floor—but one cannot tell how it will be.No one understood why the baker’s wife used so many French words, which was not becoming in one of her station. “If she does it this evening, Stoffel, say something to me that she can’t understand, then she will find out that we are not ‘from the street,’ that we know what’s what.”“It’s all the same to me,” Juffrouw Pieterse continued, “whether the Juffrouw downstairs comes or not. I don’t care a fig about it.—Four, five—Louw can sit there, but he must keep his legs still—and a chair there—yes—so! It’s a good thing she’s not coming; it would have been too crowded. Leentje, go to work—do blow your nose! No, run over to Juffrouw Laps’s and ask the Juffrouw if the Juffrouw could spare a few stools—without backs, you understand; because the chairs there by the chimney—yes, ask the Juffrouw for a few stools, and tell the Juffrouw that they are for me, and that I expect the Juffrouws about seven. Give my compliments to the Juffrouw and wipe your nose.”Juffrouw Pieterse didn’t like to use personal pronouns; it was impolite.On this afternoon Walter went to his bridge early. It was now not so useless as usual, for the rain of the day before had filled the ditch with water, which was even running, so that the straws which Walter thoughtlessly, or full of thought—both are about the same thing—threw into the water were carried down to the pond, where the logs lay that were to be sawed up by the “Eagle” and the “Early Hour.” Thesewere the names of the sawmills that for some weeks had been the witnesses of Walter’s daydreams.Glorioso was gone, and could not be replaced; but on those afternoons when he was free Walter returned involuntarily to the spot where he had had his first glimpse of the world of romance. How rough and crude the colors in that first picture! Perhaps it was the very roughness of the colors that attracted him and changed him, till he could not conceive how he had ever found enjoyment in the little cakes on the corner.A peculiar prospective had opened up before him. He dreamed of things that he could not name; but they made him bitterly dissatisfied with his present condition. He was anxious to do everything prescribed to get to Heaven; but he thought it would be much easier to pray in such a cave with wax candles. And as for honoring his mother, a point upon which she always laid great stress—why didn’t she have a train like the countess? Certainly he ought not to have sold the Bible; and he wouldn’t do it any more—he had vowed it; but then he ought to have had a box filled with florins, and a feather in his cap, just as it was in the book.He was disgusted with his brother Stoffel, and his sisters, and Juffrouw Laps, and the preacher and everything. He couldn’t understand why the whole family didn’t go to Italy and form a respectable robber-band. But Pennewip and Keesje shouldn’t go; that was certain.He wondered what had become of his verses. Every Wednesday such pupils as had been well-behaved,and, for that reason, deemed worthy to contest for the “laurel,” handed in a poem written on some subject suggested by the teacher. This time the subject assigned to Walter was “Goodness,” which probably had some reference to his former behavior, and was a hint for the improvement of his moral character. But Walter had already put goodness into rhyme so often, and found the subject so dry and tedious and worn-out that he had taken the liberty of “singing” something else. He selected the theme nearest his heart—robbers!Like all authors he was greatly infatuated with his work. He was convinced that the teacher, too, would see the excellencies of his poem and forgive him for deviating from the path of goodness. The verses would undoubtedly be sent to the mayor, and he would pass them on to the Pope, who would then summon Walter and appoint him “Court-robber.”And thus he dreamed and threw his straws into the stream. They moved away slowly and disappeared between the moss-covered timbers. Involuntarily his fancy had transmuted them into the characters of his world of romance. There went the countess with her long train, which got caught in the moss and held the countess fast. The virtuous Amalia met with no better luck; she got tangled up in the water lentils. And now came Walter himself. He approached Amalia, in her green robes, and was just about to rescue her, when he was swallowed by a duck. This was most unkind of the duck, for it was Walter’s last stalk of grass; and now in the rattling and buzzingof the sawmills below he could hear Amalia repeating in a reproachful voice:“Warre, warre, warre, we;Where is warre, warre, wall—Walter, who will rescue me?”This annoyed him, and he could not resist the temptation to throw a rock at the duck whose greediness had caused Amalia to doubt his chivalry.The duck chose the better part, and retired after she had done Walter all the damage she could. But the sawmills paid no attention to these happenings and continued to rattle away.Walter heard now in the noisy clatter of the mills all kinds of songs and stories, and, listening to these, he soon forgot Amalia and the Pope. That the reader may not get a wrong impression of these mills, I hasten to say that there was really nothing extraordinary about them. They buzzed and rattled just like other sawmills.It often happens that we think we perceive something which comes from the external world, when in fact it is only a subjective product in ourselves. Similarly, we may think we have just imagined something, when really it came to us from the world of the senses.This is a kind of ventriloquism that often gives cause for annoyance and enmity.I wonder which turns the faster?—Walter listened to the mills. Now—I think—no, begin together. Good! No, the Eagle was ahead! Once more—now!Which will get there first? No, that won’t do. Once more together. Look sharp, Morning Hour,—out again! I can’t hold my eye on it—what a whirling and buzzing!You are tired, are you? I believe it.If I might only sit on such a big wing, wouldn’t I hold on tight? And wouldn’t the sawyer look?Why are you called “Morning Hour”? Have you gold in your mouth? And “Eagle”! Can you fly? Take me with you. What a big play-ground up there, and no school!I wonder how the first school began. Which came first, the school, or the teacher? But the first teacher must have attended a school. And the first school must have had a teacher.So the first school must have just started itself. But that is impossible. “Eagle,” can you turn yourself?—with the wind? Can you turn yourself some other way? Try it. Beat “Morning Hour.” Quick, quick—beautiful!Now, once more alone. Good!Now, together again! Karre, karre, kra, kra—stretch your arms out and take me with you. Will you? Put your hat on, Eagle; how the ribbons fly.—Who are you? Warre, warre, ware, wan—I can’t help it; it was the duck. Tell me what your name is. Fanny, fanny, fanny, fan—— Is your name fan? And you, Morning Hour, what is your name? Ceny, ceny, ceny, ce. What kind of a name is Ce? Now together—sing a song together:Fanny, fanny, fanny, fan—Ceny, ceny, ceny, ce—Fanny, ceny, fanny, ceny,Fanny, ceny, fan—cy.Fancy—what do you mean by that? Is that the name of both of you? And what is it? Has it wings?“Morning Hour” and “Eagle” had fused into something that had wings and was called fancy.Fancy lifted Walter up and bore him away.When she brought him back to the bridge again it had already been dark for a long time. He shook himself as if he were wet, rubbed his eyes and started home. We shall see later what awaited him there; but first we must go back a few hours. I hope the reader will not disdain an invitation to Juffrouw Pieterse’s. Remember that her husband never made anything, but bought everything ready-made in Paris.In passing by I should like to make Master Pennewip a short visit.

It was Wednesday, and the Pieterses were going to give a party. Juffrouw Laps had been invited, also the Juffrouw living over the dairy, whose husband was employed at the “bourse.” Further Mrs. Stotter, who had been a midwife for so long and was still merely “very respectable.” Then the widow Zipperman, whose daughter had married some fellow in the insurance business, or something of the kind. Also the baker’s wife. That was unavoidable: it was impossible to buy all kinds of pastry and cakes without her finding out what was up. Then the Juffrouw living below and to the rear. Of course she wouldn’t come, but the Pieterses wanted to show that they had forgotten the late quarrel over the broken window-pane. If she didn’t come that was the end of the matter, so far as Juffrouw Pieterse was concerned. She would have nothing more to do with the Juffrouw from below. I may add that the lady from below did not come, and that her name was stricken from the calling-list of those higher up.

The children were to go to bed early, with the promise of a cup of sage-milk for breakfast if they would not make any noise the entire evening. This drink largely took the place of tea then. It was thought that the “noise” made by children would not be appreciated. Walter got permission to go playwith the Halleman boys, who were thought to be very respectable. He must be at home by eight o’clock; but this was said in a tone that gave him no cause to fear a reprimand in case he should stay out later. Laurens, who of course was an apprentice to a printer, and usually came home about seven o’clock in the evening, was big enough to be present with the guests, but must promise to sit still and drink only two glasses. The big girls were to be present as a matter of course: They had been confirmed. Stoffel presided. His business was to meet the gentlemen when they came for the ladies about ten o’clock, and entertain the company with stories of Mungo Park.

Leentje was to remain till the people were all there, as it was so inconvenient to have to open the door every time. She could make herself useful in arranging the table and doing other things incident to such occasions. But she “must move about a little brisker,” otherwise they would prefer to do everything themselves.

The eldest of the girls, Juffrouw Truitje, must look after the “sage-milk.” Pietje had charge of the sandwiches; but Myntje was to see to it that the butter was spread a little thicker, for the last time the bread had been too dry.

Everything was going to turn out so nicely, “if only Juffrouw Laps wouldn’t talk so much.” That was her failing. And, too, they hoped that the widow Zipperman would “brag a little less about her son-in-law.” This was considered a source of weariness. And the Juffrouw who lived over the dairy “might be more modest.” She had “never lived in such a finehouse”; and as for the shop—that was no disgrace; and on the top floor—but one cannot tell how it will be.

No one understood why the baker’s wife used so many French words, which was not becoming in one of her station. “If she does it this evening, Stoffel, say something to me that she can’t understand, then she will find out that we are not ‘from the street,’ that we know what’s what.”

“It’s all the same to me,” Juffrouw Pieterse continued, “whether the Juffrouw downstairs comes or not. I don’t care a fig about it.—Four, five—Louw can sit there, but he must keep his legs still—and a chair there—yes—so! It’s a good thing she’s not coming; it would have been too crowded. Leentje, go to work—do blow your nose! No, run over to Juffrouw Laps’s and ask the Juffrouw if the Juffrouw could spare a few stools—without backs, you understand; because the chairs there by the chimney—yes, ask the Juffrouw for a few stools, and tell the Juffrouw that they are for me, and that I expect the Juffrouws about seven. Give my compliments to the Juffrouw and wipe your nose.”

Juffrouw Pieterse didn’t like to use personal pronouns; it was impolite.

On this afternoon Walter went to his bridge early. It was now not so useless as usual, for the rain of the day before had filled the ditch with water, which was even running, so that the straws which Walter thoughtlessly, or full of thought—both are about the same thing—threw into the water were carried down to the pond, where the logs lay that were to be sawed up by the “Eagle” and the “Early Hour.” Thesewere the names of the sawmills that for some weeks had been the witnesses of Walter’s daydreams.

Glorioso was gone, and could not be replaced; but on those afternoons when he was free Walter returned involuntarily to the spot where he had had his first glimpse of the world of romance. How rough and crude the colors in that first picture! Perhaps it was the very roughness of the colors that attracted him and changed him, till he could not conceive how he had ever found enjoyment in the little cakes on the corner.

A peculiar prospective had opened up before him. He dreamed of things that he could not name; but they made him bitterly dissatisfied with his present condition. He was anxious to do everything prescribed to get to Heaven; but he thought it would be much easier to pray in such a cave with wax candles. And as for honoring his mother, a point upon which she always laid great stress—why didn’t she have a train like the countess? Certainly he ought not to have sold the Bible; and he wouldn’t do it any more—he had vowed it; but then he ought to have had a box filled with florins, and a feather in his cap, just as it was in the book.

He was disgusted with his brother Stoffel, and his sisters, and Juffrouw Laps, and the preacher and everything. He couldn’t understand why the whole family didn’t go to Italy and form a respectable robber-band. But Pennewip and Keesje shouldn’t go; that was certain.

He wondered what had become of his verses. Every Wednesday such pupils as had been well-behaved,and, for that reason, deemed worthy to contest for the “laurel,” handed in a poem written on some subject suggested by the teacher. This time the subject assigned to Walter was “Goodness,” which probably had some reference to his former behavior, and was a hint for the improvement of his moral character. But Walter had already put goodness into rhyme so often, and found the subject so dry and tedious and worn-out that he had taken the liberty of “singing” something else. He selected the theme nearest his heart—robbers!

Like all authors he was greatly infatuated with his work. He was convinced that the teacher, too, would see the excellencies of his poem and forgive him for deviating from the path of goodness. The verses would undoubtedly be sent to the mayor, and he would pass them on to the Pope, who would then summon Walter and appoint him “Court-robber.”

And thus he dreamed and threw his straws into the stream. They moved away slowly and disappeared between the moss-covered timbers. Involuntarily his fancy had transmuted them into the characters of his world of romance. There went the countess with her long train, which got caught in the moss and held the countess fast. The virtuous Amalia met with no better luck; she got tangled up in the water lentils. And now came Walter himself. He approached Amalia, in her green robes, and was just about to rescue her, when he was swallowed by a duck. This was most unkind of the duck, for it was Walter’s last stalk of grass; and now in the rattling and buzzingof the sawmills below he could hear Amalia repeating in a reproachful voice:

“Warre, warre, warre, we;Where is warre, warre, wall—Walter, who will rescue me?”

“Warre, warre, warre, we;

Where is warre, warre, wall—

Walter, who will rescue me?”

This annoyed him, and he could not resist the temptation to throw a rock at the duck whose greediness had caused Amalia to doubt his chivalry.

The duck chose the better part, and retired after she had done Walter all the damage she could. But the sawmills paid no attention to these happenings and continued to rattle away.

Walter heard now in the noisy clatter of the mills all kinds of songs and stories, and, listening to these, he soon forgot Amalia and the Pope. That the reader may not get a wrong impression of these mills, I hasten to say that there was really nothing extraordinary about them. They buzzed and rattled just like other sawmills.

It often happens that we think we perceive something which comes from the external world, when in fact it is only a subjective product in ourselves. Similarly, we may think we have just imagined something, when really it came to us from the world of the senses.

This is a kind of ventriloquism that often gives cause for annoyance and enmity.

I wonder which turns the faster?—Walter listened to the mills. Now—I think—no, begin together. Good! No, the Eagle was ahead! Once more—now!

Which will get there first? No, that won’t do. Once more together. Look sharp, Morning Hour,—out again! I can’t hold my eye on it—what a whirling and buzzing!

You are tired, are you? I believe it.

If I might only sit on such a big wing, wouldn’t I hold on tight? And wouldn’t the sawyer look?

Why are you called “Morning Hour”? Have you gold in your mouth? And “Eagle”! Can you fly? Take me with you. What a big play-ground up there, and no school!

I wonder how the first school began. Which came first, the school, or the teacher? But the first teacher must have attended a school. And the first school must have had a teacher.

So the first school must have just started itself. But that is impossible. “Eagle,” can you turn yourself?—with the wind? Can you turn yourself some other way? Try it. Beat “Morning Hour.” Quick, quick—beautiful!

Now, once more alone. Good!

Now, together again! Karre, karre, kra, kra—stretch your arms out and take me with you. Will you? Put your hat on, Eagle; how the ribbons fly.—Who are you? Warre, warre, ware, wan—I can’t help it; it was the duck. Tell me what your name is. Fanny, fanny, fanny, fan—— Is your name fan? And you, Morning Hour, what is your name? Ceny, ceny, ceny, ce. What kind of a name is Ce? Now together—sing a song together:

Fanny, fanny, fanny, fan—Ceny, ceny, ceny, ce—Fanny, ceny, fanny, ceny,Fanny, ceny, fan—cy.

Fanny, fanny, fanny, fan—

Ceny, ceny, ceny, ce—

Fanny, ceny, fanny, ceny,

Fanny, ceny, fan—cy.

Fancy—what do you mean by that? Is that the name of both of you? And what is it? Has it wings?

“Morning Hour” and “Eagle” had fused into something that had wings and was called fancy.

Fancy lifted Walter up and bore him away.

When she brought him back to the bridge again it had already been dark for a long time. He shook himself as if he were wet, rubbed his eyes and started home. We shall see later what awaited him there; but first we must go back a few hours. I hope the reader will not disdain an invitation to Juffrouw Pieterse’s. Remember that her husband never made anything, but bought everything ready-made in Paris.

In passing by I should like to make Master Pennewip a short visit.

Chapter VIISchool was out; and the seats looked as if the pupils had just left the tediousness of it all lying there. The map of Europe looked down peevishly on the heap of writing-pads. There lay the mutilated and well-worn goose-quills, which since time immemorial have opened up the gates of learning. True, the black-board vaunted itself with the heavy results of the last lesson in “fractions”; but the school was no more. The spirit had fled: It was a corpse.Yes, the “Geist” had gone out with the children; for the reader will see in a moment that they carried about with them a tremendous amount of that article.We already know that this was the great day when Pennewip was to criticise the poetical effusions of his young geniuses. There he sat, his restless wig sharing all the poetical feelings and emotions—and motions—of its owner. We will just look over his shoulder and read with him those inestimable treasures of poetic art; and perhaps we too shall be moved to emotion.Wig: In the middle, resting quietly.Lucas de Bryer: “Our Native Land.”Cake and wine and native land,Out in the moonlight I take my stand;Our native land and cake and wine,And I hope the moon will shine;Five fingers have I on my hand,All to honor our native land.“Melodious,” said the teacher, “very melodious; and very profound. Cake and wine, with our native land as a climax.”Wig: On the right side.Lizzie Webbelar: “My Father’s Vocation.”The cat is sly, I know;My father is a dealer in Po-Tatoes and onions.“Original, immediate! But I don’t like the way she cuts her potatoes in twain.”Wig: On the left side.Jeanette Rust: “The Weather-cock.”He stands on the chimney since long ago,And shows the wind which way to blow.“Smooth, but not quite correct,ifexamined closely—but I’ll let it pass as poetic license.”Wig: Down in front.Leendert Snelleman: “Lent.”In Lent it is always nice,My brother’s birth-day is in May,He says his feet need warming,So that Lent we must be praising,And then we’re going to celebrate,Easter brings eggs and a holiday.“It’s too bad that he’s so careless with his rhymes. His imagination is extraordinary. Very original.”Wig: Down on his neck.Keesje, the Butcher’s Boy: “In Praise of the Teacher.”My father has slaughtered many a steer,But Master Pennewip is still living, I hear;Some are lean, and some are well-fed,He has slipped his wig to the side of his head.The wig actually went to the side of his head.“Well, this is curious. I hardly know what to say about it.”The wig slipped to the other side.“What’s the connection between me and steers?”The wig protested vigorously against any implication of relationship with steers.“H—mm! Can it be that this is what our new-fangled writers call humour?”The wig sank down to his eyebrows, which signified doubt.“I will call up the boy and——”The wig passed again to the zenith, to express its satisfaction with the teacher’s determination to interview the butcher’s boy.Lucas de Wilde: “Religion.”Religion very nice must be,Much it pleases the people we see.“The fundamental idea is very beautiful,” said the teacher, “but it ought to have been developed better.”The wig noddedacquiescence.Trudie Gier: “Juffrouw Pennewip.”The path of virtue she shows us each day,And we are glad to go that way;And as there’s nothing to do more fitting,She teaches us sewing, darning and knitting.The wig fairly leaped with pleasure, and the curls embraced one another. This out-pouring of Trudie’s heart was borne at once to Juffrouw Pennewip, and was later hung by the fireplace in honor of the poetess and the subject of the poem.Then followed a sublime poem on God by Klaasje van der Gracht, the son of the Catechist. He was thirteen years old, and had not been vaccinated—out of regard for predestination.“If only his father didn’t help him!”The wig was rigid with astonishment.Louwtje de Wilde: “Friendship.”Friendship very nice must be,Much it pleases the people we see.The wig seemed dissatisfied. The “Religion” of Lucas de Wilde was pulled out and compared with Louwtje’s “Friendship.”“H—emm. It is possible. Another example of how one thought can originate in two heads at the same time.”Wimpje de Wilde: “Fishing.”Fishing very——“What’s that?”Yes, really, there it was again:Fishing very nice must be,Much it pleases the people we see.The wig was moving continually. It looked as if it were fishing too.The teacher looked hurriedly through the remainingpoems and picked out the offspring of the entire Wilde connection. His worst suspicions were realized. Mietje de Wilde, Kees de Wilde, Piet and Jan de Wilde—all uniformly declared that religion, friendship, fishing, dreaming, cauliflower and deception “very nice must be,” and that they were also very pleasing “to the people we see.” A regular flood of the nice and pleasing.Now, what do you suppose the wig did? It did the best thing that could be done under the circumstances. More could not be expected of a wig. As soon as it saw the futility of its efforts to comprehend the difference between fishing, friendship, deception, dreams, religion and cauliflower, it merely ignored the whole matter, readjusted itself and assumed an expression of expectancy for what was yet to come.Leentje de Haas: “Admiral de Ruyter.”Pulling the rope with emotion,To the top of the mast he came,And then he went to the ocean,And won for himself great fame.And very much more he perfected,Saleh he vanquished, too;A hero he was then elected,With nothing else to do.The wig lifted itself, the curls applauding enthusiastically. It was evidently pleased.Grete Wauzer: “The Caterpillar.”The caterpillar, free from care,Crawls on the tree just over there.“Descriptive poetry. A daring idea—the caterpillar crawling on the tree free from care.”Wig: Quiet.Ah, the pleasure of a wig is short-lived! And how soon was this one—but I will not anticipate. Soon, all too soon, the reader will know the worst.Walter Pieterse: “A Robber Song.”“Aha, what’s this? And ‘goodness’? But where has he written on goodness?”The teacher could scarcely believe his eyes. He turned the sheet of paper over and examined the back side, hoping to discover there some lines on goodness.Then he saw that on Walter’s sheet there was not a trace of “goodness.”Oh, wretched wig!Yes, wretched wig! For after it had suffered as never wig had suffered before, after it had been pulled at and tugged at and martyred in a manner beyond even the imagination of the Wilde family, Master Pennewip snatched it from his head, twisted it convulsively in his hands, stammered a short “Heaven-human-Christian-soul-good-gracious-my-life—how is it possible!” slapped it on his head again, covered it with his venerable cap and burst out the door like one possessed.He was on his way to Walter’s home, where we shall soon see him arrive. As a conscientious historian, however, it will be my duty first to give an account of the happenings there.

School was out; and the seats looked as if the pupils had just left the tediousness of it all lying there. The map of Europe looked down peevishly on the heap of writing-pads. There lay the mutilated and well-worn goose-quills, which since time immemorial have opened up the gates of learning. True, the black-board vaunted itself with the heavy results of the last lesson in “fractions”; but the school was no more. The spirit had fled: It was a corpse.

Yes, the “Geist” had gone out with the children; for the reader will see in a moment that they carried about with them a tremendous amount of that article.

We already know that this was the great day when Pennewip was to criticise the poetical effusions of his young geniuses. There he sat, his restless wig sharing all the poetical feelings and emotions—and motions—of its owner. We will just look over his shoulder and read with him those inestimable treasures of poetic art; and perhaps we too shall be moved to emotion.

Wig: In the middle, resting quietly.

Lucas de Bryer: “Our Native Land.”Cake and wine and native land,Out in the moonlight I take my stand;Our native land and cake and wine,And I hope the moon will shine;Five fingers have I on my hand,All to honor our native land.

Cake and wine and native land,

Out in the moonlight I take my stand;

Our native land and cake and wine,

And I hope the moon will shine;

Five fingers have I on my hand,

All to honor our native land.

“Melodious,” said the teacher, “very melodious; and very profound. Cake and wine, with our native land as a climax.”

Wig: On the right side.

Lizzie Webbelar: “My Father’s Vocation.”The cat is sly, I know;My father is a dealer in Po-Tatoes and onions.

The cat is sly, I know;

My father is a dealer in Po-

Tatoes and onions.

“Original, immediate! But I don’t like the way she cuts her potatoes in twain.”

Wig: On the left side.

Jeanette Rust: “The Weather-cock.”He stands on the chimney since long ago,And shows the wind which way to blow.

He stands on the chimney since long ago,

And shows the wind which way to blow.

“Smooth, but not quite correct,ifexamined closely—but I’ll let it pass as poetic license.”

Wig: Down in front.

Leendert Snelleman: “Lent.”In Lent it is always nice,My brother’s birth-day is in May,He says his feet need warming,So that Lent we must be praising,And then we’re going to celebrate,Easter brings eggs and a holiday.

In Lent it is always nice,

My brother’s birth-day is in May,

He says his feet need warming,

So that Lent we must be praising,

And then we’re going to celebrate,

Easter brings eggs and a holiday.

“It’s too bad that he’s so careless with his rhymes. His imagination is extraordinary. Very original.”

Wig: Down on his neck.

Keesje, the Butcher’s Boy: “In Praise of the Teacher.”My father has slaughtered many a steer,But Master Pennewip is still living, I hear;Some are lean, and some are well-fed,He has slipped his wig to the side of his head.

My father has slaughtered many a steer,

But Master Pennewip is still living, I hear;

Some are lean, and some are well-fed,

He has slipped his wig to the side of his head.

The wig actually went to the side of his head.

“Well, this is curious. I hardly know what to say about it.”

The wig slipped to the other side.

“What’s the connection between me and steers?”

The wig protested vigorously against any implication of relationship with steers.

“H—mm! Can it be that this is what our new-fangled writers call humour?”

The wig sank down to his eyebrows, which signified doubt.

“I will call up the boy and——”

The wig passed again to the zenith, to express its satisfaction with the teacher’s determination to interview the butcher’s boy.

Lucas de Wilde: “Religion.”Religion very nice must be,Much it pleases the people we see.

Religion very nice must be,

Much it pleases the people we see.

“The fundamental idea is very beautiful,” said the teacher, “but it ought to have been developed better.”

The wig noddedacquiescence.

Trudie Gier: “Juffrouw Pennewip.”The path of virtue she shows us each day,And we are glad to go that way;And as there’s nothing to do more fitting,She teaches us sewing, darning and knitting.

The path of virtue she shows us each day,

And we are glad to go that way;

And as there’s nothing to do more fitting,

She teaches us sewing, darning and knitting.

The wig fairly leaped with pleasure, and the curls embraced one another. This out-pouring of Trudie’s heart was borne at once to Juffrouw Pennewip, and was later hung by the fireplace in honor of the poetess and the subject of the poem.

Then followed a sublime poem on God by Klaasje van der Gracht, the son of the Catechist. He was thirteen years old, and had not been vaccinated—out of regard for predestination.

“If only his father didn’t help him!”

The wig was rigid with astonishment.

Louwtje de Wilde: “Friendship.”Friendship very nice must be,Much it pleases the people we see.

Friendship very nice must be,

Much it pleases the people we see.

The wig seemed dissatisfied. The “Religion” of Lucas de Wilde was pulled out and compared with Louwtje’s “Friendship.”

“H—emm. It is possible. Another example of how one thought can originate in two heads at the same time.”

Wimpje de Wilde: “Fishing.”Fishing very——

Fishing very——

“What’s that?”

Yes, really, there it was again:

Fishing very nice must be,Much it pleases the people we see.

Fishing very nice must be,

Much it pleases the people we see.

The wig was moving continually. It looked as if it were fishing too.

The teacher looked hurriedly through the remainingpoems and picked out the offspring of the entire Wilde connection. His worst suspicions were realized. Mietje de Wilde, Kees de Wilde, Piet and Jan de Wilde—all uniformly declared that religion, friendship, fishing, dreaming, cauliflower and deception “very nice must be,” and that they were also very pleasing “to the people we see.” A regular flood of the nice and pleasing.

Now, what do you suppose the wig did? It did the best thing that could be done under the circumstances. More could not be expected of a wig. As soon as it saw the futility of its efforts to comprehend the difference between fishing, friendship, deception, dreams, religion and cauliflower, it merely ignored the whole matter, readjusted itself and assumed an expression of expectancy for what was yet to come.

Leentje de Haas: “Admiral de Ruyter.”Pulling the rope with emotion,To the top of the mast he came,And then he went to the ocean,And won for himself great fame.

Pulling the rope with emotion,

To the top of the mast he came,

And then he went to the ocean,

And won for himself great fame.

And very much more he perfected,Saleh he vanquished, too;A hero he was then elected,With nothing else to do.

And very much more he perfected,

Saleh he vanquished, too;

A hero he was then elected,

With nothing else to do.

The wig lifted itself, the curls applauding enthusiastically. It was evidently pleased.

Grete Wauzer: “The Caterpillar.”The caterpillar, free from care,Crawls on the tree just over there.

The caterpillar, free from care,

Crawls on the tree just over there.

“Descriptive poetry. A daring idea—the caterpillar crawling on the tree free from care.”

Wig: Quiet.

Ah, the pleasure of a wig is short-lived! And how soon was this one—but I will not anticipate. Soon, all too soon, the reader will know the worst.

Walter Pieterse: “A Robber Song.”

“Aha, what’s this? And ‘goodness’? But where has he written on goodness?”

The teacher could scarcely believe his eyes. He turned the sheet of paper over and examined the back side, hoping to discover there some lines on goodness.

Then he saw that on Walter’s sheet there was not a trace of “goodness.”

Oh, wretched wig!

Yes, wretched wig! For after it had suffered as never wig had suffered before, after it had been pulled at and tugged at and martyred in a manner beyond even the imagination of the Wilde family, Master Pennewip snatched it from his head, twisted it convulsively in his hands, stammered a short “Heaven-human-Christian-soul-good-gracious-my-life—how is it possible!” slapped it on his head again, covered it with his venerable cap and burst out the door like one possessed.

He was on his way to Walter’s home, where we shall soon see him arrive. As a conscientious historian, however, it will be my duty first to give an account of the happenings there.

Chapter VIII“Goodness, I’m glad to see you! And so early, too! Leetje, place a chair over there and get the footstool, but be in a hurry, or I’d rather do it myself. And how are you? Juffrouw Laps is coming too, you know—Myntje, you’d better be thinking of your dough and stop combing your head. That girl can’t keep her hands off of her hair when there’s company. But do take a seat—no, not in the corner; there’s a draft there.”There was no more draft in this corner than is usual to corners; but Mrs. Stotter was only a Vrouw, and not a “Juffrouw.” She had no right to the seat of honour; for on all occasions a Juffrouw takes precedence of a Vrouw, just as a Mevrouw takes precedence of a Juffrouw. Everyone must keep his place, especially those in III, 7, b1; or c., where etiquette is observed more closely than at the court of Madrid. The care and anxiety of the mistress of ceremonies make her work most trying, and, too, not merely for Juffrouw Pieterse.“Ah, my dear Juffrouw Pieterse, I was so surprised when Louwie came to invite me, for I had just remarked to Wimpje, who makes caps, you know—no, thank you, Pietje, I don’t care for any just now—I said to Wimpje, I wonder what Juffrouw Pieterse is doing, for I hadn’t heard from you in so long, you know—yes, just throw it aside, it’s my old one; Iknew you wouldn’t mind my wearing my old one—and then Wimpje said——”What Wimpje really said I don’t know. Mrs. Stotter’s garment, which she had described as her “old one,” was removed and placed on the foot of the bed in the back room. The children, who were piled together there like sardines, were duly admonished not to stretch out their feet, lest in doing so they injure Mrs. Stotter’s “old” garment.“And now, my dear, be seated—yes, that’s for us, twice already. Leentje, where are you hiding now? Can’t you hear that somebody is ringing?—It’s probably Juffrouw Zipperman. Juffrouw Zipperman is coming, too, you know.”Again I am at a loss: I don’t know whether it was Juffrouw Zipperman who had rung, or somebody else. But the reader need not scold me for writing a story that I don’t know myself. I cannot be sure whether it was Juffrouw Zipperman this time or Juffrouw Mabbel, from the bakery, or Juffrouw Krummel, whose husband is at the bourse, or Juffrouw Laps—but she didn’t need to ring, as she lived in the house. Anyway, by half past seven the entire company was assembled, and Stoffel was smoking his pipe as if his life depended upon it. Leentje had gone home without her piece of bread and butter. She “could get it to-morrow”; to-day there was “so much to do,” and “one can’t do everything at once, you know.”“And then she got another one right away—don’t you know? One with a wart on her nose.”“Ah, it’s an ordeal one has with girls,” said Juffrouw Pieterse. “Take another piece, don’t waitto be insisted upon; it’s a cake from your own dough.”“Excusez,” said the Juffrouw from the bakery, with a mouth like a rabbit, a style of mouth signifying graciousness and good breeding.“You must eat more, or I shall think you don’t like it.” She had baked it herself.“Then I cannot refuse, Juffrouw Pieterse. Obligé and many thanks.”“And you, Juffrouw Laps, what can I pass you?” Juffrouw Laps selected ginger cake.“Fill the cups, Trudie! Yes, Mrs. Stotter, when you are here you must drink with us. You are welcome to anything we’ve got. Pietje, wipe off a table—such a girl! And now go and look after the baby, and tell her that I don’t want to hear any more noise. Ah, Juffrouw Mabbel, children are a great deal of trouble. And your little Sientje—how is her cough now?”“We’ve got a magnetisier, but that isn’t enough. We must have the clairvoyange of the sonnebule.”“You don’t say so! One can hardly believe it. And when is he coming, the cler—cleek—clar——”“It’s in the nerves, Juffrouw Zipperman. But he has the little nightcap and nightgown, in which she has sweated, you know; and he says that it will come all right now.”“Who would have thought it! What will you do now?”“That’s just it; the sonnebule must tell us what to do.”Juffrouw Laps could not agree to this.“I wouldn’t do it—I wouldn’t do it—not for anythingin the world! I tell you, what God does is all right. Just mark my words!”“Yes, Juffrouw Laps; but the Juffrouw at the provision store did it, and her child is lots better.”“That’s whatyousay, Juffrouw Mabbel, but I tell you there is something in her eye that I don’t like.”“What then, Juffrouw Laps?”“She has a look, a look—and it’s sin—I tell you it is. It’s wrong, it won’t do. What God does is all right.”“Come, Stoffel, talk some. You sit there like a stone. Recite a poem, or tell us something about your school. Would you believe it, Juffrouw Mabbel, he knows a whole poem by heart. And he has memorized all the verbs of the feminine gender.”“Mother, what are you talking about?” said Stoffel, displeased. “Don’t you see I’m smoking?”“Yes, dear, I meant when you were through smoking. Then you can repeat the words. You will be surprised, Juffrouw Zipperman, and wonder where he learned it all. How does it go? ‘I would have been drunk, he would have been drunk’—of course, you know, he was not drunk, it belongs with the verbs. You will kill yourself laughing when he begins. Fill the cups, Trudie, and blow in the spout; there’s a leaf over it.”The reader will not take it amiss, I trust, if I pass over the subsequent history of this leaf, and, too, make some deviations from the text of the conversation during the further course of Juffrouw Pieterse’s tea-evening. Stoffel spun off his conjugations and the ladies fairly shrieked when he related how “he hadbeen drunk” and that “he would be drunk.” Thereupon followed general and particular criticism of the neighbors. The Juffrouw below received her share, as a matter of course: She was absent.Religion and faith play an important part. Juffrouw Laps was for organizing a prayer-class. The preachers of to-day, she insisted, take their work too lightly and don’t sweep out all the corners.“I tell you, it’s in the Bible that man is only man,” she cried; “that’s what I want to tell you. Man must not try to know better than God himself. Salvation comes through grace, and grace through faith; but if a man is not chosen, then he has no grace and can have no faith. That’s the way he is damned, don’t you see? I tell you, it’s just as certain as twice two—understand? And for that reason I want to have a prayer-class. Not for the sake of money or profit—God help me, no! At most just a trifle for the fair, or for New Year. What do you think of the plan, Juffrouw Mabbel?”That lady expressed the opinion that her husband would be opposed to it, for he liked to go out of evenings, and then she must stay in the shop. Besides, it was so difficult to get through with the work. No one could imagine what a laborious occupation baking was.“What do you say, Juffrouw Zipperman? Don’t you think it would be a go? I would serve coffee; and the people could leave something on the saucers. Really, I am not doing it for the money. We would begin with the Old Testament—and then—exercise, you know; practice—understand?”Juffrouw Zipperman thought it would be very nice; but her son-in-law had said that the preachers are paid to do this, and that any additional “exercise” was merely an unnecessary expense.“What do you say to it, Juffrouw Krummel? Don’t you think that such a class—just a small class——”Juffrouw Krummel said she practiced with her husband when he came from the bourse.Juffrouw Laps was now forced to turn to Mrs. Stotter, though she felt that she was letting herself down in appealing to a Vrouw.“Ah, my dear Juffrouw Laps, if you had been a midwife as long as I have you’d take no interest in a prayer-class. Now there is M’neer Littelman in Prince Street. I’ve been at his house—always in respectable houses—and he always said—it’s a house with high steps, and in the hall there’s a big clock about the wind and rain—and he always said: ‘Vrouw Stotter,’ said he, ‘you’re a good woman,’ said he, ‘and a faithful midwife. I always tell the people that,’ said he, ‘and,’ said he, ‘all of my connection must send for you,’ said he, ‘but,’ said he, ‘when people tell you this you must act as if you didn’t hear it’—thank you, Juffrouw Pieterse, my cup is turned over. Just as I said: Everyone must know what he’s doing.”“But just a little exercise like that, Mrs. Stotter!”“It’s possible, it’s possible. But I’ve had so much experience in such things. I go my own way; and that’s the best way, too. For I’ve been in the home of M’neer Witte, who has an uncle in congress—for I always go to respectable places—and he always said, because he’s so funny: ‘Child-woman, child-woman,you’re nothing but a child-woman.’ I was just going to say that I know what I’m doing, for I’ve seen a lot in my life. There’s M’neer—what’s his name? There in Prince Street—no, no,Market Square. Oh, what is his name!”The reader will have noticed that Mrs. Stotter digressed from the theme. But other folk do the same.“And Juffrouw Pieterse, what do you think of the idea? Just a little exercise.”“Ah, my dear, I have exercise enough with my children. You don’t know what it means to bring up nine. I always worship with the children, for the Bible says—Trudie, go to the baby; I hear her again.”There was something noble in Trudie’s gait as she walked into that back room. One could see that she felt flattered by the transmission to her of maternal dignity. Little Kee, the baby, was less flattered.“What were we talking about? Yes, that is my religious service. The children keep me busy. You don’t know anything about it; if I bring them up properly—run, Pietje, and straighten out Simon. He’s pinching his sister again; he always does it when there’s company.”Simon was straightened out.“Whenever we have company the children behave so badly. There it goes again. Myntje, go and see what’s the matter and tell them to go to sleep.”Myntje went, returning immediately with the report that they had “turned something over.”General indignation. Angry message from the Juffrouw below. It was unpleasant for the Juffrouw below when the children of the Juffrouw above turnedover things and flooded the back room. Terrible excitement.Finally the children were straightened out.Juffrouw Zipperman again sat in the corner where there was such a “draft.” This only goes to show that earthly greatness has its dark side, and that a son-in-law in the insurance business entitles one to rheumatism.Juffrouw Laps was greatly pleased with the hearty manner in which punishment was meted out to the children. It was exactly according to Scripture, she said; and then she cited a text or two in which the rod was prescribed. It’s in the Bible somewhere, I don’t know where. The Bible mentions everything, and the “rod” especially.“Now, Stoffel,” said the hostess sweetly, “recite something for us.” She wanted to show that her children could do something else besides pinch and turn things over.“I don’t know anything,” said Stoffel, but without a trace of Socratic arrogance.“Just say for us what you said the other day. Come, Stoffel. That’s the way he always is, Juffrouw Mabbel. One has to pull him up on his feet before he will do anything. But then he goes all right. Forward, Stoffel! He’s tired now. Teaching in such a school is hard work. Yes, Juffrouw, he’s as smart as he can be. Would you believe it? All words are either masculine or feminine. Aren’t they, Stoffel?”“No, mother.”“No? But—and the other day you said—it’s only to get him started, you know, Juffrouw Zipperman,it takes a little time, because he’s worn out with his school work—but you said that all words——”“No, mother. Masculine, feminine or neuter, I said.”“Yes, and still more,” said Juffrouw Pieterse. “You will be astonished when you hear him. What do you suppose you are, Juffrouw Krummel?”“I? What I am?”“Yes, yes, what you are—what you really are.”“I am Juffrouw Krummel,” she said, but doubtfully; for she read in the triumphant look of Juffrouw Pieterse and the tightly closed lips of Stoffel that she might easily be something entirely different from Juffrouw Krummel.The tension did not need to be farther increased; so Juffrouw Pieterse passed now from the special to the general. Her glance took in the entire company.“And you, too, Juffrouw Mabbel; and you, Juffrouw Laps; and you, Juffrouw Zipperman; and you, Mrs. Stotter—what do you all think you are?”No one knew.This will not be surprising to anyone who knows how difficult knowledge of the “self” is; but Stoffel had something else in mind. There was a deeper meaning involved.Juffrouw Laps was the first to answer, and she spoke with proud self-sufficiency:“I am Juffrouw Laps!”“Wrong, wrong—entirely wrong!”“But for Heaven sake, am I not Juffrouw Laps?”“Y-e-s. Of course you are Juffrouw Laps; butStoffel didn’t ask who you were, but what you were. There’s the fine point.”“What I am? I’m Dutch Reform!”“Y-e-s. That you are, too; but—it isn’t that. The question is, Whatareyou? Help her out, Stoffel.”Between puffs of smoke, and with the air of a professor, Stoffel proceeded to “help”:“Juffrouw Laps, I wished to know what you were from a zoölogical standpoint.”“I won’t have anything more to do with it,” said Juffrouw Laps in the tone of one who feels that he is going to be insulted.“I am a midwife,” said Mrs. Stotter, “and I’m going to stick to it.”“And I am the baker’s wife,” cried Juffrouw Mabbel, with a positiveness in her tone which showed her intention to hold to this opinion.“Certainly, certainly, Juffrouw Mabbel; but I mean from a zoölogical standpoint.”“If it’s going to be indecent, I prefer to go home.”“I, too,” added Juffrouwen Krummel and Zipperman. “We came here to be entertained.”“But you’re not going to get angry about it! I tell you, it’s in the book, Stoffel—you will laugh when you hear it, Juffrouw Mabbel; and the best part of it is, that it’s in the book, and one can’t say anything against it. Tell her, Stoffel!”“Juffrouw Laps,” said Stoffel with dignity—an important moment in Juffrouw Pieterse’s tea-evening had arrived—“Juffrouw Laps, you are asucking animal.”I admit frankly that I cannot adequately describethe crisis that followed these two words. If Stoffel had only said mammal, perhaps then my task would have been easier.Juffrouw Laps’s face took on all the different colors that are generally supposed to express anger. She had been attacked more openly than the others, it is true; but her attitude toward the prayer-class would go to show that she was naturally polemical.In French novels people used to turn green; but Juffrouw Laps did not read French, so she stopped at a terrible violet and screamed—no, she didn’t. She didn’t scream anything; for she was choking for breath. But she did pulverize that piece of ginger cake; and she looked at Stoffel and his mother in a manner that would have been most damaging for her if those two persons had happened to die that night.Imitating the trick of the cuttle-fish, no doubt unconsciously, Stoffel managed to escape this fatal stare by enveloping himself in a heavy cloud of smoke. Juffrouw Pieterse, however, not being a smoker, was at the mercy of Juffrouw Laps. She stammered humbly: “It’s in the book, really it’s in the book. Don’t be angry, it’s in the book.”By this time Juffrouw Laps was getting a little air, so much that there was now no danger of her suffocating. She threw the mutilated remains of the ginger cake on the table and began:“Juffrouw Pieterse, you are nothing but a low, vile, filthy—you may even be a sucking animal, you and your son too. I want you to understand that I’ve always been respectable. My father sold grain, and nobody’s ever been able to say anything against me!Ask everybody about me—if I’ve ever run with men-folk, and such things; and if I haven’t always paid my debts. He was manager I would have you understand, and we lived over the chapter-house, for he was in the grain business, and you can ask about me there. Thank God, you can ask about me everywhere—do you hear? But never, never, never, has such a thing happened to me. What you put on me! If it wasn’t for lowering myself I’d tell you what I think of you—you sucking animal, you and your son and your whole family. My father sold grain, and I’m toorespectablefor you to——”“But—it’s in the book that way. For God’s sake believe me; it’s in the book.”“Just hold your lip about your book. Anybody who sells God’s holy word on the Ouwebrug needn’t talk to me about books.”This accusation was false; for Walter, and not his mother, had sold the Bible; but this was no time for such fine distinctions.“Stoffel, go get the book and show Juffrouw—my God, what shall I do!”“Go to the Devil with your book and your sucking animals. You’ve got nothing to show in your book. I know you—and your lout of a son, and your wenches of daughters, that are growing up like——”Truitje, Myntje and Pietje, understanding from this that there was something radically wrong with their growth, began to screech too. Other members of the party bawled a word from time to time, as opportunity presented itself. Then came another message from the Juffrouw below. This time she threatened tocall in the police. The children, taking advantage of the general excitement to break the ban under which they had been placed, had left the bed and were now listening at the keyhole. Juffrouw Pieterse was calling for the camphor bottle, declaring that she was going to die; Mrs. Stotter was clamoring for her wrap—her “old one”; and Stoffel was playing cuttle-fish as well as he could.All had got up and were going to leave. They could “put up with a good deal,” but that was “too much”! Juffrouw Krummel was going to tell her husband; Juffrouw Zipperman was going to let everybody in the insurance business know about it; Mrs. Stotter was going to relate the whole story to the gentleman in Prince Street; and Juffrouw Mabbel—I forget whom she was going to tell it all to. In short, every one of them was going to see to it that the affair was well aired.Who knows but what these threats would have been carried out, if the good genius of the Pieterses had not at that moment caused someone to ring the door-bell? It was that worthy gentleman whom we left in such a state of pious despair at the close of the last chapter.

“Goodness, I’m glad to see you! And so early, too! Leetje, place a chair over there and get the footstool, but be in a hurry, or I’d rather do it myself. And how are you? Juffrouw Laps is coming too, you know—Myntje, you’d better be thinking of your dough and stop combing your head. That girl can’t keep her hands off of her hair when there’s company. But do take a seat—no, not in the corner; there’s a draft there.”

There was no more draft in this corner than is usual to corners; but Mrs. Stotter was only a Vrouw, and not a “Juffrouw.” She had no right to the seat of honour; for on all occasions a Juffrouw takes precedence of a Vrouw, just as a Mevrouw takes precedence of a Juffrouw. Everyone must keep his place, especially those in III, 7, b1; or c., where etiquette is observed more closely than at the court of Madrid. The care and anxiety of the mistress of ceremonies make her work most trying, and, too, not merely for Juffrouw Pieterse.

“Ah, my dear Juffrouw Pieterse, I was so surprised when Louwie came to invite me, for I had just remarked to Wimpje, who makes caps, you know—no, thank you, Pietje, I don’t care for any just now—I said to Wimpje, I wonder what Juffrouw Pieterse is doing, for I hadn’t heard from you in so long, you know—yes, just throw it aside, it’s my old one; Iknew you wouldn’t mind my wearing my old one—and then Wimpje said——”

What Wimpje really said I don’t know. Mrs. Stotter’s garment, which she had described as her “old one,” was removed and placed on the foot of the bed in the back room. The children, who were piled together there like sardines, were duly admonished not to stretch out their feet, lest in doing so they injure Mrs. Stotter’s “old” garment.

“And now, my dear, be seated—yes, that’s for us, twice already. Leentje, where are you hiding now? Can’t you hear that somebody is ringing?—It’s probably Juffrouw Zipperman. Juffrouw Zipperman is coming, too, you know.”

Again I am at a loss: I don’t know whether it was Juffrouw Zipperman who had rung, or somebody else. But the reader need not scold me for writing a story that I don’t know myself. I cannot be sure whether it was Juffrouw Zipperman this time or Juffrouw Mabbel, from the bakery, or Juffrouw Krummel, whose husband is at the bourse, or Juffrouw Laps—but she didn’t need to ring, as she lived in the house. Anyway, by half past seven the entire company was assembled, and Stoffel was smoking his pipe as if his life depended upon it. Leentje had gone home without her piece of bread and butter. She “could get it to-morrow”; to-day there was “so much to do,” and “one can’t do everything at once, you know.”

“And then she got another one right away—don’t you know? One with a wart on her nose.”

“Ah, it’s an ordeal one has with girls,” said Juffrouw Pieterse. “Take another piece, don’t waitto be insisted upon; it’s a cake from your own dough.”

“Excusez,” said the Juffrouw from the bakery, with a mouth like a rabbit, a style of mouth signifying graciousness and good breeding.

“You must eat more, or I shall think you don’t like it.” She had baked it herself.

“Then I cannot refuse, Juffrouw Pieterse. Obligé and many thanks.”

“And you, Juffrouw Laps, what can I pass you?” Juffrouw Laps selected ginger cake.

“Fill the cups, Trudie! Yes, Mrs. Stotter, when you are here you must drink with us. You are welcome to anything we’ve got. Pietje, wipe off a table—such a girl! And now go and look after the baby, and tell her that I don’t want to hear any more noise. Ah, Juffrouw Mabbel, children are a great deal of trouble. And your little Sientje—how is her cough now?”

“We’ve got a magnetisier, but that isn’t enough. We must have the clairvoyange of the sonnebule.”

“You don’t say so! One can hardly believe it. And when is he coming, the cler—cleek—clar——”

“It’s in the nerves, Juffrouw Zipperman. But he has the little nightcap and nightgown, in which she has sweated, you know; and he says that it will come all right now.”

“Who would have thought it! What will you do now?”

“That’s just it; the sonnebule must tell us what to do.”

Juffrouw Laps could not agree to this.

“I wouldn’t do it—I wouldn’t do it—not for anythingin the world! I tell you, what God does is all right. Just mark my words!”

“Yes, Juffrouw Laps; but the Juffrouw at the provision store did it, and her child is lots better.”

“That’s whatyousay, Juffrouw Mabbel, but I tell you there is something in her eye that I don’t like.”

“What then, Juffrouw Laps?”

“She has a look, a look—and it’s sin—I tell you it is. It’s wrong, it won’t do. What God does is all right.”

“Come, Stoffel, talk some. You sit there like a stone. Recite a poem, or tell us something about your school. Would you believe it, Juffrouw Mabbel, he knows a whole poem by heart. And he has memorized all the verbs of the feminine gender.”

“Mother, what are you talking about?” said Stoffel, displeased. “Don’t you see I’m smoking?”

“Yes, dear, I meant when you were through smoking. Then you can repeat the words. You will be surprised, Juffrouw Zipperman, and wonder where he learned it all. How does it go? ‘I would have been drunk, he would have been drunk’—of course, you know, he was not drunk, it belongs with the verbs. You will kill yourself laughing when he begins. Fill the cups, Trudie, and blow in the spout; there’s a leaf over it.”

The reader will not take it amiss, I trust, if I pass over the subsequent history of this leaf, and, too, make some deviations from the text of the conversation during the further course of Juffrouw Pieterse’s tea-evening. Stoffel spun off his conjugations and the ladies fairly shrieked when he related how “he hadbeen drunk” and that “he would be drunk.” Thereupon followed general and particular criticism of the neighbors. The Juffrouw below received her share, as a matter of course: She was absent.

Religion and faith play an important part. Juffrouw Laps was for organizing a prayer-class. The preachers of to-day, she insisted, take their work too lightly and don’t sweep out all the corners.

“I tell you, it’s in the Bible that man is only man,” she cried; “that’s what I want to tell you. Man must not try to know better than God himself. Salvation comes through grace, and grace through faith; but if a man is not chosen, then he has no grace and can have no faith. That’s the way he is damned, don’t you see? I tell you, it’s just as certain as twice two—understand? And for that reason I want to have a prayer-class. Not for the sake of money or profit—God help me, no! At most just a trifle for the fair, or for New Year. What do you think of the plan, Juffrouw Mabbel?”

That lady expressed the opinion that her husband would be opposed to it, for he liked to go out of evenings, and then she must stay in the shop. Besides, it was so difficult to get through with the work. No one could imagine what a laborious occupation baking was.

“What do you say, Juffrouw Zipperman? Don’t you think it would be a go? I would serve coffee; and the people could leave something on the saucers. Really, I am not doing it for the money. We would begin with the Old Testament—and then—exercise, you know; practice—understand?”

Juffrouw Zipperman thought it would be very nice; but her son-in-law had said that the preachers are paid to do this, and that any additional “exercise” was merely an unnecessary expense.

“What do you say to it, Juffrouw Krummel? Don’t you think that such a class—just a small class——”

Juffrouw Krummel said she practiced with her husband when he came from the bourse.

Juffrouw Laps was now forced to turn to Mrs. Stotter, though she felt that she was letting herself down in appealing to a Vrouw.

“Ah, my dear Juffrouw Laps, if you had been a midwife as long as I have you’d take no interest in a prayer-class. Now there is M’neer Littelman in Prince Street. I’ve been at his house—always in respectable houses—and he always said—it’s a house with high steps, and in the hall there’s a big clock about the wind and rain—and he always said: ‘Vrouw Stotter,’ said he, ‘you’re a good woman,’ said he, ‘and a faithful midwife. I always tell the people that,’ said he, ‘and,’ said he, ‘all of my connection must send for you,’ said he, ‘but,’ said he, ‘when people tell you this you must act as if you didn’t hear it’—thank you, Juffrouw Pieterse, my cup is turned over. Just as I said: Everyone must know what he’s doing.”

“But just a little exercise like that, Mrs. Stotter!”

“It’s possible, it’s possible. But I’ve had so much experience in such things. I go my own way; and that’s the best way, too. For I’ve been in the home of M’neer Witte, who has an uncle in congress—for I always go to respectable places—and he always said, because he’s so funny: ‘Child-woman, child-woman,you’re nothing but a child-woman.’ I was just going to say that I know what I’m doing, for I’ve seen a lot in my life. There’s M’neer—what’s his name? There in Prince Street—no, no,Market Square. Oh, what is his name!”

The reader will have noticed that Mrs. Stotter digressed from the theme. But other folk do the same.

“And Juffrouw Pieterse, what do you think of the idea? Just a little exercise.”

“Ah, my dear, I have exercise enough with my children. You don’t know what it means to bring up nine. I always worship with the children, for the Bible says—Trudie, go to the baby; I hear her again.”

There was something noble in Trudie’s gait as she walked into that back room. One could see that she felt flattered by the transmission to her of maternal dignity. Little Kee, the baby, was less flattered.

“What were we talking about? Yes, that is my religious service. The children keep me busy. You don’t know anything about it; if I bring them up properly—run, Pietje, and straighten out Simon. He’s pinching his sister again; he always does it when there’s company.”

Simon was straightened out.

“Whenever we have company the children behave so badly. There it goes again. Myntje, go and see what’s the matter and tell them to go to sleep.”

Myntje went, returning immediately with the report that they had “turned something over.”

General indignation. Angry message from the Juffrouw below. It was unpleasant for the Juffrouw below when the children of the Juffrouw above turnedover things and flooded the back room. Terrible excitement.

Finally the children were straightened out.

Juffrouw Zipperman again sat in the corner where there was such a “draft.” This only goes to show that earthly greatness has its dark side, and that a son-in-law in the insurance business entitles one to rheumatism.

Juffrouw Laps was greatly pleased with the hearty manner in which punishment was meted out to the children. It was exactly according to Scripture, she said; and then she cited a text or two in which the rod was prescribed. It’s in the Bible somewhere, I don’t know where. The Bible mentions everything, and the “rod” especially.

“Now, Stoffel,” said the hostess sweetly, “recite something for us.” She wanted to show that her children could do something else besides pinch and turn things over.

“I don’t know anything,” said Stoffel, but without a trace of Socratic arrogance.

“Just say for us what you said the other day. Come, Stoffel. That’s the way he always is, Juffrouw Mabbel. One has to pull him up on his feet before he will do anything. But then he goes all right. Forward, Stoffel! He’s tired now. Teaching in such a school is hard work. Yes, Juffrouw, he’s as smart as he can be. Would you believe it? All words are either masculine or feminine. Aren’t they, Stoffel?”

“No, mother.”

“No? But—and the other day you said—it’s only to get him started, you know, Juffrouw Zipperman,it takes a little time, because he’s worn out with his school work—but you said that all words——”

“No, mother. Masculine, feminine or neuter, I said.”

“Yes, and still more,” said Juffrouw Pieterse. “You will be astonished when you hear him. What do you suppose you are, Juffrouw Krummel?”

“I? What I am?”

“Yes, yes, what you are—what you really are.”

“I am Juffrouw Krummel,” she said, but doubtfully; for she read in the triumphant look of Juffrouw Pieterse and the tightly closed lips of Stoffel that she might easily be something entirely different from Juffrouw Krummel.

The tension did not need to be farther increased; so Juffrouw Pieterse passed now from the special to the general. Her glance took in the entire company.

“And you, too, Juffrouw Mabbel; and you, Juffrouw Laps; and you, Juffrouw Zipperman; and you, Mrs. Stotter—what do you all think you are?”

No one knew.

This will not be surprising to anyone who knows how difficult knowledge of the “self” is; but Stoffel had something else in mind. There was a deeper meaning involved.

Juffrouw Laps was the first to answer, and she spoke with proud self-sufficiency:

“I am Juffrouw Laps!”

“Wrong, wrong—entirely wrong!”

“But for Heaven sake, am I not Juffrouw Laps?”

“Y-e-s. Of course you are Juffrouw Laps; butStoffel didn’t ask who you were, but what you were. There’s the fine point.”

“What I am? I’m Dutch Reform!”

“Y-e-s. That you are, too; but—it isn’t that. The question is, Whatareyou? Help her out, Stoffel.”

Between puffs of smoke, and with the air of a professor, Stoffel proceeded to “help”:

“Juffrouw Laps, I wished to know what you were from a zoölogical standpoint.”

“I won’t have anything more to do with it,” said Juffrouw Laps in the tone of one who feels that he is going to be insulted.

“I am a midwife,” said Mrs. Stotter, “and I’m going to stick to it.”

“And I am the baker’s wife,” cried Juffrouw Mabbel, with a positiveness in her tone which showed her intention to hold to this opinion.

“Certainly, certainly, Juffrouw Mabbel; but I mean from a zoölogical standpoint.”

“If it’s going to be indecent, I prefer to go home.”

“I, too,” added Juffrouwen Krummel and Zipperman. “We came here to be entertained.”

“But you’re not going to get angry about it! I tell you, it’s in the book, Stoffel—you will laugh when you hear it, Juffrouw Mabbel; and the best part of it is, that it’s in the book, and one can’t say anything against it. Tell her, Stoffel!”

“Juffrouw Laps,” said Stoffel with dignity—an important moment in Juffrouw Pieterse’s tea-evening had arrived—“Juffrouw Laps, you are asucking animal.”

I admit frankly that I cannot adequately describethe crisis that followed these two words. If Stoffel had only said mammal, perhaps then my task would have been easier.

Juffrouw Laps’s face took on all the different colors that are generally supposed to express anger. She had been attacked more openly than the others, it is true; but her attitude toward the prayer-class would go to show that she was naturally polemical.

In French novels people used to turn green; but Juffrouw Laps did not read French, so she stopped at a terrible violet and screamed—no, she didn’t. She didn’t scream anything; for she was choking for breath. But she did pulverize that piece of ginger cake; and she looked at Stoffel and his mother in a manner that would have been most damaging for her if those two persons had happened to die that night.

Imitating the trick of the cuttle-fish, no doubt unconsciously, Stoffel managed to escape this fatal stare by enveloping himself in a heavy cloud of smoke. Juffrouw Pieterse, however, not being a smoker, was at the mercy of Juffrouw Laps. She stammered humbly: “It’s in the book, really it’s in the book. Don’t be angry, it’s in the book.”

By this time Juffrouw Laps was getting a little air, so much that there was now no danger of her suffocating. She threw the mutilated remains of the ginger cake on the table and began:

“Juffrouw Pieterse, you are nothing but a low, vile, filthy—you may even be a sucking animal, you and your son too. I want you to understand that I’ve always been respectable. My father sold grain, and nobody’s ever been able to say anything against me!Ask everybody about me—if I’ve ever run with men-folk, and such things; and if I haven’t always paid my debts. He was manager I would have you understand, and we lived over the chapter-house, for he was in the grain business, and you can ask about me there. Thank God, you can ask about me everywhere—do you hear? But never, never, never, has such a thing happened to me. What you put on me! If it wasn’t for lowering myself I’d tell you what I think of you—you sucking animal, you and your son and your whole family. My father sold grain, and I’m toorespectablefor you to——”

“But—it’s in the book that way. For God’s sake believe me; it’s in the book.”

“Just hold your lip about your book. Anybody who sells God’s holy word on the Ouwebrug needn’t talk to me about books.”

This accusation was false; for Walter, and not his mother, had sold the Bible; but this was no time for such fine distinctions.

“Stoffel, go get the book and show Juffrouw—my God, what shall I do!”

“Go to the Devil with your book and your sucking animals. You’ve got nothing to show in your book. I know you—and your lout of a son, and your wenches of daughters, that are growing up like——”

Truitje, Myntje and Pietje, understanding from this that there was something radically wrong with their growth, began to screech too. Other members of the party bawled a word from time to time, as opportunity presented itself. Then came another message from the Juffrouw below. This time she threatened tocall in the police. The children, taking advantage of the general excitement to break the ban under which they had been placed, had left the bed and were now listening at the keyhole. Juffrouw Pieterse was calling for the camphor bottle, declaring that she was going to die; Mrs. Stotter was clamoring for her wrap—her “old one”; and Stoffel was playing cuttle-fish as well as he could.

All had got up and were going to leave. They could “put up with a good deal,” but that was “too much”! Juffrouw Krummel was going to tell her husband; Juffrouw Zipperman was going to let everybody in the insurance business know about it; Mrs. Stotter was going to relate the whole story to the gentleman in Prince Street; and Juffrouw Mabbel—I forget whom she was going to tell it all to. In short, every one of them was going to see to it that the affair was well aired.

Who knows but what these threats would have been carried out, if the good genius of the Pieterses had not at that moment caused someone to ring the door-bell? It was that worthy gentleman whom we left in such a state of pious despair at the close of the last chapter.

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