Chapter XV

Chapter XVThe moon paused on the sky, as if she were weary of her lonely lot. Was she grieved because ungrateful humanity had fallen asleep and was ignoring her?—or because of the light borrowed from her for thousands of years, and none returned? She poured forth her sorrow in heart-breaking noiseless elegies till the night-wind was moved to pity. Whish! he went through the trees; and the leaves danced. Crash! he went over the roof; and the tiles flew away, and chimneys bowed meekly; and over the walls and ditches the sawmills danced with the logs they were to saw. There a girl sat sleeping. Could it be Femke? The linen danced about her to the music of the wind, the shirts making graceful bows and extending their sleeves. Nightcaps, dickeys and drawers danced the minuet; stockings, skirts, collars, handkerchiefs waltzed thicker and thicker around the sleeping girl. Her curls began to flutter—a smile, a sigh, and she sprang to her feet. A whirlwind caught her up and——“O, heavens, Femke, Femke!” and Walter grasped at the apparition that was being borne away towards the moon in a cloud of stockings, socks, drawers, shirts and collars.“Mother! Walter’s pinching me,” cried Laurens,the printer’s apprentice; and Juffrouw Pieterse groaned, that those boys couldn’t even keep quiet at night.The “House of Pieterse” gathered at Walter’s bed. There was the noble mother of the family enveloped in a venerable jacket that fell in broad folds over a black woolen skirt. There was Trudie, with her stupid blue eyes; and Myntje and Pietje—but what am I talking about? In the new home Trudie had become Gertrude, like a morganatic princess in Hessia; and Myntje was now Mina, but preferred to be called Mine, as that sounded more Frenchy. But her stupid face remained unchanged. Pietje was now Pietro. Stoffel had said that was a very swell name.Stoffel, too, had now appeared on the scene, to the great astonishment of his mother, who expected so much of him. This fine sense of propriety had been developed in the new home.“What’s the matter with you, boy?” cried everybody at once.“Oh, mother, Femke—Femke!”“The boy is foolish.” That was the unanimous verdict of the family.And they were not altogether wrong. Walter was delirious.“They are carrying her away—around and around—Daughter of the Sun, decide—here is Telasco—thou shalt die, Aztalpa—Femke, stay, stay, I will watch the clothes—I will shoot the doe—a widower of God—together through the ivory gate—there she is again—stay, Omicron!”“Ought we to call in a preacher?” asked JuffrouwPieterse hesitatingly. She didn’t know whether praying was needed or a whipping—or both.And now, perhaps for the first time in his life, Stoffel expressed a sensible thought: “Mother, we ought to have a doctor. Walter is sick.”Walter had nervous fever. It was fortunate for him that a doctor was called in, and still more fortunate that it was a man who understood Walter’s mental troubles. He exerted a most wholesome influence on the boy; though this came later, as at first he could only treat the disease.On Juffrouw Pieterse, too, he had a good influence. To her great astonishment, he explained to her that children ought not to be packed together in a bed as if they were superfluous pieces of furniture being thrown aside; that air, light, play, enjoyment, exercise are all necessary for the development of body and soul; that whipping does no good, and that she had better dispense with her “divine worship.” He told her of other things she had never heard of; and she listened willingly, for the doctor——“Ah, dear Juffrouw Laps, you must manage to be here when he comes. He writes the prescriptions with a gold pen; and his coachman wears a brown bear-skin cape.”That gold pen and the bear-skin cape! Ah, if everyone who preaches truth could only dress up his coachman so swell! But alas, alas—I know a great many people who love the truth, and they have no coachman at all—not to mention the bear-skin.And gold pens often get into the wrong hands.“I just wanted Juffrouw Zipperman to come sometimewhen the doctor’s here. Run and tell her, Gertrude, that I said Walter was sick, and say that we have lunch about twelve. He came about that time yesterday. And Leentje, you go to the grocer’s—we need salt—have something to say about it—it’s not just to be gossiping, you know—I despise gossip—but I would like to know if the people have noticed it. And you, Pietro, remember that you are to give me a clean cap when he comes—for the doctor is such an elegant gentleman, and such a doctor! And all that he said—I drank it all in. Mina, you mustn’t stare at him again like that; it’s not proper. But I’m curious to know if the people at the grocer’s have seen him!”I shouldn’t like to be severe on her; but it seems to me that Juffrouw Pieterse was gradually beginning to take pleasure in Walter’s illness.There is something swell in having such a carriage standing before one’s door.Juffrouw Laps had come: “But dear Juffrouw Pieterse, what am I to do about my uncle? You are invited; and I have told him that there will be a poem.”“Very bad, Juffrouw Laps. You can see though that that poor worm can’t write the poem. What about Stoffel? Why not ask him to write it?”“It’s all right with me. Just so it’s a poem; otherwise I’m disgraced.”Stoffel was requested to take Walter’s place, but he raised objections at once.“You don’t know what that would mean, mother. I would lose the respect of the boys. For anyone working with youth, respect is the main thing; and such a poem——”“But the boys at school need not know it.”“But the man would tell somebody and then—you don’t understand it. At the Diaconate school there was a fellow who wrote verses; and what has become of him? He went to India, mother, and he still owes me for half a bottle of ink. That’s the way it goes, mother. For me to write such a poem? No, no, mother—for a boy like Walter it’s all right; but when one is already a teacher!”“And Master Pennewip?” cried Juffrouw Laps.“The very man!” cried Stoffel, as if this supported his former argument. “A happy thought! Master Pennewip will do it.”“I’ve read a poem by him, Stoffel.”“Yes, yes. And you’ve read a poem by him. That’s because—but how shall I explain that to you, Juffrouw Laps? You know that in teaching there are all kinds of things. Take Geography, for example. I will just mention one fact: Madrid is on the Manganares. Understand, mother?”“Yes, yes, Stoffel. That’s just as if you were to say——”“Amsterdam on the Y. Exactly so. And then there are many, many more things, Juffrouw Laps. You have no idea how much there is of it. A grocer mixes sugar with something else. He must calculate exactly what he must get for a pound in order not to lose money. Think of it! And then you have partnership, and breakage, and the verbs—but I must go before those rascals break everything.”Stoffel returned to school earlier than usual, without having diminished Juffrouw Laps’s difficulties verymuch. That poor woman could not comprehend how geography and Madrid and the grocer and partnerships made it impossible for Stoffel to write verses. Juffrouw Pieterse smoothed the matter over as well as she could and sent Juffrouw Laps to Master Pennewip.That gentleman was alarmed when he saw the angry “sucking animal,” but he quieted down as soon as he heard the object of her visit.“To what class does your uncle belong, Juffrouw?”“Why, to the class—you mean the mussel-shells and eggs?”“No, no, Juffrouw, I mean on which rung of the ladder is he—how high up. I repeat it, on what rung—it’s a figure, Juffrouw—on what rung of the social ladder?”“In the grain business? Is that what you mean?”“That is not sufficient, Juffrouw Laps. One may be in the grain business as a pastry cook, a baker, a retailer, a wholesaler, or as a broker; and all these vocations have their peculiar sub-divisions. Take Joseph in Egypt, for example. This man of God, whom some place in the class of patriarchs, while others claim—but let that be as it may. It is certain that Joseph bought corn and was on the topmost rung of the ladder, for we read in Genesis, chapter 41——”“Yes, indeed, he rode in Pharaoh’s carriage, and he wore a white silk coat. My uncle is an agent, and my father was the same.”“So-o-oo? Agent! That’s something Moses doesn’t mention, and I don’t know in what class——” He spoke slowly, puzzling over his words.“Besides, my uncle is a widower.”“Ah, there we have the difference! We read that Joseph wooed Asnath, the daughter of Potiphar; but nowhere do we read that his spouse was already dead when he went into the corn business. Therefore, Juffrouw Laps, if it is your earnest desire to have a pious poem written on your uncle, I advise you to go to my pupil, Klaasje van der Gracht.”He explained to her where that prodigy might be found.Again I must beg pardon if my criticism of Pennewip is too severe; but he gave me reasons enough to harbor ugly suspicions against him. I am convinced that he would have written that poem for Juffrouw Laps if her uncle had received a white silk coat from the king, or had ever driven through The Hague in a royal carriage. But to sing an agent in verse! He would leave that to the genius of “the flying tea-kettle” in the Peperstraat. That was not nice of Pennewip. Was that uncle to blame because his brothers never threw him into a well? or sold him into Egypt? Or because he couldn’t interpret dreams? Or because cleverness is not rewarded to-day with rings, white coats, carriages and high official position?Juffrouw Laps footed it over to the Peperstraat, where she made the acquaintance of the elder van der Gracht. The old gentleman felt flattered.He was most gracious, and assured the Juffrouw that the poem should be written that very evening. Klaasje could bring it over the next morning and repeat it to Juffrouw Laps, and if it were found worthy as an expression of her feelings toward her uncle, thenKlaasje was to be invited to be present on that evening. The father assured her that Klaasje would wear a white stand-up collar.“Just like Joseph,” said the Juffrouw. “Everything is in the Bible.”When she got home she read the forty-first chapter of Genesis, trying to find the relation of Klaasje’s apotheosis to Joseph’s exaltation. That night she dreamed she had a mantle in her hand.Chapter XVIIt was the afternoon of the day on which Juffrouw Laps sought out Klaasje van der Gracht, and Walter was lying in bed, still weak but no longer delirious. The doctor had ordered rest and quiet. The child counted the flowers in the curtain, and, in his imagination tried to arrange them in some other order. He allowed them to jump over one another, or flow into one another. He saw in them faces, forms, armies, clouds—and all were alive and moving. It was tiresome, but he couldn’t do anything else. If he turned his face toward the wall it was still worse. The hieroglyphic scratches on the wall told him all sorts of things that he didn’t need to know and overwhelmed him with unnecessary impressions. He closed his eyes; but still he found no rest. It seemed to him as if he were being swept away to take part in that entertainment that the night-wind gave the moon. Everything was turning round and round, taking him along. He seized his head in both hands, as if he would stop his imagination by main strength; but it was useless. The curtains, the cords, the wall, the flowers, the dance, the whirlwind that tore Femke away—his efforts to hold her——The boy burst into tears. He knew that it was all imagination; he knew that he was sick; he knew thatchimneys don’t dance, and that girls are not blown to the moon; and yet——Weeping he called Femke’s name softly, not loud enough to be heard by the others, but loud enough to relieve his own depression.“What’s that?” he cried suddenly. “Does she answer? Is that imagination, too?”Actually, Walter heard his name called, and it was Femke’s voice!“I must know whether I’m dreaming, or not,” he said, and straightened himself up in bed. “That is a red flower, that is a black one, I am Walter, Laurens is a printer’s apprentice—everything is all right; and I’m not dreaming.”He leaned out of bed and listened again, his mouth and eyes as wide open as he could get them, as if the senses of taste and sight were going to reinforce that of hearing.“O, God! Femke’s voice! Yes, yes, it is Femke!” He jumped out of bed, ran out the door, and half ran, half fell down the steps.To return to Femke for a little while. She had expected Walter at the bridge the next day after the story of the sun-worshipers. At first she thought that Walter was waiting till he could borrow from Stoffel the book with the picture showing Aztalpa embracing the two brothers. She wanted to see Walter with the picture; now she would have been satisfied with him without the picture. It couldn’t be the boy’s person, she thought—such a child!—but he did recite so well. Perhaps in the heart of the girl Walter and his recitals had already coalesced.“Put the clothes in the sun,” cried her mother; and Femke translated that: Sun—Peru—Aztalpa—Kusco—Walter.“Run those fighters away; they’ll throw dirt on the clothes.”Femke dreamed: Courageously fighting against the enemies of the country—the noblest tribe of the Incas—Telasco—Walter.Everything seemed to be calling for Walter; but he did not come.The first day she was sad; the second, impatient; the third, restless.“Mother, I’m going to see what’s become of the little boy who was going to write a poem.”“Do, my child!” said the mother. “Do you think you will find him?”Femke nodded; but her nod was not convincing. She did not know where Walter lived and was afraid to say so. It took courage to start out to trace the child when she didn’t know where he lived; and this courage she wished to conceal. And why? Just timidity incident to the tender feelings. Sometimes we conceal the good and boast of the bad.The girl dressed herself as prettily as she could and put all her money in her pocket. It was only a few stivers. She hurried through Ash Gate and inquired where the shop was that lent books. Thus she came directly to the Hartenstraat. She simply retraced the steps of our hero, when he made that first sally with Glorioso.Less timid than Walter—Femke was older, and had had more experience with men—she asked the grufffellow in a business-like way for “the book about the countess with the long train or her dress.”“What? What’s the title?”“I don’t know,” Femke said. “It’s about a robber—and the Pope’s mentioned in it, too. I am hunting for the boy who read the book. I wanted to ask where he lives—I will pay you for your trouble.”“Do you think I’m a fool? Am I here to hunt for boys?”“But, M’neer, I will pay you,” the girl said, and laid the money on the counter.“Oh, get on! What do I know about your boy?”Femke got angry now.“I haven’t done anything, and you can’t run me off like that. No, you can’t. If you don’t want to tell me, you needn’t to. You are an unaccommodating fellow!”She was going to leave, when it occurred to her to ask, “And won’t you lend me a book, either?”“Yes, you can get a book. What do you want?”“That book about the robber and Amalia,” said Femke. She felt now that she was a “customer,” and oh, how proud she had become all at once!“I don’t know anything about such a book. Do you mean Rinaldo Rinaldini?”“No. Is there more than one robber book? Just call over the names of them for me.”This was said with an air of importance that was not without its effect on the shopman. He pulled down the catalogue, and soon he came to “Glorioso.”“That’s it, that’s it!” cried Femke, delighted.“But you must deposit a forfeit,” the man said, as he mounted the ladder to get that precious book.“No, no, I don’t want the book at all. I only want to know where the boy lives who read it. I will pay you gladly,” and she pointed to her money.“That isn’t necessary,” he said. “I don’t mind accommodating you when you ask me politely.”He looked in the register and found the name Femke had mentioned, with the address. He showed it to her, and was even going to explain to her the best way to get there; but Femke was already out the door. The fellow had difficulty in overtaking her to return the money she had forgotten on the counter.When she reached the address given, Femke learned that the Pieterses had moved to a “swellerneighborhood.” It was quite a distance away; but Femke was not deterred by that.Once at the Pieterses’, she was received by the young ladies with a rough, “What do you want?”“Oh, Juffrouw, I wanted to ask about Walter.”“Who are you?”“I am Femke, Juffrouw, and my mother is a wash-woman. I would like to know if Walter is all right.”“What have you got to do with Walter?” asked Juffrouw Pieterse, who had heard the commotion andcamedown.“Ah, Juffrouw, don’t be angry—I wanted to know; and my mother knows that I’ve come to ask. Walter told me about Telasco, and the girl that was to die—oh, Juffrouw, tell me if he’s sick! I cannot sleep till I know.”“That’s none of your business. Go, I tell you! I don’t want strange people standing around the door.”“For mercy’s sake, Juffrouw!” cried the girl, wringing her hands.“The girl’s crazy. Put her out, Trudie, and slam the door!”Trudie began to execute the order. Myntje and Pietje got ready to help her; but the child clung to the balustrade and held her ground.“Throw her out! The impudent thing!”“Oh, Juffrouw, I’m not impudent. I will go. Just tell me whether Walter is sick. Tell me, and I will go right now. Just tell me if he’s sick—if, if he’s going—to die.”The poor child began to weep. Anybody else but those Pieterse women would have been touched at the sight. They were too far up the ladder.Plainer people, or nobler people would have understood Femke. Feeling, sympathy, is like the money in a gambling-place. It doesn’t come to everybody. There wenches and countesses sit side by side; merely respectable people, who sell shoes made in Paris, are not there.“I won’t go!” cried Femke. “Oh, God! I won’t go! I will know whether that child is sick!”A door was heard opening above; and Walter came in sight. He tumbled down the steps and fell unconscious at Femke’s feet.“That boy!” groaned the old lady, while the girls stood as if transfixed. Femke picked Walter up and carried him upstairs. His bed was pointed out toher, and she placed him in it. No one had the courage to run her away when she took a chair by the bedside. If at this moment the rights of the Pieterses and Femke had been voted upon, all the votes would have gone to Femke.She wept, and stammered “Don’t be angry, Juffrouw; but I couldn’t sleep for thinking of him.”Chapter XVIIThe evening of the birthday party came. All of the Pieterses went, leaving Walter to be taken care of by Leentje.Juffrouw Laps was doing the honors.“A strange state of affairs,” said the birthday uncle. “And what did she want?”“Oh, goodness, M’neer, I don’t know myself. I’ve told Gertrude a hundred times that it’s too much for me. Just imagine to yourself—such a thing issuing commands in my house! I told Mina to pitch her out. And Pietro said——”“You ought to have seen me get hold of her,” croaked that brave young woman, showing a blue place on her hand. From this it might have been inferred that Femke had had hold of Pietro.“Just wait till she comes again,” cried Gertrude, “and I will attend to her!”“And what will I do for her?” said Mina significantly.Every one of them was ready for the fray. That is often the case. If the vote had been taken now on moral worth, Femke would have been defeated.“A common girl, M’neer!”“Worse than common!”“How did you get rid of her?”“Ah, it wasn’t easy. I said——”“No, mother, I said——”“No, it was I!”“But it was I!”Each one of them had said something. Everyone wanted to play the leading rôle in the interesting drama.“I would like to know where the young Mr. van der Gracht is,” said Juffrouw Laps. “Yes, uncle, it’s a surprise——”Juffrouw Pieterse did not like to be interrupted when she had something to tell.“And so we said—what did we say, Gertrude?”“Mother, I said it was a disgrace.”“Yes, I said so, too. Then that thing asked for cold water, and when we didn’t get it quick enough for her, she ran and fetched it herself—just as if she were at home! She wet a cloth and put it on Walter’s head. I was amazed at her insolence. When the child came to she gave him a kiss! Think of it—and all of us standing there!”“Yes,” cried the three daughters, “think of it—and us standing there!”“Then she sat down in front of the bed again and talked to him.”“Where can the young Mr. van der Gracht be!” sighed Juffrouw Laps. “It’s only because we have a little surprise, uncle.”“And finally she went away like a princess!”“Exactly like a princess,” testified the girls; and they did not know that they were telling the truth.“And she told Walter she would come again. But I just want to see her do it!”The door-bell rang. Juffrouw Laps arose; and the catechist van der Gracht with his son walked into the room. Juffrouw Pieterse didn’t like this; she felt that the star of her narration would pale in the light of the poem Klaasje had brought with him. And even without a poem: such dignity, such a carriage, such manners, such a voice!“Mynheer and Juffrouwen, may God bless you all this evening! This is my son Klaas, of whom you have heard, I suppose. He’s too close kin to me for me to praise him; but you understand—when it’s the father—well, all blessings come from above.”“Yes, uncle, it will be a surprise.”“Yes, indeed, Juffrouw, a beautiful surprise. I congratulate this gentleman on the happy return of his natal day. It puts me in the mood of the psalmist—and I thank God—for Mynheer, everything comes from above, you know.”“Take a seat. I thank you,” said the host, who understood that he had been congratulated. “It’s cold out, isn’t it?”“Yes, a little cool; hardly cold. It’s just what we call cool, you understand. The Master gives us weather as he sees fit; and for that reason I say cool. Everything comes from above.”To this last statement all assented in audible sighs and thought themselves pious. What would have happened to him if some poor devil had announced to them that some things come from below?“And now, uncle, what do you say? Shall we begin with the surprise?”“Go ahead, niece; what have you got?”“Oh, it’s only a trifle, Mynheer,” put in the catechist. “My son is a poet. I don’t praise him, because he’s too close kin to me; but he’s a clever fellow—I can say that without bragging—for everything comes from above. No, I won’t praise him—praise is for the Master alone. But he’s a clever fellow.”The poet Klaas looked conscious, and sat toying with the bottom button on his vest. He looked poetical all over.“And so, Mynheer, without bragging—get it out, my son. As a father, Mynheer, I may say that he’s a clever fellow; for in the Bible——”Klaasje drew a piece of paper from his pocket.“In the Bible there is really nothing said about widowers—the Master has his own good reasons for it—but what does the boy do? He takes the hint and writes a whole poem on widows.”Klaasje laid the paper on the table.“Yes, I dare say, he has brought into it all the widows mentioned in the Bible.”“You see it’s a surprise. I told you so,” said Juffrouw Laps.“Read it, Klaasje! There are seventy, Mynheer, seventy widows. Read, my boy.”Klaas pulled at his clothes, arranged his cuffs and began:“The widows that in the Bible appear,I’ve brought together in this poem here,For the birthday that we celebrateOf him who sadly lost his mate,Exalting always the Master of Love,For all that we have comes from above.”“That’s the prologue,” explained the father.“Yes, that’s the prologue. Now I will read:“Genesis, 38, verse 11, it is said:At her father-in-law’s must the widow have her bed.Exodus, 20, 22, it is penned:Widows and orphans thou shalt not offend.Two verses further he threatens, wrathful and grimTo make widows of all the women that anger him.Leviticus, 21, verse 14, thou read’stThat a widow won’t do for the wife of a priest.A chapter further, one verse less, we have read,That a childless widow must eat her father’s bread.From Numbers, 30, verse 10, we clearly infer,That a widow’s vow is sufficient for her.”In this style he continued glibly, without any interruption; but when he came to:“Second Samuel, 20, 3, very clearly outlines,That as widows must live David’s concubines——”Juffrouw Pieterse became restless and had to have an explanation.“Yes, Juffrouw, concubines,” said van der Gracht senior. “You see the boy has brought in everything relating to widows.”“The verses are not the same length,” Stoffel complained; and there is no alternation of masculine and feminine lines.”“You may be right, Stoffel, for you are a school-teacher; but that’s immaterial to me. These—these con—what shall I say——”“Juffrouw Pieterse, you ought not to mock at it,” cried Juffrouw Laps.“That’s right,” said the catechist, “all blessings come from above. Go ahead, Klaas!”“No, I will not hear such things—on account of my daughters!”The girls were examining their finger nails, and looked preëminently respectable.“Go ahead, Klaas!”“If I had known that this was going to happen, I would have left my daughters at home.”“But, Juffrouw, it’s in the Bible. You’re not opposed to the Bible, are you?”“No, but I refuse to hear anything that isn’t respectable. My husband——”“Your husband sold shoes. I know it, Juffrouw, but you’re not going to turn against——”“I’m not going to do anything against the Bible, but I will not endure such coarseness. Come, Gertrude, come, children!”Juffrouw Pieterse was climbing the ladder of respectability. Moving out of a side street into one of the principal avenues, giving the children French names, calling in a doctor whose coachman wears furs—that is what lifts us up.Chapter XVIIIWalter’s illness now took a favorable turn. As soon as he was strong enough to leave his bed, the whole family noticed that he had grown. All remarked about it and called each other’s attention to it. No one was better convinced of the fact than Juffrouw Pieterse; for “that boy” had “outgrown all of his clothes,” and it would not be easy “to fit him out respectably again.” So much interesting notoriety and respectability had been reaped from Walter’s illness that it was only natural that his convalescence should be turned to the best account.The child would sit and fill in the colors in pictures. The doctor had presented him the pictures and a box of colors. The latter, so Stoffel said, were the genuine English article.Oh, such pictures!Walter was interested especially by pictures from the opera and the tragedy. There were pictures from Macbeth, Othello, Lear, Hamlet, from “The Magic Flute,” “The Barber of Seville,” “Der Freischütz,” and from still a few more—each one always more romantic than the last. In selecting suitable colors for his heroes and heroines, Walter had the advice of the entire family, including Leentje. Usually there was disagreement, but that only made the matter more important. In only two details were they agreed: facesand hands were to have flesh-color, and lips were to be painted red. It had always been that way; otherwise, why was it called flesh-color? On account of this arrangement Hamlet came off rather badly, receiving a much more animated countenance than was suited to his melancholy.“I wish I knew what the dolls mean,” said Walter. He was talking about his pictures.“It’s only necessary to ask Stoffel,” his mother replied. “Wait till he comes from school.”Walter asked him. Stoffel—there are more such people in the world—would never admit that he did not know a thing; and he always knew how to appear knowing.“What the dolls mean? Well, you see—those are, so to say, the pictures of various persons. There, for instance, the one with a crown on his head—that is a king.”“I told you Stoffel could explain them,” corroborated his mother.“Yes, but I should have liked to know what king, and what he did.”“Well! There it is at the bottom. You can read it, can’t you?”“Macbeth?”“Certainly. It’s Macbeth, a famous king of ancient times.”“And that one there with a sword in his hand?”“Also a king, or a general, or a hero, or something of the kind—somebody that wants to fight. Perhaps David, or Saul, or Alexander the Great. That’s not to be taken so exactly.”“And the lady with the flowers? She seems to be tearing them up.”“That one? Show her to me: Ophelia. Yes, that’s Ophelia. Don’t you know?”“Yes. Why does she throw the leaves on the ground?”“Why? why? The questions you do ask!”Here the mother came to the rescue of her eldest son.“Yes, Walter, you mustn’t ask more questions than anybody can answer.”Walter did not ask any more questions, but he determined to get to the bottom of the matter at the first opportunity. His imagination roamed over immeasurable domains—such an insatiate conqueror was the little emperor Walter in his night-jacket!He associated the heroes of his pictures with the doctor, who had been so friendly to him, and with his immortal Glorioso. The Peruvian story, too, furnished a few subjects for his empire. He married Telasco to Juliet; and the priests of the sun got their rights again. Master Pennewip received a new wig, but of gold-colored threads, on the model of the straw crown of a certain King Lear. Persons that he could see from the window were numbered among his subjects. He had to do something; and this foreign material was preferable to that in his immediate surroundings. Even Lady Macbeth, who was washing her hands and not looking particularly pleasing, seemed to him to be of a higher order than his mother or Juffrouw Laps.In fact, for him those pictures were the greatest things in the world. He was carried away with the crowns, diadems, plumes, iron gratings over the faces, with the swords and the daggers with cross-hilts to swear on—with the trains and puff-sleeves and girdles with pendents of gold—and the pages. All this had nothing in common with his everyday surroundings. How is it possible, he thought, that anyone who has such beautiful pictures should sell them? The doctor must have inherited them!Even if he had known that Lady Macbeth was the personification of crime, it would still have seemed to him a profanation to bring her into contact with the plebeian commonness around him.All at once something in Ophelia’s form reminded him of Femke. She too could stand that way, plucking the petals from the flowers and strewing them on the ground.He had dim recollections of what had happened, and occasionally he would ask indifferently about “that girl.” He was afraid to speak her name before Gertrude, Mina, and Pietro. He was always answered in tones that showed him that there was no room for his romance there; but he promised himself to visit her as soon as he got up.“When you’re better you must go to see the doctor and thank him for curing you—but thank God first; and then you can show him what you’ve painted.”“Of course, mother! I will give her the Prince of Denmark—I mean him, the doctor.”“But be careful not to soil it; and don’t forget thatthe ghost of the old knight must be very pale. Stoffel said so—because it’s a ghost, you see.”“Yes, mother, I’ll make it white.”“Good. And you’ll make the lady there yellow?” pointing with a knitting-needle to Ophelia.“No, no,” cried Walter quickly, “she was blue!”“She was? Who was?”“I only mean that I have so much yellow already, and I wanted to make her—this one—Ophelia—I wanted to make her blue. That one washing her hands can stay yellow.”“So far as I’m concerned,” the mother said, “but don’t soil it!”Stoffel, in the meantime, had got on the track of those pictures. He was slick and had an inquiring mind. One of his colleagues at school, who was in some way connected with the stage, told him that such costume-pictures were of great value to players. He also told him other things about these pictures and about the play in general.It was fortunate for Walter that Stoffel brought this knowledge home with him. Even to-day there are people who find something immoral in the words “Theatre” and “Player”; but at that time it was still worse. The satisfaction, however, of imparting knowledge and appearing wise put Stoffel in an attitude of mind on this occasion that ordinarily would have been irreconcilable with that narrowness which with him took the place of conscience.“You see, mother, there are comedies and comedies. Some are sad, some funny. Some are all nonsense, and there’s nothing to be learned from them; but thereare comedies so sad that the people wail when they see them—even respectable people!”“Is it possible!”“Yes, and then there are others where there’s music and singing. They are nice, and moral too. They are called operas; and people who are entirely respectable go there. You see, mother, there’s nothing bad about it; and we ought not to be so narrow. The old Greeks had comedies, and our professors still study them.”“Is it possible!”“Walter’s pictures are from real comedies; but I can’t tell all the details now. I will only say there are good comedies.”“You must tell Juffrouw Laps. She always says——”“And what does she know about it? She never saw a comedy in her life.”That was the truth; but it was just as true of the Pieterse family—with the exception of Leentje.One afternoon Leentje had complained of a terrible headache and had left off sewing and gone out. Later it was learned that she had not spent the evening with her mother; and then there was a perfect storm. But Leentje would not say where she had been that night. “That night” was Juffrouw Pieterse’s expression, though she knew that the girl was at home by eleven o’clock. Leentje betrayed nothing. She had promised the dressmaker next door not to say anything; for the dressmaker had to be very careful, because her husband was a hypocrite.In Leentje’s work-box was found a mutilated program;and then one day she began to sing a song she had never sung before—“I’m full of honor, I’m full of honor; oh, yes, I’m a man of honor!”And then it was all out! She had been to the Elandstraat and had seen the famous Ivan Gras in a comedy!Leentje began to cry and was going to promise never to do so again, when, to her amazement, she was told that there was nothing wrong in it, and that even the greatest professors went to see comedies.And now she must tell them about it.It was “The Child of Love,”byKotzebue, that had greeted her astonished eyes.“There was music, Juffrouw, and they played beautifully; and then the curtain went up, and there was a great forest, and a woman wept under a tree. There was a Baron who made her son a prisoner, because he was a hunter—but he spoke so nice, and his mother, too. The Baron said he was master on his place, and that he would punish such thieves. He was in a great rage. And then the mother said—no, somebody else came and said—but then the curtain went down. The dressmaker bought waffles that were being passed around, and we drank chocolate. The dressmaker said that every day wasn’t a feast day. A man sat behind us and explained everything and took our cups when they were empty. Then the band played, ‘Pretty girls and pretty flowers.’”“Shame!” cried the three young ladies. For it was a common street song.“And then the curtain went up again of its ownaccord; but the gentleman behind us said somebody raised it—perhaps the ‘Child of Love’ himself, for he was not in prison when the curtain was down. The dressmaker gave him a peppermint-drop, and he said: ‘Watch the stage, Juffrouw, for you have paid to see it.’ It cost twelve stivers, without the waffles and chocolate. Then the Baron said—but I can’t tell it all exactly as it was. I will only say that the old woman wept all the time, and she could not be reconciled, because she was so unhappy. You see, Juffrouw, the child of love was her own child; and it was also the Baron’s child of love. That was bad—because it was just a child of love, you see; and that is always bad. He had no papers, no credentials; nor the mother, either. And he was to die because he had hunted. Oh, it was beautiful, Juffrouw! And then the curtain went down again and we ate another waffle. The gentleman behind us said it was well that they gave plays with prison scenes in them. There were so many bad people in the hall, such as pickpockets and the like, and this would be a warning for them. The dressmaker was going to offer him another mint-drop, when she saw that her box was gone. It was silver. The gentleman said of course some pickpocket had taken it.”“He was the pickpocket!” exclaimed several.Leentje was indignant at the idea.“No, no! Don’t say that; it’s a sin. He was a very respectable gentleman, and addressed me as Juffrouw, just as he did the dressmaker. He tried to find the thief. He asked where the Juffrouw lived,and said that if he found the box he would bring it to her. He wore a fancy vest—no, no, no. Don’t say that of him!”“Well, tell some more about the child of love.” All were interested.“Oh, the music was so nice! And a gentleman showed them with a stick how to play.”“But tell us about the comedy!”“That is not so easy. It was very beautiful. It must be seen; it can’t be told. The Baron saw that the hunter in prison was his own son; because a long time before, you see, that is—formerly, he had been acquainted with—you understand——”Poor Leentje turned as red as fire, and left her audience in a temporary suspense.“Yes, he hadknownthe old woman formerly, and then they were good friends, and were often together—I will just tell it that way—and they were to marry, but something came between them; and so—and—for that reason the comedy was called the ‘Child of Love.’”Walter listened with as much interest as the others; but he was less affected than the girls, who sat quietly staring into space. Stoffel felt called upon to say something.“That’s it! He abused her chastity—that’s the way it’s spoken of—and she was left to bear the disgrace. The youth of to-day cannot be warned enough against this. How often have I told the boys at school!”“Listen, Walter, and pay attention to what Stoffel says!”Encouraged by the approval of his mother, Stoffel continued.“Yes, mother, virtue must be revered. That is God’s will; and what God does is well done. Of all sins sensual pleasure is—a very great sin, because it is forbidden; and because all sins are punished, either in this world or in the next.”“Do you hear, Walter?”“Here, or in the next world, mother! Innocent pleasure, yes; but sensual pleasure—it is forbidden! It loosens all the ties of human society. You see that such a comedy can be very fine. Only you must understand it properly—that’s the idea.”“And what did the Baron do then?”“Ah, Juffrouw, what shall I say! He talked a whole lot to the old woman, and was very sad because he had—away back there—because he had——”“Seduced her,” added Stoffel, seeing that Leentje couldn’t find the word. “That’s what it’s called.”“Yes, that’s what she said, too; and he promised never to do it again. And then he told the child of love always to follow the path of virtue, and that he would marry the old woman. She was satisfied with the arrangement.”“I suppose so,” cried the three girls in a breath. “She will be a rich baroness!”“Yes,” said Leentje, “she became a great lady. And then the child of love fell on the Baron’s neck; and they played ‘Bridal Wreath.’ The ‘Child of Love’ became a hussar and sang, ‘I’m full of honor, I’m full of honor; Oh, I’m a man of honor!’I don’t know what became of the old Baron. And then we went home; but the dressmaker took no more pleasure in the play now, because her silver box was gone. I don’t know whether the gentleman ever brought it to her, or not.”The play was out.The girls thought: “Baroness!”Stoffel was thinking: “Virtue!”The mother’s thoughts ran: “Twelve stivers for a ticket, and waffles and chocolate extra!”Walter was saying to himself: “A hunter! A whole year in the forest, in the great forest, and alone. I’d like to do it, too.”He took up his brush and looked at Ophelia: “To be alone in the great forest with—Femke!”But the theatre question was far from being settled. Leentje had to clear up many doubtful points yet. For instance, Pietro wanted to know how old the woman was when the Baron finally married her. Leentje thought she must have been about sixty.Also Juffrouw Laps had to express her opinion. She declared that she was opposed to everything “worldly,” and insisted that Walter be sent to church.Later she got into a big dispute over the theatre with Master Pennewip, whom Stoffel had brought in to reinforce his position. He had brought with him “Floris the Fifth,” that powerful comedy by the nobleBilderdyk. With many declensions and conjugations and remarks on rhyme and metre, he explained, firstly, that “Floris the Fifth” was a play from which muchcould be learned; and, secondly, that the theatre was something very moral and thoroughly respectable.To be sure, he failed to convince Juffrouw Laps. Nor was Walter greatly impressed by that masterpiece, despite the fact that there were three deaths in it. He much preferred the beautiful story of Glorioso, or the Peruvian story—or even Little RedRiding Hood.

Chapter XVThe moon paused on the sky, as if she were weary of her lonely lot. Was she grieved because ungrateful humanity had fallen asleep and was ignoring her?—or because of the light borrowed from her for thousands of years, and none returned? She poured forth her sorrow in heart-breaking noiseless elegies till the night-wind was moved to pity. Whish! he went through the trees; and the leaves danced. Crash! he went over the roof; and the tiles flew away, and chimneys bowed meekly; and over the walls and ditches the sawmills danced with the logs they were to saw. There a girl sat sleeping. Could it be Femke? The linen danced about her to the music of the wind, the shirts making graceful bows and extending their sleeves. Nightcaps, dickeys and drawers danced the minuet; stockings, skirts, collars, handkerchiefs waltzed thicker and thicker around the sleeping girl. Her curls began to flutter—a smile, a sigh, and she sprang to her feet. A whirlwind caught her up and——“O, heavens, Femke, Femke!” and Walter grasped at the apparition that was being borne away towards the moon in a cloud of stockings, socks, drawers, shirts and collars.“Mother! Walter’s pinching me,” cried Laurens,the printer’s apprentice; and Juffrouw Pieterse groaned, that those boys couldn’t even keep quiet at night.The “House of Pieterse” gathered at Walter’s bed. There was the noble mother of the family enveloped in a venerable jacket that fell in broad folds over a black woolen skirt. There was Trudie, with her stupid blue eyes; and Myntje and Pietje—but what am I talking about? In the new home Trudie had become Gertrude, like a morganatic princess in Hessia; and Myntje was now Mina, but preferred to be called Mine, as that sounded more Frenchy. But her stupid face remained unchanged. Pietje was now Pietro. Stoffel had said that was a very swell name.Stoffel, too, had now appeared on the scene, to the great astonishment of his mother, who expected so much of him. This fine sense of propriety had been developed in the new home.“What’s the matter with you, boy?” cried everybody at once.“Oh, mother, Femke—Femke!”“The boy is foolish.” That was the unanimous verdict of the family.And they were not altogether wrong. Walter was delirious.“They are carrying her away—around and around—Daughter of the Sun, decide—here is Telasco—thou shalt die, Aztalpa—Femke, stay, stay, I will watch the clothes—I will shoot the doe—a widower of God—together through the ivory gate—there she is again—stay, Omicron!”“Ought we to call in a preacher?” asked JuffrouwPieterse hesitatingly. She didn’t know whether praying was needed or a whipping—or both.And now, perhaps for the first time in his life, Stoffel expressed a sensible thought: “Mother, we ought to have a doctor. Walter is sick.”Walter had nervous fever. It was fortunate for him that a doctor was called in, and still more fortunate that it was a man who understood Walter’s mental troubles. He exerted a most wholesome influence on the boy; though this came later, as at first he could only treat the disease.On Juffrouw Pieterse, too, he had a good influence. To her great astonishment, he explained to her that children ought not to be packed together in a bed as if they were superfluous pieces of furniture being thrown aside; that air, light, play, enjoyment, exercise are all necessary for the development of body and soul; that whipping does no good, and that she had better dispense with her “divine worship.” He told her of other things she had never heard of; and she listened willingly, for the doctor——“Ah, dear Juffrouw Laps, you must manage to be here when he comes. He writes the prescriptions with a gold pen; and his coachman wears a brown bear-skin cape.”That gold pen and the bear-skin cape! Ah, if everyone who preaches truth could only dress up his coachman so swell! But alas, alas—I know a great many people who love the truth, and they have no coachman at all—not to mention the bear-skin.And gold pens often get into the wrong hands.“I just wanted Juffrouw Zipperman to come sometimewhen the doctor’s here. Run and tell her, Gertrude, that I said Walter was sick, and say that we have lunch about twelve. He came about that time yesterday. And Leentje, you go to the grocer’s—we need salt—have something to say about it—it’s not just to be gossiping, you know—I despise gossip—but I would like to know if the people have noticed it. And you, Pietro, remember that you are to give me a clean cap when he comes—for the doctor is such an elegant gentleman, and such a doctor! And all that he said—I drank it all in. Mina, you mustn’t stare at him again like that; it’s not proper. But I’m curious to know if the people at the grocer’s have seen him!”I shouldn’t like to be severe on her; but it seems to me that Juffrouw Pieterse was gradually beginning to take pleasure in Walter’s illness.There is something swell in having such a carriage standing before one’s door.Juffrouw Laps had come: “But dear Juffrouw Pieterse, what am I to do about my uncle? You are invited; and I have told him that there will be a poem.”“Very bad, Juffrouw Laps. You can see though that that poor worm can’t write the poem. What about Stoffel? Why not ask him to write it?”“It’s all right with me. Just so it’s a poem; otherwise I’m disgraced.”Stoffel was requested to take Walter’s place, but he raised objections at once.“You don’t know what that would mean, mother. I would lose the respect of the boys. For anyone working with youth, respect is the main thing; and such a poem——”“But the boys at school need not know it.”“But the man would tell somebody and then—you don’t understand it. At the Diaconate school there was a fellow who wrote verses; and what has become of him? He went to India, mother, and he still owes me for half a bottle of ink. That’s the way it goes, mother. For me to write such a poem? No, no, mother—for a boy like Walter it’s all right; but when one is already a teacher!”“And Master Pennewip?” cried Juffrouw Laps.“The very man!” cried Stoffel, as if this supported his former argument. “A happy thought! Master Pennewip will do it.”“I’ve read a poem by him, Stoffel.”“Yes, yes. And you’ve read a poem by him. That’s because—but how shall I explain that to you, Juffrouw Laps? You know that in teaching there are all kinds of things. Take Geography, for example. I will just mention one fact: Madrid is on the Manganares. Understand, mother?”“Yes, yes, Stoffel. That’s just as if you were to say——”“Amsterdam on the Y. Exactly so. And then there are many, many more things, Juffrouw Laps. You have no idea how much there is of it. A grocer mixes sugar with something else. He must calculate exactly what he must get for a pound in order not to lose money. Think of it! And then you have partnership, and breakage, and the verbs—but I must go before those rascals break everything.”Stoffel returned to school earlier than usual, without having diminished Juffrouw Laps’s difficulties verymuch. That poor woman could not comprehend how geography and Madrid and the grocer and partnerships made it impossible for Stoffel to write verses. Juffrouw Pieterse smoothed the matter over as well as she could and sent Juffrouw Laps to Master Pennewip.That gentleman was alarmed when he saw the angry “sucking animal,” but he quieted down as soon as he heard the object of her visit.“To what class does your uncle belong, Juffrouw?”“Why, to the class—you mean the mussel-shells and eggs?”“No, no, Juffrouw, I mean on which rung of the ladder is he—how high up. I repeat it, on what rung—it’s a figure, Juffrouw—on what rung of the social ladder?”“In the grain business? Is that what you mean?”“That is not sufficient, Juffrouw Laps. One may be in the grain business as a pastry cook, a baker, a retailer, a wholesaler, or as a broker; and all these vocations have their peculiar sub-divisions. Take Joseph in Egypt, for example. This man of God, whom some place in the class of patriarchs, while others claim—but let that be as it may. It is certain that Joseph bought corn and was on the topmost rung of the ladder, for we read in Genesis, chapter 41——”“Yes, indeed, he rode in Pharaoh’s carriage, and he wore a white silk coat. My uncle is an agent, and my father was the same.”“So-o-oo? Agent! That’s something Moses doesn’t mention, and I don’t know in what class——” He spoke slowly, puzzling over his words.“Besides, my uncle is a widower.”“Ah, there we have the difference! We read that Joseph wooed Asnath, the daughter of Potiphar; but nowhere do we read that his spouse was already dead when he went into the corn business. Therefore, Juffrouw Laps, if it is your earnest desire to have a pious poem written on your uncle, I advise you to go to my pupil, Klaasje van der Gracht.”He explained to her where that prodigy might be found.Again I must beg pardon if my criticism of Pennewip is too severe; but he gave me reasons enough to harbor ugly suspicions against him. I am convinced that he would have written that poem for Juffrouw Laps if her uncle had received a white silk coat from the king, or had ever driven through The Hague in a royal carriage. But to sing an agent in verse! He would leave that to the genius of “the flying tea-kettle” in the Peperstraat. That was not nice of Pennewip. Was that uncle to blame because his brothers never threw him into a well? or sold him into Egypt? Or because he couldn’t interpret dreams? Or because cleverness is not rewarded to-day with rings, white coats, carriages and high official position?Juffrouw Laps footed it over to the Peperstraat, where she made the acquaintance of the elder van der Gracht. The old gentleman felt flattered.He was most gracious, and assured the Juffrouw that the poem should be written that very evening. Klaasje could bring it over the next morning and repeat it to Juffrouw Laps, and if it were found worthy as an expression of her feelings toward her uncle, thenKlaasje was to be invited to be present on that evening. The father assured her that Klaasje would wear a white stand-up collar.“Just like Joseph,” said the Juffrouw. “Everything is in the Bible.”When she got home she read the forty-first chapter of Genesis, trying to find the relation of Klaasje’s apotheosis to Joseph’s exaltation. That night she dreamed she had a mantle in her hand.

The moon paused on the sky, as if she were weary of her lonely lot. Was she grieved because ungrateful humanity had fallen asleep and was ignoring her?—or because of the light borrowed from her for thousands of years, and none returned? She poured forth her sorrow in heart-breaking noiseless elegies till the night-wind was moved to pity. Whish! he went through the trees; and the leaves danced. Crash! he went over the roof; and the tiles flew away, and chimneys bowed meekly; and over the walls and ditches the sawmills danced with the logs they were to saw. There a girl sat sleeping. Could it be Femke? The linen danced about her to the music of the wind, the shirts making graceful bows and extending their sleeves. Nightcaps, dickeys and drawers danced the minuet; stockings, skirts, collars, handkerchiefs waltzed thicker and thicker around the sleeping girl. Her curls began to flutter—a smile, a sigh, and she sprang to her feet. A whirlwind caught her up and——

“O, heavens, Femke, Femke!” and Walter grasped at the apparition that was being borne away towards the moon in a cloud of stockings, socks, drawers, shirts and collars.

“Mother! Walter’s pinching me,” cried Laurens,the printer’s apprentice; and Juffrouw Pieterse groaned, that those boys couldn’t even keep quiet at night.

The “House of Pieterse” gathered at Walter’s bed. There was the noble mother of the family enveloped in a venerable jacket that fell in broad folds over a black woolen skirt. There was Trudie, with her stupid blue eyes; and Myntje and Pietje—but what am I talking about? In the new home Trudie had become Gertrude, like a morganatic princess in Hessia; and Myntje was now Mina, but preferred to be called Mine, as that sounded more Frenchy. But her stupid face remained unchanged. Pietje was now Pietro. Stoffel had said that was a very swell name.

Stoffel, too, had now appeared on the scene, to the great astonishment of his mother, who expected so much of him. This fine sense of propriety had been developed in the new home.

“What’s the matter with you, boy?” cried everybody at once.

“Oh, mother, Femke—Femke!”

“The boy is foolish.” That was the unanimous verdict of the family.

And they were not altogether wrong. Walter was delirious.

“They are carrying her away—around and around—Daughter of the Sun, decide—here is Telasco—thou shalt die, Aztalpa—Femke, stay, stay, I will watch the clothes—I will shoot the doe—a widower of God—together through the ivory gate—there she is again—stay, Omicron!”

“Ought we to call in a preacher?” asked JuffrouwPieterse hesitatingly. She didn’t know whether praying was needed or a whipping—or both.

And now, perhaps for the first time in his life, Stoffel expressed a sensible thought: “Mother, we ought to have a doctor. Walter is sick.”

Walter had nervous fever. It was fortunate for him that a doctor was called in, and still more fortunate that it was a man who understood Walter’s mental troubles. He exerted a most wholesome influence on the boy; though this came later, as at first he could only treat the disease.

On Juffrouw Pieterse, too, he had a good influence. To her great astonishment, he explained to her that children ought not to be packed together in a bed as if they were superfluous pieces of furniture being thrown aside; that air, light, play, enjoyment, exercise are all necessary for the development of body and soul; that whipping does no good, and that she had better dispense with her “divine worship.” He told her of other things she had never heard of; and she listened willingly, for the doctor——

“Ah, dear Juffrouw Laps, you must manage to be here when he comes. He writes the prescriptions with a gold pen; and his coachman wears a brown bear-skin cape.”

That gold pen and the bear-skin cape! Ah, if everyone who preaches truth could only dress up his coachman so swell! But alas, alas—I know a great many people who love the truth, and they have no coachman at all—not to mention the bear-skin.

And gold pens often get into the wrong hands.

“I just wanted Juffrouw Zipperman to come sometimewhen the doctor’s here. Run and tell her, Gertrude, that I said Walter was sick, and say that we have lunch about twelve. He came about that time yesterday. And Leentje, you go to the grocer’s—we need salt—have something to say about it—it’s not just to be gossiping, you know—I despise gossip—but I would like to know if the people have noticed it. And you, Pietro, remember that you are to give me a clean cap when he comes—for the doctor is such an elegant gentleman, and such a doctor! And all that he said—I drank it all in. Mina, you mustn’t stare at him again like that; it’s not proper. But I’m curious to know if the people at the grocer’s have seen him!”

I shouldn’t like to be severe on her; but it seems to me that Juffrouw Pieterse was gradually beginning to take pleasure in Walter’s illness.

There is something swell in having such a carriage standing before one’s door.

Juffrouw Laps had come: “But dear Juffrouw Pieterse, what am I to do about my uncle? You are invited; and I have told him that there will be a poem.”

“Very bad, Juffrouw Laps. You can see though that that poor worm can’t write the poem. What about Stoffel? Why not ask him to write it?”

“It’s all right with me. Just so it’s a poem; otherwise I’m disgraced.”

Stoffel was requested to take Walter’s place, but he raised objections at once.

“You don’t know what that would mean, mother. I would lose the respect of the boys. For anyone working with youth, respect is the main thing; and such a poem——”

“But the boys at school need not know it.”

“But the man would tell somebody and then—you don’t understand it. At the Diaconate school there was a fellow who wrote verses; and what has become of him? He went to India, mother, and he still owes me for half a bottle of ink. That’s the way it goes, mother. For me to write such a poem? No, no, mother—for a boy like Walter it’s all right; but when one is already a teacher!”

“And Master Pennewip?” cried Juffrouw Laps.

“The very man!” cried Stoffel, as if this supported his former argument. “A happy thought! Master Pennewip will do it.”

“I’ve read a poem by him, Stoffel.”

“Yes, yes. And you’ve read a poem by him. That’s because—but how shall I explain that to you, Juffrouw Laps? You know that in teaching there are all kinds of things. Take Geography, for example. I will just mention one fact: Madrid is on the Manganares. Understand, mother?”

“Yes, yes, Stoffel. That’s just as if you were to say——”

“Amsterdam on the Y. Exactly so. And then there are many, many more things, Juffrouw Laps. You have no idea how much there is of it. A grocer mixes sugar with something else. He must calculate exactly what he must get for a pound in order not to lose money. Think of it! And then you have partnership, and breakage, and the verbs—but I must go before those rascals break everything.”

Stoffel returned to school earlier than usual, without having diminished Juffrouw Laps’s difficulties verymuch. That poor woman could not comprehend how geography and Madrid and the grocer and partnerships made it impossible for Stoffel to write verses. Juffrouw Pieterse smoothed the matter over as well as she could and sent Juffrouw Laps to Master Pennewip.

That gentleman was alarmed when he saw the angry “sucking animal,” but he quieted down as soon as he heard the object of her visit.

“To what class does your uncle belong, Juffrouw?”

“Why, to the class—you mean the mussel-shells and eggs?”

“No, no, Juffrouw, I mean on which rung of the ladder is he—how high up. I repeat it, on what rung—it’s a figure, Juffrouw—on what rung of the social ladder?”

“In the grain business? Is that what you mean?”

“That is not sufficient, Juffrouw Laps. One may be in the grain business as a pastry cook, a baker, a retailer, a wholesaler, or as a broker; and all these vocations have their peculiar sub-divisions. Take Joseph in Egypt, for example. This man of God, whom some place in the class of patriarchs, while others claim—but let that be as it may. It is certain that Joseph bought corn and was on the topmost rung of the ladder, for we read in Genesis, chapter 41——”

“Yes, indeed, he rode in Pharaoh’s carriage, and he wore a white silk coat. My uncle is an agent, and my father was the same.”

“So-o-oo? Agent! That’s something Moses doesn’t mention, and I don’t know in what class——” He spoke slowly, puzzling over his words.

“Besides, my uncle is a widower.”

“Ah, there we have the difference! We read that Joseph wooed Asnath, the daughter of Potiphar; but nowhere do we read that his spouse was already dead when he went into the corn business. Therefore, Juffrouw Laps, if it is your earnest desire to have a pious poem written on your uncle, I advise you to go to my pupil, Klaasje van der Gracht.”

He explained to her where that prodigy might be found.

Again I must beg pardon if my criticism of Pennewip is too severe; but he gave me reasons enough to harbor ugly suspicions against him. I am convinced that he would have written that poem for Juffrouw Laps if her uncle had received a white silk coat from the king, or had ever driven through The Hague in a royal carriage. But to sing an agent in verse! He would leave that to the genius of “the flying tea-kettle” in the Peperstraat. That was not nice of Pennewip. Was that uncle to blame because his brothers never threw him into a well? or sold him into Egypt? Or because he couldn’t interpret dreams? Or because cleverness is not rewarded to-day with rings, white coats, carriages and high official position?

Juffrouw Laps footed it over to the Peperstraat, where she made the acquaintance of the elder van der Gracht. The old gentleman felt flattered.

He was most gracious, and assured the Juffrouw that the poem should be written that very evening. Klaasje could bring it over the next morning and repeat it to Juffrouw Laps, and if it were found worthy as an expression of her feelings toward her uncle, thenKlaasje was to be invited to be present on that evening. The father assured her that Klaasje would wear a white stand-up collar.

“Just like Joseph,” said the Juffrouw. “Everything is in the Bible.”

When she got home she read the forty-first chapter of Genesis, trying to find the relation of Klaasje’s apotheosis to Joseph’s exaltation. That night she dreamed she had a mantle in her hand.

Chapter XVIIt was the afternoon of the day on which Juffrouw Laps sought out Klaasje van der Gracht, and Walter was lying in bed, still weak but no longer delirious. The doctor had ordered rest and quiet. The child counted the flowers in the curtain, and, in his imagination tried to arrange them in some other order. He allowed them to jump over one another, or flow into one another. He saw in them faces, forms, armies, clouds—and all were alive and moving. It was tiresome, but he couldn’t do anything else. If he turned his face toward the wall it was still worse. The hieroglyphic scratches on the wall told him all sorts of things that he didn’t need to know and overwhelmed him with unnecessary impressions. He closed his eyes; but still he found no rest. It seemed to him as if he were being swept away to take part in that entertainment that the night-wind gave the moon. Everything was turning round and round, taking him along. He seized his head in both hands, as if he would stop his imagination by main strength; but it was useless. The curtains, the cords, the wall, the flowers, the dance, the whirlwind that tore Femke away—his efforts to hold her——The boy burst into tears. He knew that it was all imagination; he knew that he was sick; he knew thatchimneys don’t dance, and that girls are not blown to the moon; and yet——Weeping he called Femke’s name softly, not loud enough to be heard by the others, but loud enough to relieve his own depression.“What’s that?” he cried suddenly. “Does she answer? Is that imagination, too?”Actually, Walter heard his name called, and it was Femke’s voice!“I must know whether I’m dreaming, or not,” he said, and straightened himself up in bed. “That is a red flower, that is a black one, I am Walter, Laurens is a printer’s apprentice—everything is all right; and I’m not dreaming.”He leaned out of bed and listened again, his mouth and eyes as wide open as he could get them, as if the senses of taste and sight were going to reinforce that of hearing.“O, God! Femke’s voice! Yes, yes, it is Femke!” He jumped out of bed, ran out the door, and half ran, half fell down the steps.To return to Femke for a little while. She had expected Walter at the bridge the next day after the story of the sun-worshipers. At first she thought that Walter was waiting till he could borrow from Stoffel the book with the picture showing Aztalpa embracing the two brothers. She wanted to see Walter with the picture; now she would have been satisfied with him without the picture. It couldn’t be the boy’s person, she thought—such a child!—but he did recite so well. Perhaps in the heart of the girl Walter and his recitals had already coalesced.“Put the clothes in the sun,” cried her mother; and Femke translated that: Sun—Peru—Aztalpa—Kusco—Walter.“Run those fighters away; they’ll throw dirt on the clothes.”Femke dreamed: Courageously fighting against the enemies of the country—the noblest tribe of the Incas—Telasco—Walter.Everything seemed to be calling for Walter; but he did not come.The first day she was sad; the second, impatient; the third, restless.“Mother, I’m going to see what’s become of the little boy who was going to write a poem.”“Do, my child!” said the mother. “Do you think you will find him?”Femke nodded; but her nod was not convincing. She did not know where Walter lived and was afraid to say so. It took courage to start out to trace the child when she didn’t know where he lived; and this courage she wished to conceal. And why? Just timidity incident to the tender feelings. Sometimes we conceal the good and boast of the bad.The girl dressed herself as prettily as she could and put all her money in her pocket. It was only a few stivers. She hurried through Ash Gate and inquired where the shop was that lent books. Thus she came directly to the Hartenstraat. She simply retraced the steps of our hero, when he made that first sally with Glorioso.Less timid than Walter—Femke was older, and had had more experience with men—she asked the grufffellow in a business-like way for “the book about the countess with the long train or her dress.”“What? What’s the title?”“I don’t know,” Femke said. “It’s about a robber—and the Pope’s mentioned in it, too. I am hunting for the boy who read the book. I wanted to ask where he lives—I will pay you for your trouble.”“Do you think I’m a fool? Am I here to hunt for boys?”“But, M’neer, I will pay you,” the girl said, and laid the money on the counter.“Oh, get on! What do I know about your boy?”Femke got angry now.“I haven’t done anything, and you can’t run me off like that. No, you can’t. If you don’t want to tell me, you needn’t to. You are an unaccommodating fellow!”She was going to leave, when it occurred to her to ask, “And won’t you lend me a book, either?”“Yes, you can get a book. What do you want?”“That book about the robber and Amalia,” said Femke. She felt now that she was a “customer,” and oh, how proud she had become all at once!“I don’t know anything about such a book. Do you mean Rinaldo Rinaldini?”“No. Is there more than one robber book? Just call over the names of them for me.”This was said with an air of importance that was not without its effect on the shopman. He pulled down the catalogue, and soon he came to “Glorioso.”“That’s it, that’s it!” cried Femke, delighted.“But you must deposit a forfeit,” the man said, as he mounted the ladder to get that precious book.“No, no, I don’t want the book at all. I only want to know where the boy lives who read it. I will pay you gladly,” and she pointed to her money.“That isn’t necessary,” he said. “I don’t mind accommodating you when you ask me politely.”He looked in the register and found the name Femke had mentioned, with the address. He showed it to her, and was even going to explain to her the best way to get there; but Femke was already out the door. The fellow had difficulty in overtaking her to return the money she had forgotten on the counter.When she reached the address given, Femke learned that the Pieterses had moved to a “swellerneighborhood.” It was quite a distance away; but Femke was not deterred by that.Once at the Pieterses’, she was received by the young ladies with a rough, “What do you want?”“Oh, Juffrouw, I wanted to ask about Walter.”“Who are you?”“I am Femke, Juffrouw, and my mother is a wash-woman. I would like to know if Walter is all right.”“What have you got to do with Walter?” asked Juffrouw Pieterse, who had heard the commotion andcamedown.“Ah, Juffrouw, don’t be angry—I wanted to know; and my mother knows that I’ve come to ask. Walter told me about Telasco, and the girl that was to die—oh, Juffrouw, tell me if he’s sick! I cannot sleep till I know.”“That’s none of your business. Go, I tell you! I don’t want strange people standing around the door.”“For mercy’s sake, Juffrouw!” cried the girl, wringing her hands.“The girl’s crazy. Put her out, Trudie, and slam the door!”Trudie began to execute the order. Myntje and Pietje got ready to help her; but the child clung to the balustrade and held her ground.“Throw her out! The impudent thing!”“Oh, Juffrouw, I’m not impudent. I will go. Just tell me whether Walter is sick. Tell me, and I will go right now. Just tell me if he’s sick—if, if he’s going—to die.”The poor child began to weep. Anybody else but those Pieterse women would have been touched at the sight. They were too far up the ladder.Plainer people, or nobler people would have understood Femke. Feeling, sympathy, is like the money in a gambling-place. It doesn’t come to everybody. There wenches and countesses sit side by side; merely respectable people, who sell shoes made in Paris, are not there.“I won’t go!” cried Femke. “Oh, God! I won’t go! I will know whether that child is sick!”A door was heard opening above; and Walter came in sight. He tumbled down the steps and fell unconscious at Femke’s feet.“That boy!” groaned the old lady, while the girls stood as if transfixed. Femke picked Walter up and carried him upstairs. His bed was pointed out toher, and she placed him in it. No one had the courage to run her away when she took a chair by the bedside. If at this moment the rights of the Pieterses and Femke had been voted upon, all the votes would have gone to Femke.She wept, and stammered “Don’t be angry, Juffrouw; but I couldn’t sleep for thinking of him.”

It was the afternoon of the day on which Juffrouw Laps sought out Klaasje van der Gracht, and Walter was lying in bed, still weak but no longer delirious. The doctor had ordered rest and quiet. The child counted the flowers in the curtain, and, in his imagination tried to arrange them in some other order. He allowed them to jump over one another, or flow into one another. He saw in them faces, forms, armies, clouds—and all were alive and moving. It was tiresome, but he couldn’t do anything else. If he turned his face toward the wall it was still worse. The hieroglyphic scratches on the wall told him all sorts of things that he didn’t need to know and overwhelmed him with unnecessary impressions. He closed his eyes; but still he found no rest. It seemed to him as if he were being swept away to take part in that entertainment that the night-wind gave the moon. Everything was turning round and round, taking him along. He seized his head in both hands, as if he would stop his imagination by main strength; but it was useless. The curtains, the cords, the wall, the flowers, the dance, the whirlwind that tore Femke away—his efforts to hold her——

The boy burst into tears. He knew that it was all imagination; he knew that he was sick; he knew thatchimneys don’t dance, and that girls are not blown to the moon; and yet——

Weeping he called Femke’s name softly, not loud enough to be heard by the others, but loud enough to relieve his own depression.

“What’s that?” he cried suddenly. “Does she answer? Is that imagination, too?”

Actually, Walter heard his name called, and it was Femke’s voice!

“I must know whether I’m dreaming, or not,” he said, and straightened himself up in bed. “That is a red flower, that is a black one, I am Walter, Laurens is a printer’s apprentice—everything is all right; and I’m not dreaming.”

He leaned out of bed and listened again, his mouth and eyes as wide open as he could get them, as if the senses of taste and sight were going to reinforce that of hearing.

“O, God! Femke’s voice! Yes, yes, it is Femke!” He jumped out of bed, ran out the door, and half ran, half fell down the steps.

To return to Femke for a little while. She had expected Walter at the bridge the next day after the story of the sun-worshipers. At first she thought that Walter was waiting till he could borrow from Stoffel the book with the picture showing Aztalpa embracing the two brothers. She wanted to see Walter with the picture; now she would have been satisfied with him without the picture. It couldn’t be the boy’s person, she thought—such a child!—but he did recite so well. Perhaps in the heart of the girl Walter and his recitals had already coalesced.

“Put the clothes in the sun,” cried her mother; and Femke translated that: Sun—Peru—Aztalpa—Kusco—Walter.

“Run those fighters away; they’ll throw dirt on the clothes.”

Femke dreamed: Courageously fighting against the enemies of the country—the noblest tribe of the Incas—Telasco—Walter.

Everything seemed to be calling for Walter; but he did not come.

The first day she was sad; the second, impatient; the third, restless.

“Mother, I’m going to see what’s become of the little boy who was going to write a poem.”

“Do, my child!” said the mother. “Do you think you will find him?”

Femke nodded; but her nod was not convincing. She did not know where Walter lived and was afraid to say so. It took courage to start out to trace the child when she didn’t know where he lived; and this courage she wished to conceal. And why? Just timidity incident to the tender feelings. Sometimes we conceal the good and boast of the bad.

The girl dressed herself as prettily as she could and put all her money in her pocket. It was only a few stivers. She hurried through Ash Gate and inquired where the shop was that lent books. Thus she came directly to the Hartenstraat. She simply retraced the steps of our hero, when he made that first sally with Glorioso.

Less timid than Walter—Femke was older, and had had more experience with men—she asked the grufffellow in a business-like way for “the book about the countess with the long train or her dress.”

“What? What’s the title?”

“I don’t know,” Femke said. “It’s about a robber—and the Pope’s mentioned in it, too. I am hunting for the boy who read the book. I wanted to ask where he lives—I will pay you for your trouble.”

“Do you think I’m a fool? Am I here to hunt for boys?”

“But, M’neer, I will pay you,” the girl said, and laid the money on the counter.

“Oh, get on! What do I know about your boy?”

Femke got angry now.

“I haven’t done anything, and you can’t run me off like that. No, you can’t. If you don’t want to tell me, you needn’t to. You are an unaccommodating fellow!”

She was going to leave, when it occurred to her to ask, “And won’t you lend me a book, either?”

“Yes, you can get a book. What do you want?”

“That book about the robber and Amalia,” said Femke. She felt now that she was a “customer,” and oh, how proud she had become all at once!

“I don’t know anything about such a book. Do you mean Rinaldo Rinaldini?”

“No. Is there more than one robber book? Just call over the names of them for me.”

This was said with an air of importance that was not without its effect on the shopman. He pulled down the catalogue, and soon he came to “Glorioso.”

“That’s it, that’s it!” cried Femke, delighted.

“But you must deposit a forfeit,” the man said, as he mounted the ladder to get that precious book.

“No, no, I don’t want the book at all. I only want to know where the boy lives who read it. I will pay you gladly,” and she pointed to her money.

“That isn’t necessary,” he said. “I don’t mind accommodating you when you ask me politely.”

He looked in the register and found the name Femke had mentioned, with the address. He showed it to her, and was even going to explain to her the best way to get there; but Femke was already out the door. The fellow had difficulty in overtaking her to return the money she had forgotten on the counter.

When she reached the address given, Femke learned that the Pieterses had moved to a “swellerneighborhood.” It was quite a distance away; but Femke was not deterred by that.

Once at the Pieterses’, she was received by the young ladies with a rough, “What do you want?”

“Oh, Juffrouw, I wanted to ask about Walter.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Femke, Juffrouw, and my mother is a wash-woman. I would like to know if Walter is all right.”

“What have you got to do with Walter?” asked Juffrouw Pieterse, who had heard the commotion andcamedown.

“Ah, Juffrouw, don’t be angry—I wanted to know; and my mother knows that I’ve come to ask. Walter told me about Telasco, and the girl that was to die—oh, Juffrouw, tell me if he’s sick! I cannot sleep till I know.”

“That’s none of your business. Go, I tell you! I don’t want strange people standing around the door.”

“For mercy’s sake, Juffrouw!” cried the girl, wringing her hands.

“The girl’s crazy. Put her out, Trudie, and slam the door!”

Trudie began to execute the order. Myntje and Pietje got ready to help her; but the child clung to the balustrade and held her ground.

“Throw her out! The impudent thing!”

“Oh, Juffrouw, I’m not impudent. I will go. Just tell me whether Walter is sick. Tell me, and I will go right now. Just tell me if he’s sick—if, if he’s going—to die.”

The poor child began to weep. Anybody else but those Pieterse women would have been touched at the sight. They were too far up the ladder.

Plainer people, or nobler people would have understood Femke. Feeling, sympathy, is like the money in a gambling-place. It doesn’t come to everybody. There wenches and countesses sit side by side; merely respectable people, who sell shoes made in Paris, are not there.

“I won’t go!” cried Femke. “Oh, God! I won’t go! I will know whether that child is sick!”

A door was heard opening above; and Walter came in sight. He tumbled down the steps and fell unconscious at Femke’s feet.

“That boy!” groaned the old lady, while the girls stood as if transfixed. Femke picked Walter up and carried him upstairs. His bed was pointed out toher, and she placed him in it. No one had the courage to run her away when she took a chair by the bedside. If at this moment the rights of the Pieterses and Femke had been voted upon, all the votes would have gone to Femke.

She wept, and stammered “Don’t be angry, Juffrouw; but I couldn’t sleep for thinking of him.”

Chapter XVIIThe evening of the birthday party came. All of the Pieterses went, leaving Walter to be taken care of by Leentje.Juffrouw Laps was doing the honors.“A strange state of affairs,” said the birthday uncle. “And what did she want?”“Oh, goodness, M’neer, I don’t know myself. I’ve told Gertrude a hundred times that it’s too much for me. Just imagine to yourself—such a thing issuing commands in my house! I told Mina to pitch her out. And Pietro said——”“You ought to have seen me get hold of her,” croaked that brave young woman, showing a blue place on her hand. From this it might have been inferred that Femke had had hold of Pietro.“Just wait till she comes again,” cried Gertrude, “and I will attend to her!”“And what will I do for her?” said Mina significantly.Every one of them was ready for the fray. That is often the case. If the vote had been taken now on moral worth, Femke would have been defeated.“A common girl, M’neer!”“Worse than common!”“How did you get rid of her?”“Ah, it wasn’t easy. I said——”“No, mother, I said——”“No, it was I!”“But it was I!”Each one of them had said something. Everyone wanted to play the leading rôle in the interesting drama.“I would like to know where the young Mr. van der Gracht is,” said Juffrouw Laps. “Yes, uncle, it’s a surprise——”Juffrouw Pieterse did not like to be interrupted when she had something to tell.“And so we said—what did we say, Gertrude?”“Mother, I said it was a disgrace.”“Yes, I said so, too. Then that thing asked for cold water, and when we didn’t get it quick enough for her, she ran and fetched it herself—just as if she were at home! She wet a cloth and put it on Walter’s head. I was amazed at her insolence. When the child came to she gave him a kiss! Think of it—and all of us standing there!”“Yes,” cried the three daughters, “think of it—and us standing there!”“Then she sat down in front of the bed again and talked to him.”“Where can the young Mr. van der Gracht be!” sighed Juffrouw Laps. “It’s only because we have a little surprise, uncle.”“And finally she went away like a princess!”“Exactly like a princess,” testified the girls; and they did not know that they were telling the truth.“And she told Walter she would come again. But I just want to see her do it!”The door-bell rang. Juffrouw Laps arose; and the catechist van der Gracht with his son walked into the room. Juffrouw Pieterse didn’t like this; she felt that the star of her narration would pale in the light of the poem Klaasje had brought with him. And even without a poem: such dignity, such a carriage, such manners, such a voice!“Mynheer and Juffrouwen, may God bless you all this evening! This is my son Klaas, of whom you have heard, I suppose. He’s too close kin to me for me to praise him; but you understand—when it’s the father—well, all blessings come from above.”“Yes, uncle, it will be a surprise.”“Yes, indeed, Juffrouw, a beautiful surprise. I congratulate this gentleman on the happy return of his natal day. It puts me in the mood of the psalmist—and I thank God—for Mynheer, everything comes from above, you know.”“Take a seat. I thank you,” said the host, who understood that he had been congratulated. “It’s cold out, isn’t it?”“Yes, a little cool; hardly cold. It’s just what we call cool, you understand. The Master gives us weather as he sees fit; and for that reason I say cool. Everything comes from above.”To this last statement all assented in audible sighs and thought themselves pious. What would have happened to him if some poor devil had announced to them that some things come from below?“And now, uncle, what do you say? Shall we begin with the surprise?”“Go ahead, niece; what have you got?”“Oh, it’s only a trifle, Mynheer,” put in the catechist. “My son is a poet. I don’t praise him, because he’s too close kin to me; but he’s a clever fellow—I can say that without bragging—for everything comes from above. No, I won’t praise him—praise is for the Master alone. But he’s a clever fellow.”The poet Klaas looked conscious, and sat toying with the bottom button on his vest. He looked poetical all over.“And so, Mynheer, without bragging—get it out, my son. As a father, Mynheer, I may say that he’s a clever fellow; for in the Bible——”Klaasje drew a piece of paper from his pocket.“In the Bible there is really nothing said about widowers—the Master has his own good reasons for it—but what does the boy do? He takes the hint and writes a whole poem on widows.”Klaasje laid the paper on the table.“Yes, I dare say, he has brought into it all the widows mentioned in the Bible.”“You see it’s a surprise. I told you so,” said Juffrouw Laps.“Read it, Klaasje! There are seventy, Mynheer, seventy widows. Read, my boy.”Klaas pulled at his clothes, arranged his cuffs and began:“The widows that in the Bible appear,I’ve brought together in this poem here,For the birthday that we celebrateOf him who sadly lost his mate,Exalting always the Master of Love,For all that we have comes from above.”“That’s the prologue,” explained the father.“Yes, that’s the prologue. Now I will read:“Genesis, 38, verse 11, it is said:At her father-in-law’s must the widow have her bed.Exodus, 20, 22, it is penned:Widows and orphans thou shalt not offend.Two verses further he threatens, wrathful and grimTo make widows of all the women that anger him.Leviticus, 21, verse 14, thou read’stThat a widow won’t do for the wife of a priest.A chapter further, one verse less, we have read,That a childless widow must eat her father’s bread.From Numbers, 30, verse 10, we clearly infer,That a widow’s vow is sufficient for her.”In this style he continued glibly, without any interruption; but when he came to:“Second Samuel, 20, 3, very clearly outlines,That as widows must live David’s concubines——”Juffrouw Pieterse became restless and had to have an explanation.“Yes, Juffrouw, concubines,” said van der Gracht senior. “You see the boy has brought in everything relating to widows.”“The verses are not the same length,” Stoffel complained; and there is no alternation of masculine and feminine lines.”“You may be right, Stoffel, for you are a school-teacher; but that’s immaterial to me. These—these con—what shall I say——”“Juffrouw Pieterse, you ought not to mock at it,” cried Juffrouw Laps.“That’s right,” said the catechist, “all blessings come from above. Go ahead, Klaas!”“No, I will not hear such things—on account of my daughters!”The girls were examining their finger nails, and looked preëminently respectable.“Go ahead, Klaas!”“If I had known that this was going to happen, I would have left my daughters at home.”“But, Juffrouw, it’s in the Bible. You’re not opposed to the Bible, are you?”“No, but I refuse to hear anything that isn’t respectable. My husband——”“Your husband sold shoes. I know it, Juffrouw, but you’re not going to turn against——”“I’m not going to do anything against the Bible, but I will not endure such coarseness. Come, Gertrude, come, children!”Juffrouw Pieterse was climbing the ladder of respectability. Moving out of a side street into one of the principal avenues, giving the children French names, calling in a doctor whose coachman wears furs—that is what lifts us up.

The evening of the birthday party came. All of the Pieterses went, leaving Walter to be taken care of by Leentje.

Juffrouw Laps was doing the honors.

“A strange state of affairs,” said the birthday uncle. “And what did she want?”

“Oh, goodness, M’neer, I don’t know myself. I’ve told Gertrude a hundred times that it’s too much for me. Just imagine to yourself—such a thing issuing commands in my house! I told Mina to pitch her out. And Pietro said——”

“You ought to have seen me get hold of her,” croaked that brave young woman, showing a blue place on her hand. From this it might have been inferred that Femke had had hold of Pietro.

“Just wait till she comes again,” cried Gertrude, “and I will attend to her!”

“And what will I do for her?” said Mina significantly.

Every one of them was ready for the fray. That is often the case. If the vote had been taken now on moral worth, Femke would have been defeated.

“A common girl, M’neer!”

“Worse than common!”

“How did you get rid of her?”

“Ah, it wasn’t easy. I said——”

“No, mother, I said——”

“No, it was I!”

“But it was I!”

Each one of them had said something. Everyone wanted to play the leading rôle in the interesting drama.

“I would like to know where the young Mr. van der Gracht is,” said Juffrouw Laps. “Yes, uncle, it’s a surprise——”

Juffrouw Pieterse did not like to be interrupted when she had something to tell.

“And so we said—what did we say, Gertrude?”

“Mother, I said it was a disgrace.”

“Yes, I said so, too. Then that thing asked for cold water, and when we didn’t get it quick enough for her, she ran and fetched it herself—just as if she were at home! She wet a cloth and put it on Walter’s head. I was amazed at her insolence. When the child came to she gave him a kiss! Think of it—and all of us standing there!”

“Yes,” cried the three daughters, “think of it—and us standing there!”

“Then she sat down in front of the bed again and talked to him.”

“Where can the young Mr. van der Gracht be!” sighed Juffrouw Laps. “It’s only because we have a little surprise, uncle.”

“And finally she went away like a princess!”

“Exactly like a princess,” testified the girls; and they did not know that they were telling the truth.

“And she told Walter she would come again. But I just want to see her do it!”

The door-bell rang. Juffrouw Laps arose; and the catechist van der Gracht with his son walked into the room. Juffrouw Pieterse didn’t like this; she felt that the star of her narration would pale in the light of the poem Klaasje had brought with him. And even without a poem: such dignity, such a carriage, such manners, such a voice!

“Mynheer and Juffrouwen, may God bless you all this evening! This is my son Klaas, of whom you have heard, I suppose. He’s too close kin to me for me to praise him; but you understand—when it’s the father—well, all blessings come from above.”

“Yes, uncle, it will be a surprise.”

“Yes, indeed, Juffrouw, a beautiful surprise. I congratulate this gentleman on the happy return of his natal day. It puts me in the mood of the psalmist—and I thank God—for Mynheer, everything comes from above, you know.”

“Take a seat. I thank you,” said the host, who understood that he had been congratulated. “It’s cold out, isn’t it?”

“Yes, a little cool; hardly cold. It’s just what we call cool, you understand. The Master gives us weather as he sees fit; and for that reason I say cool. Everything comes from above.”

To this last statement all assented in audible sighs and thought themselves pious. What would have happened to him if some poor devil had announced to them that some things come from below?

“And now, uncle, what do you say? Shall we begin with the surprise?”

“Go ahead, niece; what have you got?”

“Oh, it’s only a trifle, Mynheer,” put in the catechist. “My son is a poet. I don’t praise him, because he’s too close kin to me; but he’s a clever fellow—I can say that without bragging—for everything comes from above. No, I won’t praise him—praise is for the Master alone. But he’s a clever fellow.”

The poet Klaas looked conscious, and sat toying with the bottom button on his vest. He looked poetical all over.

“And so, Mynheer, without bragging—get it out, my son. As a father, Mynheer, I may say that he’s a clever fellow; for in the Bible——”

Klaasje drew a piece of paper from his pocket.

“In the Bible there is really nothing said about widowers—the Master has his own good reasons for it—but what does the boy do? He takes the hint and writes a whole poem on widows.”

Klaasje laid the paper on the table.

“Yes, I dare say, he has brought into it all the widows mentioned in the Bible.”

“You see it’s a surprise. I told you so,” said Juffrouw Laps.

“Read it, Klaasje! There are seventy, Mynheer, seventy widows. Read, my boy.”

Klaas pulled at his clothes, arranged his cuffs and began:

“The widows that in the Bible appear,I’ve brought together in this poem here,For the birthday that we celebrateOf him who sadly lost his mate,Exalting always the Master of Love,For all that we have comes from above.”

“The widows that in the Bible appear,

I’ve brought together in this poem here,

For the birthday that we celebrate

Of him who sadly lost his mate,

Exalting always the Master of Love,

For all that we have comes from above.”

“That’s the prologue,” explained the father.

“Yes, that’s the prologue. Now I will read:

“Genesis, 38, verse 11, it is said:At her father-in-law’s must the widow have her bed.Exodus, 20, 22, it is penned:Widows and orphans thou shalt not offend.Two verses further he threatens, wrathful and grimTo make widows of all the women that anger him.Leviticus, 21, verse 14, thou read’stThat a widow won’t do for the wife of a priest.A chapter further, one verse less, we have read,That a childless widow must eat her father’s bread.From Numbers, 30, verse 10, we clearly infer,That a widow’s vow is sufficient for her.”

“Genesis, 38, verse 11, it is said:

At her father-in-law’s must the widow have her bed.

Exodus, 20, 22, it is penned:

Widows and orphans thou shalt not offend.

Two verses further he threatens, wrathful and grim

To make widows of all the women that anger him.

Leviticus, 21, verse 14, thou read’st

That a widow won’t do for the wife of a priest.

A chapter further, one verse less, we have read,

That a childless widow must eat her father’s bread.

From Numbers, 30, verse 10, we clearly infer,

That a widow’s vow is sufficient for her.”

In this style he continued glibly, without any interruption; but when he came to:

“Second Samuel, 20, 3, very clearly outlines,That as widows must live David’s concubines——”

“Second Samuel, 20, 3, very clearly outlines,

That as widows must live David’s concubines——”

Juffrouw Pieterse became restless and had to have an explanation.

“Yes, Juffrouw, concubines,” said van der Gracht senior. “You see the boy has brought in everything relating to widows.”

“The verses are not the same length,” Stoffel complained; and there is no alternation of masculine and feminine lines.”

“You may be right, Stoffel, for you are a school-teacher; but that’s immaterial to me. These—these con—what shall I say——”

“Juffrouw Pieterse, you ought not to mock at it,” cried Juffrouw Laps.

“That’s right,” said the catechist, “all blessings come from above. Go ahead, Klaas!”

“No, I will not hear such things—on account of my daughters!”

The girls were examining their finger nails, and looked preëminently respectable.

“Go ahead, Klaas!”

“If I had known that this was going to happen, I would have left my daughters at home.”

“But, Juffrouw, it’s in the Bible. You’re not opposed to the Bible, are you?”

“No, but I refuse to hear anything that isn’t respectable. My husband——”

“Your husband sold shoes. I know it, Juffrouw, but you’re not going to turn against——”

“I’m not going to do anything against the Bible, but I will not endure such coarseness. Come, Gertrude, come, children!”

Juffrouw Pieterse was climbing the ladder of respectability. Moving out of a side street into one of the principal avenues, giving the children French names, calling in a doctor whose coachman wears furs—that is what lifts us up.

Chapter XVIIIWalter’s illness now took a favorable turn. As soon as he was strong enough to leave his bed, the whole family noticed that he had grown. All remarked about it and called each other’s attention to it. No one was better convinced of the fact than Juffrouw Pieterse; for “that boy” had “outgrown all of his clothes,” and it would not be easy “to fit him out respectably again.” So much interesting notoriety and respectability had been reaped from Walter’s illness that it was only natural that his convalescence should be turned to the best account.The child would sit and fill in the colors in pictures. The doctor had presented him the pictures and a box of colors. The latter, so Stoffel said, were the genuine English article.Oh, such pictures!Walter was interested especially by pictures from the opera and the tragedy. There were pictures from Macbeth, Othello, Lear, Hamlet, from “The Magic Flute,” “The Barber of Seville,” “Der Freischütz,” and from still a few more—each one always more romantic than the last. In selecting suitable colors for his heroes and heroines, Walter had the advice of the entire family, including Leentje. Usually there was disagreement, but that only made the matter more important. In only two details were they agreed: facesand hands were to have flesh-color, and lips were to be painted red. It had always been that way; otherwise, why was it called flesh-color? On account of this arrangement Hamlet came off rather badly, receiving a much more animated countenance than was suited to his melancholy.“I wish I knew what the dolls mean,” said Walter. He was talking about his pictures.“It’s only necessary to ask Stoffel,” his mother replied. “Wait till he comes from school.”Walter asked him. Stoffel—there are more such people in the world—would never admit that he did not know a thing; and he always knew how to appear knowing.“What the dolls mean? Well, you see—those are, so to say, the pictures of various persons. There, for instance, the one with a crown on his head—that is a king.”“I told you Stoffel could explain them,” corroborated his mother.“Yes, but I should have liked to know what king, and what he did.”“Well! There it is at the bottom. You can read it, can’t you?”“Macbeth?”“Certainly. It’s Macbeth, a famous king of ancient times.”“And that one there with a sword in his hand?”“Also a king, or a general, or a hero, or something of the kind—somebody that wants to fight. Perhaps David, or Saul, or Alexander the Great. That’s not to be taken so exactly.”“And the lady with the flowers? She seems to be tearing them up.”“That one? Show her to me: Ophelia. Yes, that’s Ophelia. Don’t you know?”“Yes. Why does she throw the leaves on the ground?”“Why? why? The questions you do ask!”Here the mother came to the rescue of her eldest son.“Yes, Walter, you mustn’t ask more questions than anybody can answer.”Walter did not ask any more questions, but he determined to get to the bottom of the matter at the first opportunity. His imagination roamed over immeasurable domains—such an insatiate conqueror was the little emperor Walter in his night-jacket!He associated the heroes of his pictures with the doctor, who had been so friendly to him, and with his immortal Glorioso. The Peruvian story, too, furnished a few subjects for his empire. He married Telasco to Juliet; and the priests of the sun got their rights again. Master Pennewip received a new wig, but of gold-colored threads, on the model of the straw crown of a certain King Lear. Persons that he could see from the window were numbered among his subjects. He had to do something; and this foreign material was preferable to that in his immediate surroundings. Even Lady Macbeth, who was washing her hands and not looking particularly pleasing, seemed to him to be of a higher order than his mother or Juffrouw Laps.In fact, for him those pictures were the greatest things in the world. He was carried away with the crowns, diadems, plumes, iron gratings over the faces, with the swords and the daggers with cross-hilts to swear on—with the trains and puff-sleeves and girdles with pendents of gold—and the pages. All this had nothing in common with his everyday surroundings. How is it possible, he thought, that anyone who has such beautiful pictures should sell them? The doctor must have inherited them!Even if he had known that Lady Macbeth was the personification of crime, it would still have seemed to him a profanation to bring her into contact with the plebeian commonness around him.All at once something in Ophelia’s form reminded him of Femke. She too could stand that way, plucking the petals from the flowers and strewing them on the ground.He had dim recollections of what had happened, and occasionally he would ask indifferently about “that girl.” He was afraid to speak her name before Gertrude, Mina, and Pietro. He was always answered in tones that showed him that there was no room for his romance there; but he promised himself to visit her as soon as he got up.“When you’re better you must go to see the doctor and thank him for curing you—but thank God first; and then you can show him what you’ve painted.”“Of course, mother! I will give her the Prince of Denmark—I mean him, the doctor.”“But be careful not to soil it; and don’t forget thatthe ghost of the old knight must be very pale. Stoffel said so—because it’s a ghost, you see.”“Yes, mother, I’ll make it white.”“Good. And you’ll make the lady there yellow?” pointing with a knitting-needle to Ophelia.“No, no,” cried Walter quickly, “she was blue!”“She was? Who was?”“I only mean that I have so much yellow already, and I wanted to make her—this one—Ophelia—I wanted to make her blue. That one washing her hands can stay yellow.”“So far as I’m concerned,” the mother said, “but don’t soil it!”Stoffel, in the meantime, had got on the track of those pictures. He was slick and had an inquiring mind. One of his colleagues at school, who was in some way connected with the stage, told him that such costume-pictures were of great value to players. He also told him other things about these pictures and about the play in general.It was fortunate for Walter that Stoffel brought this knowledge home with him. Even to-day there are people who find something immoral in the words “Theatre” and “Player”; but at that time it was still worse. The satisfaction, however, of imparting knowledge and appearing wise put Stoffel in an attitude of mind on this occasion that ordinarily would have been irreconcilable with that narrowness which with him took the place of conscience.“You see, mother, there are comedies and comedies. Some are sad, some funny. Some are all nonsense, and there’s nothing to be learned from them; but thereare comedies so sad that the people wail when they see them—even respectable people!”“Is it possible!”“Yes, and then there are others where there’s music and singing. They are nice, and moral too. They are called operas; and people who are entirely respectable go there. You see, mother, there’s nothing bad about it; and we ought not to be so narrow. The old Greeks had comedies, and our professors still study them.”“Is it possible!”“Walter’s pictures are from real comedies; but I can’t tell all the details now. I will only say there are good comedies.”“You must tell Juffrouw Laps. She always says——”“And what does she know about it? She never saw a comedy in her life.”That was the truth; but it was just as true of the Pieterse family—with the exception of Leentje.One afternoon Leentje had complained of a terrible headache and had left off sewing and gone out. Later it was learned that she had not spent the evening with her mother; and then there was a perfect storm. But Leentje would not say where she had been that night. “That night” was Juffrouw Pieterse’s expression, though she knew that the girl was at home by eleven o’clock. Leentje betrayed nothing. She had promised the dressmaker next door not to say anything; for the dressmaker had to be very careful, because her husband was a hypocrite.In Leentje’s work-box was found a mutilated program;and then one day she began to sing a song she had never sung before—“I’m full of honor, I’m full of honor; oh, yes, I’m a man of honor!”And then it was all out! She had been to the Elandstraat and had seen the famous Ivan Gras in a comedy!Leentje began to cry and was going to promise never to do so again, when, to her amazement, she was told that there was nothing wrong in it, and that even the greatest professors went to see comedies.And now she must tell them about it.It was “The Child of Love,”byKotzebue, that had greeted her astonished eyes.“There was music, Juffrouw, and they played beautifully; and then the curtain went up, and there was a great forest, and a woman wept under a tree. There was a Baron who made her son a prisoner, because he was a hunter—but he spoke so nice, and his mother, too. The Baron said he was master on his place, and that he would punish such thieves. He was in a great rage. And then the mother said—no, somebody else came and said—but then the curtain went down. The dressmaker bought waffles that were being passed around, and we drank chocolate. The dressmaker said that every day wasn’t a feast day. A man sat behind us and explained everything and took our cups when they were empty. Then the band played, ‘Pretty girls and pretty flowers.’”“Shame!” cried the three young ladies. For it was a common street song.“And then the curtain went up again of its ownaccord; but the gentleman behind us said somebody raised it—perhaps the ‘Child of Love’ himself, for he was not in prison when the curtain was down. The dressmaker gave him a peppermint-drop, and he said: ‘Watch the stage, Juffrouw, for you have paid to see it.’ It cost twelve stivers, without the waffles and chocolate. Then the Baron said—but I can’t tell it all exactly as it was. I will only say that the old woman wept all the time, and she could not be reconciled, because she was so unhappy. You see, Juffrouw, the child of love was her own child; and it was also the Baron’s child of love. That was bad—because it was just a child of love, you see; and that is always bad. He had no papers, no credentials; nor the mother, either. And he was to die because he had hunted. Oh, it was beautiful, Juffrouw! And then the curtain went down again and we ate another waffle. The gentleman behind us said it was well that they gave plays with prison scenes in them. There were so many bad people in the hall, such as pickpockets and the like, and this would be a warning for them. The dressmaker was going to offer him another mint-drop, when she saw that her box was gone. It was silver. The gentleman said of course some pickpocket had taken it.”“He was the pickpocket!” exclaimed several.Leentje was indignant at the idea.“No, no! Don’t say that; it’s a sin. He was a very respectable gentleman, and addressed me as Juffrouw, just as he did the dressmaker. He tried to find the thief. He asked where the Juffrouw lived,and said that if he found the box he would bring it to her. He wore a fancy vest—no, no, no. Don’t say that of him!”“Well, tell some more about the child of love.” All were interested.“Oh, the music was so nice! And a gentleman showed them with a stick how to play.”“But tell us about the comedy!”“That is not so easy. It was very beautiful. It must be seen; it can’t be told. The Baron saw that the hunter in prison was his own son; because a long time before, you see, that is—formerly, he had been acquainted with—you understand——”Poor Leentje turned as red as fire, and left her audience in a temporary suspense.“Yes, he hadknownthe old woman formerly, and then they were good friends, and were often together—I will just tell it that way—and they were to marry, but something came between them; and so—and—for that reason the comedy was called the ‘Child of Love.’”Walter listened with as much interest as the others; but he was less affected than the girls, who sat quietly staring into space. Stoffel felt called upon to say something.“That’s it! He abused her chastity—that’s the way it’s spoken of—and she was left to bear the disgrace. The youth of to-day cannot be warned enough against this. How often have I told the boys at school!”“Listen, Walter, and pay attention to what Stoffel says!”Encouraged by the approval of his mother, Stoffel continued.“Yes, mother, virtue must be revered. That is God’s will; and what God does is well done. Of all sins sensual pleasure is—a very great sin, because it is forbidden; and because all sins are punished, either in this world or in the next.”“Do you hear, Walter?”“Here, or in the next world, mother! Innocent pleasure, yes; but sensual pleasure—it is forbidden! It loosens all the ties of human society. You see that such a comedy can be very fine. Only you must understand it properly—that’s the idea.”“And what did the Baron do then?”“Ah, Juffrouw, what shall I say! He talked a whole lot to the old woman, and was very sad because he had—away back there—because he had——”“Seduced her,” added Stoffel, seeing that Leentje couldn’t find the word. “That’s what it’s called.”“Yes, that’s what she said, too; and he promised never to do it again. And then he told the child of love always to follow the path of virtue, and that he would marry the old woman. She was satisfied with the arrangement.”“I suppose so,” cried the three girls in a breath. “She will be a rich baroness!”“Yes,” said Leentje, “she became a great lady. And then the child of love fell on the Baron’s neck; and they played ‘Bridal Wreath.’ The ‘Child of Love’ became a hussar and sang, ‘I’m full of honor, I’m full of honor; Oh, I’m a man of honor!’I don’t know what became of the old Baron. And then we went home; but the dressmaker took no more pleasure in the play now, because her silver box was gone. I don’t know whether the gentleman ever brought it to her, or not.”The play was out.The girls thought: “Baroness!”Stoffel was thinking: “Virtue!”The mother’s thoughts ran: “Twelve stivers for a ticket, and waffles and chocolate extra!”Walter was saying to himself: “A hunter! A whole year in the forest, in the great forest, and alone. I’d like to do it, too.”He took up his brush and looked at Ophelia: “To be alone in the great forest with—Femke!”But the theatre question was far from being settled. Leentje had to clear up many doubtful points yet. For instance, Pietro wanted to know how old the woman was when the Baron finally married her. Leentje thought she must have been about sixty.Also Juffrouw Laps had to express her opinion. She declared that she was opposed to everything “worldly,” and insisted that Walter be sent to church.Later she got into a big dispute over the theatre with Master Pennewip, whom Stoffel had brought in to reinforce his position. He had brought with him “Floris the Fifth,” that powerful comedy by the nobleBilderdyk. With many declensions and conjugations and remarks on rhyme and metre, he explained, firstly, that “Floris the Fifth” was a play from which muchcould be learned; and, secondly, that the theatre was something very moral and thoroughly respectable.To be sure, he failed to convince Juffrouw Laps. Nor was Walter greatly impressed by that masterpiece, despite the fact that there were three deaths in it. He much preferred the beautiful story of Glorioso, or the Peruvian story—or even Little RedRiding Hood.

Walter’s illness now took a favorable turn. As soon as he was strong enough to leave his bed, the whole family noticed that he had grown. All remarked about it and called each other’s attention to it. No one was better convinced of the fact than Juffrouw Pieterse; for “that boy” had “outgrown all of his clothes,” and it would not be easy “to fit him out respectably again.” So much interesting notoriety and respectability had been reaped from Walter’s illness that it was only natural that his convalescence should be turned to the best account.

The child would sit and fill in the colors in pictures. The doctor had presented him the pictures and a box of colors. The latter, so Stoffel said, were the genuine English article.

Oh, such pictures!

Walter was interested especially by pictures from the opera and the tragedy. There were pictures from Macbeth, Othello, Lear, Hamlet, from “The Magic Flute,” “The Barber of Seville,” “Der Freischütz,” and from still a few more—each one always more romantic than the last. In selecting suitable colors for his heroes and heroines, Walter had the advice of the entire family, including Leentje. Usually there was disagreement, but that only made the matter more important. In only two details were they agreed: facesand hands were to have flesh-color, and lips were to be painted red. It had always been that way; otherwise, why was it called flesh-color? On account of this arrangement Hamlet came off rather badly, receiving a much more animated countenance than was suited to his melancholy.

“I wish I knew what the dolls mean,” said Walter. He was talking about his pictures.

“It’s only necessary to ask Stoffel,” his mother replied. “Wait till he comes from school.”

Walter asked him. Stoffel—there are more such people in the world—would never admit that he did not know a thing; and he always knew how to appear knowing.

“What the dolls mean? Well, you see—those are, so to say, the pictures of various persons. There, for instance, the one with a crown on his head—that is a king.”

“I told you Stoffel could explain them,” corroborated his mother.

“Yes, but I should have liked to know what king, and what he did.”

“Well! There it is at the bottom. You can read it, can’t you?”

“Macbeth?”

“Certainly. It’s Macbeth, a famous king of ancient times.”

“And that one there with a sword in his hand?”

“Also a king, or a general, or a hero, or something of the kind—somebody that wants to fight. Perhaps David, or Saul, or Alexander the Great. That’s not to be taken so exactly.”

“And the lady with the flowers? She seems to be tearing them up.”

“That one? Show her to me: Ophelia. Yes, that’s Ophelia. Don’t you know?”

“Yes. Why does she throw the leaves on the ground?”

“Why? why? The questions you do ask!”

Here the mother came to the rescue of her eldest son.

“Yes, Walter, you mustn’t ask more questions than anybody can answer.”

Walter did not ask any more questions, but he determined to get to the bottom of the matter at the first opportunity. His imagination roamed over immeasurable domains—such an insatiate conqueror was the little emperor Walter in his night-jacket!

He associated the heroes of his pictures with the doctor, who had been so friendly to him, and with his immortal Glorioso. The Peruvian story, too, furnished a few subjects for his empire. He married Telasco to Juliet; and the priests of the sun got their rights again. Master Pennewip received a new wig, but of gold-colored threads, on the model of the straw crown of a certain King Lear. Persons that he could see from the window were numbered among his subjects. He had to do something; and this foreign material was preferable to that in his immediate surroundings. Even Lady Macbeth, who was washing her hands and not looking particularly pleasing, seemed to him to be of a higher order than his mother or Juffrouw Laps.

In fact, for him those pictures were the greatest things in the world. He was carried away with the crowns, diadems, plumes, iron gratings over the faces, with the swords and the daggers with cross-hilts to swear on—with the trains and puff-sleeves and girdles with pendents of gold—and the pages. All this had nothing in common with his everyday surroundings. How is it possible, he thought, that anyone who has such beautiful pictures should sell them? The doctor must have inherited them!

Even if he had known that Lady Macbeth was the personification of crime, it would still have seemed to him a profanation to bring her into contact with the plebeian commonness around him.

All at once something in Ophelia’s form reminded him of Femke. She too could stand that way, plucking the petals from the flowers and strewing them on the ground.

He had dim recollections of what had happened, and occasionally he would ask indifferently about “that girl.” He was afraid to speak her name before Gertrude, Mina, and Pietro. He was always answered in tones that showed him that there was no room for his romance there; but he promised himself to visit her as soon as he got up.

“When you’re better you must go to see the doctor and thank him for curing you—but thank God first; and then you can show him what you’ve painted.”

“Of course, mother! I will give her the Prince of Denmark—I mean him, the doctor.”

“But be careful not to soil it; and don’t forget thatthe ghost of the old knight must be very pale. Stoffel said so—because it’s a ghost, you see.”

“Yes, mother, I’ll make it white.”

“Good. And you’ll make the lady there yellow?” pointing with a knitting-needle to Ophelia.

“No, no,” cried Walter quickly, “she was blue!”

“She was? Who was?”

“I only mean that I have so much yellow already, and I wanted to make her—this one—Ophelia—I wanted to make her blue. That one washing her hands can stay yellow.”

“So far as I’m concerned,” the mother said, “but don’t soil it!”

Stoffel, in the meantime, had got on the track of those pictures. He was slick and had an inquiring mind. One of his colleagues at school, who was in some way connected with the stage, told him that such costume-pictures were of great value to players. He also told him other things about these pictures and about the play in general.

It was fortunate for Walter that Stoffel brought this knowledge home with him. Even to-day there are people who find something immoral in the words “Theatre” and “Player”; but at that time it was still worse. The satisfaction, however, of imparting knowledge and appearing wise put Stoffel in an attitude of mind on this occasion that ordinarily would have been irreconcilable with that narrowness which with him took the place of conscience.

“You see, mother, there are comedies and comedies. Some are sad, some funny. Some are all nonsense, and there’s nothing to be learned from them; but thereare comedies so sad that the people wail when they see them—even respectable people!”

“Is it possible!”

“Yes, and then there are others where there’s music and singing. They are nice, and moral too. They are called operas; and people who are entirely respectable go there. You see, mother, there’s nothing bad about it; and we ought not to be so narrow. The old Greeks had comedies, and our professors still study them.”

“Is it possible!”

“Walter’s pictures are from real comedies; but I can’t tell all the details now. I will only say there are good comedies.”

“You must tell Juffrouw Laps. She always says——”

“And what does she know about it? She never saw a comedy in her life.”

That was the truth; but it was just as true of the Pieterse family—with the exception of Leentje.

One afternoon Leentje had complained of a terrible headache and had left off sewing and gone out. Later it was learned that she had not spent the evening with her mother; and then there was a perfect storm. But Leentje would not say where she had been that night. “That night” was Juffrouw Pieterse’s expression, though she knew that the girl was at home by eleven o’clock. Leentje betrayed nothing. She had promised the dressmaker next door not to say anything; for the dressmaker had to be very careful, because her husband was a hypocrite.

In Leentje’s work-box was found a mutilated program;and then one day she began to sing a song she had never sung before—“I’m full of honor, I’m full of honor; oh, yes, I’m a man of honor!”

And then it was all out! She had been to the Elandstraat and had seen the famous Ivan Gras in a comedy!

Leentje began to cry and was going to promise never to do so again, when, to her amazement, she was told that there was nothing wrong in it, and that even the greatest professors went to see comedies.

And now she must tell them about it.

It was “The Child of Love,”byKotzebue, that had greeted her astonished eyes.

“There was music, Juffrouw, and they played beautifully; and then the curtain went up, and there was a great forest, and a woman wept under a tree. There was a Baron who made her son a prisoner, because he was a hunter—but he spoke so nice, and his mother, too. The Baron said he was master on his place, and that he would punish such thieves. He was in a great rage. And then the mother said—no, somebody else came and said—but then the curtain went down. The dressmaker bought waffles that were being passed around, and we drank chocolate. The dressmaker said that every day wasn’t a feast day. A man sat behind us and explained everything and took our cups when they were empty. Then the band played, ‘Pretty girls and pretty flowers.’”

“Shame!” cried the three young ladies. For it was a common street song.

“And then the curtain went up again of its ownaccord; but the gentleman behind us said somebody raised it—perhaps the ‘Child of Love’ himself, for he was not in prison when the curtain was down. The dressmaker gave him a peppermint-drop, and he said: ‘Watch the stage, Juffrouw, for you have paid to see it.’ It cost twelve stivers, without the waffles and chocolate. Then the Baron said—but I can’t tell it all exactly as it was. I will only say that the old woman wept all the time, and she could not be reconciled, because she was so unhappy. You see, Juffrouw, the child of love was her own child; and it was also the Baron’s child of love. That was bad—because it was just a child of love, you see; and that is always bad. He had no papers, no credentials; nor the mother, either. And he was to die because he had hunted. Oh, it was beautiful, Juffrouw! And then the curtain went down again and we ate another waffle. The gentleman behind us said it was well that they gave plays with prison scenes in them. There were so many bad people in the hall, such as pickpockets and the like, and this would be a warning for them. The dressmaker was going to offer him another mint-drop, when she saw that her box was gone. It was silver. The gentleman said of course some pickpocket had taken it.”

“He was the pickpocket!” exclaimed several.

Leentje was indignant at the idea.

“No, no! Don’t say that; it’s a sin. He was a very respectable gentleman, and addressed me as Juffrouw, just as he did the dressmaker. He tried to find the thief. He asked where the Juffrouw lived,and said that if he found the box he would bring it to her. He wore a fancy vest—no, no, no. Don’t say that of him!”

“Well, tell some more about the child of love.” All were interested.

“Oh, the music was so nice! And a gentleman showed them with a stick how to play.”

“But tell us about the comedy!”

“That is not so easy. It was very beautiful. It must be seen; it can’t be told. The Baron saw that the hunter in prison was his own son; because a long time before, you see, that is—formerly, he had been acquainted with—you understand——”

Poor Leentje turned as red as fire, and left her audience in a temporary suspense.

“Yes, he hadknownthe old woman formerly, and then they were good friends, and were often together—I will just tell it that way—and they were to marry, but something came between them; and so—and—for that reason the comedy was called the ‘Child of Love.’”

Walter listened with as much interest as the others; but he was less affected than the girls, who sat quietly staring into space. Stoffel felt called upon to say something.

“That’s it! He abused her chastity—that’s the way it’s spoken of—and she was left to bear the disgrace. The youth of to-day cannot be warned enough against this. How often have I told the boys at school!”

“Listen, Walter, and pay attention to what Stoffel says!”

Encouraged by the approval of his mother, Stoffel continued.

“Yes, mother, virtue must be revered. That is God’s will; and what God does is well done. Of all sins sensual pleasure is—a very great sin, because it is forbidden; and because all sins are punished, either in this world or in the next.”

“Do you hear, Walter?”

“Here, or in the next world, mother! Innocent pleasure, yes; but sensual pleasure—it is forbidden! It loosens all the ties of human society. You see that such a comedy can be very fine. Only you must understand it properly—that’s the idea.”

“And what did the Baron do then?”

“Ah, Juffrouw, what shall I say! He talked a whole lot to the old woman, and was very sad because he had—away back there—because he had——”

“Seduced her,” added Stoffel, seeing that Leentje couldn’t find the word. “That’s what it’s called.”

“Yes, that’s what she said, too; and he promised never to do it again. And then he told the child of love always to follow the path of virtue, and that he would marry the old woman. She was satisfied with the arrangement.”

“I suppose so,” cried the three girls in a breath. “She will be a rich baroness!”

“Yes,” said Leentje, “she became a great lady. And then the child of love fell on the Baron’s neck; and they played ‘Bridal Wreath.’ The ‘Child of Love’ became a hussar and sang, ‘I’m full of honor, I’m full of honor; Oh, I’m a man of honor!’I don’t know what became of the old Baron. And then we went home; but the dressmaker took no more pleasure in the play now, because her silver box was gone. I don’t know whether the gentleman ever brought it to her, or not.”

The play was out.

The girls thought: “Baroness!”

Stoffel was thinking: “Virtue!”

The mother’s thoughts ran: “Twelve stivers for a ticket, and waffles and chocolate extra!”

Walter was saying to himself: “A hunter! A whole year in the forest, in the great forest, and alone. I’d like to do it, too.”

He took up his brush and looked at Ophelia: “To be alone in the great forest with—Femke!”

But the theatre question was far from being settled. Leentje had to clear up many doubtful points yet. For instance, Pietro wanted to know how old the woman was when the Baron finally married her. Leentje thought she must have been about sixty.

Also Juffrouw Laps had to express her opinion. She declared that she was opposed to everything “worldly,” and insisted that Walter be sent to church.

Later she got into a big dispute over the theatre with Master Pennewip, whom Stoffel had brought in to reinforce his position. He had brought with him “Floris the Fifth,” that powerful comedy by the nobleBilderdyk. With many declensions and conjugations and remarks on rhyme and metre, he explained, firstly, that “Floris the Fifth” was a play from which muchcould be learned; and, secondly, that the theatre was something very moral and thoroughly respectable.

To be sure, he failed to convince Juffrouw Laps. Nor was Walter greatly impressed by that masterpiece, despite the fact that there were three deaths in it. He much preferred the beautiful story of Glorioso, or the Peruvian story—or even Little RedRiding Hood.

Back to IndexNext