Chapter XXII“A responsible business firm wants a young man (Dt. Ref.) of good family. He must be moral, well-behaved and not under fifteen years old. Prospect of salary if diligent and reliable. Good treatment guaranteed. Address written applications in own handwriting to ‘Business,’ care E. Maaskamp’s book and art store, Nieuwendyk, Amsterdam.”The writer cannot recall what sort of art publications E. Maaskamp was dealing in just at that time, and will not make any guesses, for fear of getting the reader into chronological difficulties. If it should become necessary in writing Walter’s history, the writer would have no compunctions of conscience in putting the republic after Louis, or William I. before the republic.And as for that “Dt. Ref.”—Dutch Reform—in the advertisement—that gives the writer no trouble. He knows very well that “Dt. Ref.” as a necessary qualification for servants, apprentices, etc., was introduced after E. Maaskamp’s pictures had been forgotten. Nevertheless, it must be insisted upon that the aforesaid abbreviation was in the advertisement which was now occupying the undivided attention of the Pieterses.“There couldn’t be anything more fortunate,” said the mother. “What do you think, Stoffel?”“Yes, mother, it couldn’t be better.”“What pleases me especially is the ‘well-behaved.’”“Moral and well-behaved, mother.”“Yes, moral and well-behaved—do you hear, Walter? Just as I have always said. And ‘prospect of salary.’ What do you think of that, Stoffel?”“Yes, mother; but—he must be ‘diligent and reliable.’”“Yes, Walter, you must be diligent and reliable. Haven’t I always told you that? And they require ‘Dt. Ref.’; but you are that, thank God.”“Yes, mother, he’s that all right.”“Stoffel, don’t you think you’d better write the letter?”“But it says ‘in own handwriting.’”“That’s so! But if you write the letter in your own handwriting—that will be better than for such a child to write it.”Stoffel had some difficulty in making it plain to his mother that “own handwriting” meant Walter’s own handwriting; but she finally saw the point, and Walter was given a seat at the table.“Well? What must I write at the top?”“Now, have you forgotten that again? Such a simple thing? Have you got down the date? Then write ‘Gentlemen,’ in business style. It says, ‘responsible business firm.’”“Yes,” said the mother, “and add that your father had a business, too. We sold shoes from Paris. Otherwise they will think we’re only shoemakers.”“And write that you are the first in school.”“And that you belong to the Dutch Reform Church.”“And that you are moral and well-behaved.”“And that you are diligent and reliable. Don’t you see, you may get a salary then right away.”At last the letter was ready. It only remained to stamp it and post it. But why couldn’t the young applicant deliver the letter in person and save the postage? Stoffel thought there would be no impropriety in such a course. Even a responsible business firm ought to overlook such a detail.With a heavy heart Walter started out on his important errand. He was entering the real world, and was about to become a worshiper of the great god of “business.” He was depressed by his lack of confidence, and felt that it was unbecoming in himself to make application to a “responsible business firm.”If he met a man that looked well-to-do, he would ask himself if the gentleman was a “business man,” and belonged to a “responsible business firm.” This last high-sounding expression embodied mysteries which he did not attempt to understand. He would learn it all later.Walter stammered an excuse to the young fellow in the shop for not having sent his letter by post. The fellow didn’t understand him, but threw the letter carelessly into a box containing a few dozen others that were awaiting the favorable consideration of Messrs. Motto, Business & Co.The fellow was busy with some Turkish battles in glaring colors, and declined to enter into any conversationwith our hero. Walter’s mouth watered for a bright picture of Grecian chivalry. But what good did it do? He had no money; and, besides, he was out for business, not for heroic deeds.“Later!” he thought.Arrived at home he received the usual scolding. His mother maintained that he had certainly not entered the shop in a “respectable” manner; otherwise the young gentleman would have given him a friendlier reception. She was afraid that those excellent gentlemen, Motto, Business & Co., would take this into consideration to his detriment.“And you say there were already a whole lot of letters there? You see, Stoffel—if he only isn’t too late! That’s the way—those people would break their necks or be first. And who knows but what some of them are Roman Catholics? I wonder if they all think they’re moral and well-behaved. You can just see what kind of people there are in the world!”Walter had to go back to Maaskamp’s and get the address of the firm in question. The idea was for him to call on the firm in person and thus get ahead of everybody else. Juffrouw Pieterse wanted to bet her ears that not a one of the other applicants could boast of a father who had sold Parisian shoes.“Tell them that! Your father never took a stitch in his life. He didn’t even know how to. It’s only to prove that we had a business, too. He never had an awl in his hand—isn’t it so, Stoffel?”Those eminently respectable gentlemen, Motto, Business & Co., lived—I don’t know where they lived; but they had founded on the Zeedyk a cigar store anda circulating library. It was probably not far from the place where six or eight centuries earlier a few fishermen had founded the greatest commercial city of Europe.Walter found one of those worthy gentlemen behind the counter. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and was engaged in weighing out some snuff for an old woman. “Business” was evidently being carried on.As Walter had formed no conception of “responsible business firm,” he was far from thinking that the gentlemen had claimed too much for themselves. With his peculiar timidity he even reproached himself for not having understood the conception “business” before.Now he understood it. Business meant to stand behind a counter, in shirt-sleeves, and weigh snuff. And, too, on the Zeedyk.The cigar store occupied only half the width of the house, and was connected with the circulating library by a side door. Motto, Business & Co. were simultaneously cultivating two industries: those who didn’t care for snuff or tobacco could get something to read, and vice versa.Over the shelves, on the tobacco side, were posted signs bearing the assurance that something was “manufactured” here. Differing entirely from the Pieterses, these gentlemen seemed to think that to make a thing meant more than merely to sell it. We leave the question undecided.Was it true that this business firm manufactured anything? The only thing they manufactured was the paper bags that were to be pasted together by themoral, well-behaved, diligent and reliable young man who was a member of the Dutch Reform Church.The amount of business done was small, the profits barely paying the rent. The wicked world on the Zeedyk even said that the two blue porcelain vases bearing in old-fashioned letters the inscriptions “Rappee” and “Zinking,” had been borrowed from a second-hand dealer in the neighborhood, and that the good man came by every day to look after his property.The shop was small, and was closed off in the rear by a green curtain, which was calculated to make customers think there was something more beyond. To be exact, therewassomething beyond that curtain. There hung a dilapidated mirror, consoling with a lonely chair, which was now ornamented by the coat of the worthy senior partner; and leaning against the wall was a half-round table, on which a pomatum-pot was making fun of a comb because for years it had been expecting to grow new teeth. Business was not so exacting but that Mr. Motto could devote a little spare time to the improvement of his personal beauty. He had succeeded in developing two beautiful bunches of hair on the sides of his face. They cost him much pains and grease; but they were the delight of all the ladies who entered the shop.“And so you want to go into business, do you?” asked Mr. Motto, after he had given the old woman a “pinch” from the jar. “What all have you studied? Reading, writing, arithmetic, French? Eh? And what are your parents.”“They dealt in shoes—from Paris, M’neer. But Idon’t know French. Arithmetic—yes. Went through Strabbe.”“And you know arithmetic, do you? How much then is a Pietje and a half?”Walter stammered that he didn’t know. Does the reader know?“But you must know that if you expect to calculate. And you don’t know what a Pietje is? Do you know the difference between a sesthalf and a shilling? And between a dollar and a twenty-eight piece? Look——”Mr. Motto pulled out the cash-drawer and seemed to be hunting for a dollar; but for some reason or other he decided to make out with a sesthalf. This he laid on the counter and asked Walter to imagine a shilling lying beside it. He then proceeded to test Walter’s knowledge of business by asking him to point out the differences between the two coins. Mr. Motto claimed that in business one must know these details thoroughly.And Mr. Motto was right about it. At that time there were more different kinds of money in the Netherlands than there are in Germany now. To be able to distinguish the various coins readily and make change accurately a regular course of study was necessary. Just as a law was about to be passed to confer the title, “Doctor of Numismatics,” on examination, the secretary of the treasury discovered that all this trouble could be spared by simplifying the money. He became very unpopular after this.In Walter’s time, though, such a reform had not been thought of. The florin had twenty stivers; the regular Holland dollar had fifty stivers, the Zeelanddollar had forty-two. The dollar was worth a florin and a half, and the gold florin was called a “twenty-eight,” because it contained twenty-eight stivers. The coins were well-worn and seldom exhibited any traces of inscriptions, milling, etc. Matters were further complicated by three-florin pieces and ducats of sixty-three stivers, not to mention any other coins.For Walter the money question was a serious one.“And you don’t know French, either?” in a tone that was scarcely encouraging.“No——” mournfully.“And would your parents put up cash security for you?”Walter didn’t understand the question.“Caution. Don’t you understand? Security! There’s lots of money handled, and I must know who I’m turning the shop over to. And—do you know Danish?”Mr. Motto did not always speak grammatically.“No—M’neer.”“What! Nor Danish, either? But Danish sailors come in here to buy tobacco, and then you need to speak Danish. In a business like this here you must know all languages. That’s the main thing—otherwise your cake’s dough! I’ve even had Greeks to come in here.”Walter’s heart gave a jump. What heroic deeds might they not do on such occasions!“Yes, Greeks; but they were drunk and wanted a smoke for nothing. We don’t do it that way. The main thing is to look out for the little things. Otherwise your cake’s dough, you understand. Yes, inbusiness you must know all languages, otherwise you can’t talk to the customers. That’s the main thing. But that will be all right if your parents can deposit a caution. Sometimes there are at least ten florins in the cash-drawer, you know; and in business a man must have security. That’s the main thing. Otherwise your cake’s dough; you can see that for yourself.”“My father is dead,” said Walter, as if that fact rendered the cash security unnecessary. He didn’t know anything else to say.“That so? Dead! Yes, it often happens. Dead? All right! But haven’t you a mother who can pay for you?”“I—will—ask—her,” Walter stammered.“Certainly. Ask her right away; for you know in business things are done in a hurry. Said, done! That’s the main thing. Otherwise your cake’s dough. Here is another shop, and you will have work to do in there, too—if your mother can put up the money. That’s the main thing.”Mr. Motto conducted Walter into the circulating library. On three sides of the room were bookcases reaching to the rather low ceiling. For the rest, the place was provided with a ladder to be used in gathering such fruits of literature as hung out of reach. And then there was a big, thick book, in which the diligent and reliable young man of Protestant faith was to enroll the names of the people who paid a dubbeltje a week for a book. It’s cheaper now.“You see,” said Mr. Motto, “that is the book, so to say the great book. You understand bookkeeping, don’t you?”Unfortunately Walter had to admit that he had not yet studied that branch.“Nor bookkeeping, either? Boy! that’s the main thing in business. If a man can’t do that his cake’s dough. It’s very simple. You write down who takes out a book, with the day and date and street and number. And when they bring the book back you drawn a line through it; and you’ve got a pretty kettle of fish if you don’t do it. When you don’t know the people you must——”“Ask for a deposit!” cried Walter quickly, rejoiced that he knew something. It’s doubtful if he knew what he was to draw the line through.“Yes, a deposit. A florin a week for a volume. Then, you understand, when a volume’s gone, the cake’s dough with that volume. Later I will explain to you everything about the cigars and tobacco; but first I must know whether your mother—ask her right away! And now I’ve explained everything to you at least half a dozen times. For there’s no lack of boys that want to go into business; but when it comes to Moses and the Prophets—then they set the bow-sails. And that’s the main thing. Otherwise you look a little delicate, but I must know first if your mother can deposit a caution.Adieu!”Walter went home in a peculiar frame of mind. At first the family did not think favorably of that “cash security.” Stoffel, however, had often heard of such things, and negotiations were opened with the said firm. It was finally agreed that a deposit of one hundred florins should be made, for which the firm agreed to pay 3½% interest.JuffrouwPieterse wasnot quite satisfied with this, as she was accustomed to getting 4%; but “one must do something for one’s children.”Stoffel, who represented the Pieterses in these negotiations, was surprised that he never got to see more than the first half of the firm—or, better, the first third. He even took the liberty of remarking on the peculiar circumstance, when he learned that the “Co.” was merely ornamental, while “Business” existed only in Mr. Motto’s imagination. In fact that handsome and worthy gentleman alone constituted the “responsible business firm,” and like an Atlas carried on his broad shoulders all the responsibilities incident to such a complicated and extensive undertaking. It was quite natural that he should desire to put a part of the burden on the back of some diligent, reliable Protestant boy, who could furnish cash security. For that was “the main thing.”On the library side Walter developed a diligence against which only one thing could be urged: it was prejudicial to the tobacco industry adjoining. If he had smoked as much as he read, he would have made himself sick; and even his reading wasn’t the best thing in the world for his health.He devoured everything indiscriminately—whether ripe or green. Most of that literary fruit was green. In a short time he was able to foretell the fate of the hero with a certainty that would have piqued the author. The cleverest literary craftsman couldn’t let the poor orphan boy be as poor as a church mouse for ten pages, but that Walter would see the flashing of the stars and knightly crucifixes with which he wasto be decked out on the last page. One might think this would cause him to lose interest in the book; but, no! He was constant to the end—to the official triumph. For him it would have been a sin to call to the Saxons and Normans a second too soon: “See if Ivanhoe isn’t going to smash that big-mouthed Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert!” And all the time he felt as if he were—Ivanhoe? No, as if he were the deity, who must give the hero strength to overcome that infamous scoundrel, Brian de Bois-Guilbert.Then all at once the door-bell would ring, and the magnanimous Walter would have to occupy himself with things less chivalrous.The only thing he could do in such moments was to weigh accurately, and not give anybody a cigar from the “tens” instead of from the “eights.” Such conscienciousness, however, was futile, for in the cigar-boxes were cigars that ought to have been called “twenties.” Mr. Motto said that the customers were usually drunk, and that it was all right to give them cabbage leaves to smoke. “You must size up your customer. That’s the main thing.”This was something Walter never could learn. With him, ten was ten, eight eight—no matter who the customer was. To take an unfair advantage, or tell a lie never occurred to him. From fear or embarrassment he might possibly tell an untruth; but if he had been asked a second time——As strange as it may seem, this aversion to lying and deception was nourished by the books he read. The brave knight fought till he was victorious, or dead. Only the fatally wounded surrendered. Allthis had Walter’s hearty endorsement: He would not have acted differently. The beautiful heroine was loved by everybody; and the rejected suitors died of despair, or joined some desperate band. All quite proper. The good remained steadfast, in spite of the Devil and all his machinations—yes, in spite of tedium. Once selected by the author to be a high-toned, moral hero—then spotless garments! Walter wondered if such a one could have a pain in the stomach, or suffer other inconvenience. Certainly not in books!He did not know that such perfection was humbug. He was satisfied when the characters in such novels did what was required of them by the author. The villains were always betraying somebody; the heroes killed everything that got in their way; and the beautiful virgins charmed everybody. Even God, the God of romance, did his duty much better than—but that’s another detail.Yesterday on the Zeedyk a big boy had beaten a little fellow. That ought to happen in a book. How all the knights would have come running! Walter, too, was going to—but how could he help it if his employer called him back? “What in the devil have you got to do with that? Your work is here in the store. You attend to your own business now, and don’t mix yourself in other people’s brawls. That’s the main thing!”As a rule of conduct, this was not just what Walter was used to in his novels.Despite such interruptions he continued his reading. He was almost ready to begin on the last section ofbooks, when he came to the store one morning and found everything locked up and under seal.The worthy Mr. Motto, it seems, had gone to America, as a sailor; and doubtless that was the “main thing.” The unfortunate owner of the two snuff-vases had a big law suit over them. The point was whether they were a part of the assets, or not.On the Zeedyk at Amsterdam such processes must be tried according to Roman law; but as the Romans did not use snuff there is nothing said about “Rappee” in the Roman laws. The writer doesn’t know how the matter finally turned out. It is to be hoped that everybody got what was coming to him.Juffrouw Pieterse, however, did not recover her hundred florins; and, as usual, she groaned: “There’s always trouble with this boy.”Walter couldn’t help her. He had his own troubles: he had been cruelly interrupted in his reading. Of course the mysterious parentage of the young robber was perfectly clear to him; but still one likes to see whether one has guessed correctly, or not.Chapter XXIII“Do you think stivers grow on my back?” asked the mother the next day. “You still don’t earn a doit! Do you have to buy tobacco for old soldiers?”Walter had nothing to say. Recently his mother had given him a shilling to give to Holsma’s maid. Walter neglected to do this, and spent one stiver of the money on snuff for an old soldier.The mother continued her tirade, making use of the word “prodigue,” prodigal.“No, mother,” said Stoffel, “that isn’t it. He’s behind in everything. He doesn’t know yet how to handle money, that’s it!”“Yes. He doesn’t know how to handle money! All the other children at his age—when they have a stiver they either save it or buy themselves something. And he—what does he do? He goes and gives it away! Boy, boy, will you never learn any sense?”Walter was cut to the quick by the accusation of wastefulness and prodigality. In his eyes a prodigal was somebody, a man! “Prodigue, prodigue,” he murmured. He knew the word.In one of the bedrooms hung a series of crude, highly colored pictures illustrating the story of the prodigal son. The pictures were French; and a studyof the titles convinced the family that “prodigue” could mean nothing but prodigal in the worst sense,i. e., “lost.” Stoffel had maintained this proposition against one of his colleagues, till that one drew a lexicon on him.After much argument it was decided to compromise on the “mistake” in the French Bible by allowing “prodigue” to have sometimes the meaning of “extravagant.” Those pictures had afforded Walter much food for thought.First picture:The “lost” or prodigal son tells his father good-bye. The old gentleman wears a purple coat. Very pretty—but the prodigal himself! A mantle floated about his shoulders—it seemed to be windy in the colonnade. It was princely; and his turkish trousers were of pure gold. At his side was a bent sabre, and on his head a turban, with a stone in it—certainly onyx, or sardonox, or a pearl, or a precious stone—or whatever it might be!The old gentleman seemed to be out of humor; but no wonder—all those loaded camels, and the slaves, and all the accessories for that long, long journey! A negro, as black as pitch, was holding a horse by the rein. Another negro was holding the stirrup, and seemed to say: “Off to the Devil; prodigal, get on!”What boy wouldn’t have been a prodigal son? The bent sabre alone was worth the sin.Second picture:Hm—hm. Wicked, wicked! Why, certainly; but not for Walter, who in his innocence attached no importance to the extravagant dresses of the “Juffrouwen.” It was sufficient that all were eating and drinking bountifully, and that theywere in goodspiritsand enjoying themselves. How prettily one of the girls, in glossy silk, was leaning over the shoulder of the “lost” one! How much nicer to be lost than found!—anyway, that was the impression the feast made on Walter. The true purpose of the picture—to deter people from a life of dissoluteness—escaped Walter entirely. Perhaps he knew what it meant; but in his heart he felt that it meant something else. What attracted him most was not the food and drink, under which the table “groaned,” nor the sinful sensuality painted on the faces of the ladies. It was the freedom and unconventionality of the company that charmed him. In order to emphasize the idea of prodigality, the painter had allowed some big dogs to upset an open cask of wine.The wine was streaming, and straying away as if it were the lost sinner. This pleased Walter immensely. None of the guests seemed to notice such a small trifle, not even the waiters. This ought to have happened just once in the Pieterse home—and even if it were only a stein of beer!The artist says to himself, Do you suppose I didn’t foresee the seductive influence of such a picture? The next one makes it all right!Well, maybe so.Third picture:Magnificent. How romantic this wilderness! Oh, to sit there on that boulder and stare into the immeasurable depths of the universe—alone!To think, think, think!No schoolmaster, no mother, brother, or anyone tosay what he must do with his heart, with his time, with his elbows, or with his breeches! That’s the way Walter saw it. The young man there didn’t even have on breeches; and he looked as if he wouldn’t have been ashamed to stretch himself out on his back, with his arms over his head, and watch with wide-open eyes the passing of the moon and stars. Walter asked himself what he would think of when he had founded such an empire of solitude.Hm! Femke could sit on the boulder with him. Prodigal son—oh, sin divine with her! He was surprised that in the whole Bible there was only one prodigal son. Of all sins this seemed to him the most seductive.And the desert was so—endurable. There were trees in it, which one could climb, when one really got lost, or use to build a nice little cabin—for Femke, of course.The prodigal in the picture didn’t seem to have thought of all that. Why wasn’t the Juffrouw in green silk with him? She will come soon, Walter said to himself. Perhaps she’s not quite through with her prodigality. If she would only hurry up and come! He longs for her. But that is the only annoyance that a genuine prodigal takes with him from the profane world into that capital wilderness.It must be remarked in passing, however, that the hogs with which that picture was equipped looked ugly. The pious artist had made them shield-bearers of sin, and had supplied their physiognomies with all kinds of horrible features. And, too, the trough looked dirty.If it happens to me, said Walter, I’ll take sheep with me; and Femke can card the wool.The artist ought to admit that even this third picture is inadequate to inspire a proper disgust for prodigality.And the fourth one? No better.The old gentleman is excessively friendly. We are again in the colonnade, where the camels have just waited so patiently. One of the slaves clasps his hands and looks toward heaven—because he’s glad, of course, that little Walter has come back.He? The real Walter? Returned home, and friendly received in his high rank of a “has-been” and “recovered” prodigal? Oh, no!And that fatted calf! In direct opposition to the custom that was familiar to Walter! It worried the boy. Juffrouw Pieterse never slaughtered anything. She ran a weekly account with Keesje’s father; and even a roast was a rarity.There was no prospect of a fatted calf, whether he became a prodigal or not. But that didn’t keep the rank of a prodigal from being higher than that of a stupid boy who didn’t know how to handle money.He was encouraged to think that he was indebted to his friendly enemy, Juffrouw Laps, for something. She always cited the Bible, and spoke continually of feeding swine. Walter wanted to answer: “That’s very nice, Juffrouw Laps, but can’t it be sheep this time?”He knew very well that she had never had any passion for carding, and consequently was not interestedin that blue muffler, which would be so becoming to Femke’s favorite sheep.But she assured him that he was a prodigal; and that was enough.“That’s what I’ve always said!” replied Juffrouw Pieterse. “What does he do but squander his mother’s money? If that man wants snuff, let him buy it. The king pays him. I have to work too hard for my money. Don’t I, Stoffel?”“Yes, mother; but it’s only childishness in Walter!”“Childishness! That’s what I call it.”“No it isn’t!” cried the pious Laps. “He’s on the straight road to the trough of Luke 15. He will eat husks! Do you think the Master doesn’t carry out his parables? Just send him to me. The pastors are to blame for it. They don’t explain the Bible. Send him to me.”“If I only knew how he gets such things into his head!”“You don’t know? It’s arrogance!”She spoke the truth.“Arrogance, Arrogance pure and simple—just as it was in Belshazzar, or Sennacherib, or Nebuchadnezzar.”How thankful Walter was! If at this moment he had had a letter to write—preferably to Femke—he would have boasted of being as wicked as three old kings put together.“Arrogance!” repeated Juffrouw Laps. “Gold on top, iron in the middle, and feet of clay. The Master will overthrow him. Send him to me.”This invitation to turn over the royal villain to her for religious instruction was repeated so often that it was necessary to give her an answer.“But, dear Juffrouw, the boy don’t want to. He’s stubborn; and what can one do with such a child?”Walter knew that his mother was not quite truthful; but, after his former experience with his friendly enemy, he found it desirable to keep quiet. When pressed, however, for an explanation he said:“The man wanted snuff, and nobody would give him any; so I——”Juffrouw Laps knew enough. Walter was as good as her prisoner: she now knew exactly how to take his fortifications, if they could be taken at all.“If he doesn’t want to come to me, don’t compel him,” she said sweetly on leaving. “To force him won’t do any good. Let him exercise his own pleasure. I’m afraid you pick at the child too much, anyway. What an awful fuss we’ve made over a stiver!”“That’s what I say, too,” replied the mother. “It looks as if we begrudged him the money! We could have spared another stiver, and we wouldn’t have missed it, would we, Stoffel?”“Yes, mother, but it’s time for Walter——”“Goodness, what a hullaballoo to raise about a few pinches of snuff! The Master will repay it seven times seventy times. Whatever ye have done to the least of my brothers——”With this consoling passage on her lips she took her leave of the astonished family.Yes, it wasn’t so easy to see through Juffrouw Laps!Chapter XXIVIn his efforts to reconcile the various conflicting authorities contesting for supremacy in his soul, Walter threw himself into a severe spell of blues. He was not conscious of the contrast between the world of his high-flown fancy and the earthy environment of his home-life. The sympathetic care which he should have received after his illness had not fallen to his lot.He felt dejected.“Femke!” he thought; and he longed for her fresh healthy face, for her pure, unselfish glance, for her friendly smile. The Fancy that had led him away to the stars in search of his misty sister had got lodged on that girl of the Amsterdam lowlands, Femke—with her unpoetical length, breadth, thickness, and weight.“I am going to see her,” he cried. “I will! And if Mrs. Claus asks me about worms a dozen times, it’s all the same to me; I am going to see her!”Walter reached the house and knocked. “Come in!” someone called. This was a little sudden, for it took some time to get hold of the latch. But Walter did it. Perhaps he was thinking of Missolonghi.The Turks that he saw now were not revolting in appearance. They were unarmed and did not murder a single baby.But—Femke was not in the party.Mrs. Claus was at the wash-tub, while Father Jansen was quietly smoking.“Is that you, young man? Very nice! That’s the young man who gave Femke the picture, you remember, father?”The father nodded to him kindly and smoked away, without manifesting any special Godliness.“Yes, Juffrouw, I wanted to——”“Very nice of you! Won’t you have a slice of bread and butter? And how is your mother? Is she better now? She was sick, wasn’t she? That’s a good boy, father. Femke said so. Is your mother better again? It was fever, wasn’t it? or apoplexy—or what was it then?”“Oh, no! Juffrouw.”“You mustn’t call me Juffrouw. I am only a wash-woman. Everyone must stay in his own class, mustn’t he, father? Well, it’s all the better; I thought she had been sick. It must have been somebody else. One has so much to think of. Do you like cheese?”The good woman prepared a slice of bread and butter, with cheese. If Trudie could have seen it, she would have fainted. In the “citizen’s class,” such and such a sub-class, according to Pennewip, is found a certain scantiness that does not obtain in the common laboring class. In the matter of eating, laborers, who do not invest their money in Geneva, are not troubled so much by “good form” as people who give their children French names.Walter had never seen such a slice of bread. He didn’t know whether he ought to bite through thewidth, or the thickness. The bit of cheese gave him his cue.He liked Mrs. Claus much better this time. And Father Jansen, too; even if he wasn’t like Walter had imagined him to be.He had never conceived a preacher as being anything else but a very supernatural and spiritual and celestial sort of person. Father Jansen didn’t seem to be that kind of a man at all.He visited the sheep of his fold, especially the plain people, not to make a display of beneficence—for he had nothing, but because he was happiest among simple people. He was fond of bread and butter of the Mrs. Claus variety. For the rest, he said mass, preached about sin, catechised, confirmed, absolved, and did whatever needed to be done. He performed the functions of his office, and did not think it at all strange that he should have gone into the church, while his brother in Nordbrabant succeeded to the business of his father, who was a farrier and inn-keeper.“And what are you going to be?” he asked Walter; “for everybody in the world must be something. Wouldn’t you like to be a bookbinder? That’s a good trade.”“I was—I was in business, M’neer; and I’m going back to business.”“That’s good, my boy. You may get rich. Especially here in Amsterdam; for Amsterdam is a commercial city.”Walter wanted to add: “The greatest commercial city of Europe.” But he was abashed by the—worldlinessof Father Jansen’s talk. He didn’t find it disagreeable: he was merely surprised at it.“A boy like you ought to eat a lot. You look pale. My brother can bend a horseshoe. What do you say to that? Have you ever eaten our Brabant bread? Ham isn’t bad, either. A person that doesn’t eat enough gets weak. I always eat two slices of bread and butter whenever I’m here at Mrs. Claus’s; but I’m not nearly so strong as my brother. You ought to see the Vucht fair. That’s a great time.”Walter was more than surprised to hear such talk from a preacher: he was almost pleased. He had never received such charming messages from heaven. Of course they came from heaven, those friendly words uttered in Brabant dialect between the puffs of Father Jansen’s pipe. This man in a priest’s coat chattered away as if there were no such thing in the world as God, Grace, and Hell—especially the latter. He was as happy as a child in telling about the strength of his brother, the horseshoer. It was his business to lead the world to eternal happiness; and he liked thick slices of bread and butter with cheese.Walter had never had religious things opened up to him so delightfully. He felt encouraged to speak:“M’neer, I would like to know who God is!”Father Jansen started, and looked at Walter as if he hadn’t clearly understood the question.“Yes—that’s very praiseworthy in you. You must——”“But, father,” cried Mrs. Claus, “the child isn’t in the church! Are you?”—to Walter.“Yes, Juffrouw, I have been confirmed.”“To be sure, to be sure, but——”“On the Noordermarkt!”“Well, you see he’s in the church all right.”The good woman didn’t have the heart—or else she had too much heart—to tell the father that it wasn’t the right church.“Whoever wants to get acquainted with God,” said Father Jansen, “must study diligently.”“To be sure,” said Mrs. Claus, “the articles of faith. You ought to hear my Femke repeat them. It’s a pleasure, isn’t it, father? She’s my only child, but—she’s a girl worth having!”“Yes, Femke is an excellent girl. I don’t have any trouble with her.”The father spoke in a business-like manner; and he meant it that way. The spots on Femke’s soul were easily removed. He praised Femke as a cook would praise a kitchen-pot.Father Jansen had still more praise for Femke: she had patched his drawers so nicely.Oh, Fancy!The mention of this fact did not touch Walter’s æsthetic feelings. With him there were other considerations. Fancy was used to seeing everything nude—fathers, humanity—so there was no difficulty here.Walter was sixteen years old, already a little man—why must Femke patch drawers for this father!“Yes,” said the mother. “Femke is clever at patching. If you’ve got anything else that needs mending, just send it over.”Walter was warm. If it had been collars, socks,waistcoats, or—well, if it had to be something questionable—if it had only been trousers!“Just send it over, and if Femke isn’t here——”“Where is she going to be?” thought Walter.“Then I will attend to it myself. I can do it neatly.”Thank God! Dear, good, magnificent Mrs. Claus! Do it, do it yourself, and leave Femke where she is.But—where was she?Thus Walter’s thoughts; but what did he say?—the hypocrite, the budding man.“Yes, indeed, Mrs. Claus, I had almost forgotten to ask where your daughter Femke is.”“Femke? She’s at my niece’s, where the girl is sick. You know we’re of good family. Femke is looking after my niece’s children.”Walter didn’t have the courage to ask where this niece lived, so he assumed a look of contentment.After much waiting and twisting and turning on his chair, Walter finally left the house with Father Jansen. He had not yet learned how to end a visit: some people never learn it.“Don’t you want to do me a favor?” said the good man. “Then walk on my right side. I’m deaf here”—pointing to his left ear.“I will tell you how it happened. When I was a little boy—are you a good climber?”“No, M’neer!”“Well, I am! In the whole of Vucht there wasn’t a boy who could climb as well as I could. Do you know what I did once? I climbed up and slipped a flower-pot from a third-story window. And—mypriest wasn’t in a good humor at all! He didn’t want to accept me till I had returned that flower-pot; and then I had to go and beg the old woman’s pardon. And she herself went to the priest to intercede for me. Then he accepted me. But I got twenty ‘confiteors’—oh, he was severe!“But I was going to tell you why I’m deaf in the left ear.“In one of the seminaries was a student—he’s a canonicus in the Rhine country, and will get to be a cardinal, perhaps pope, for—he was very sly! I will tell you, his name was—Rake; but, you understand, his name was really something else. This Rake was a mean rascal; but he was never punished, because he was careful. See if he doesn’t get to be a cardinal, or pope! You ought to hear him quote from the Vulgate. He could rattle away for three hours and never made a mistake.” * * *“Are you perfectly crazy, boy, or what is the matter with you? Walking with a priest! What in the name of the Lord are you thinking about? Go in the house—quick! Jesu, what troubles I have with that child!”With these words Juffrouw Pieterse broke off Walter’s acquaintance with Father Jansen for this time.The way that the father and Walter had taken led them directly by Walter’s home. Juffrouw Pieterse, who was haggling with a Jew over the price of a basket of potatoes, narrowly escaped a stroke of apoplexy when she saw them together.“With a priest!—Stoffel! Come down quick—that boy is walking with a priest!”Tears rose in Walter’s eyes. He had found Father Jansen a good man, and was grieved that that gentleman should meet with such a reception.It is to be hoped that those rude words were received by his left ear. In fact, this seemed to be the case, for when Walter said that he was at home now and that his mother was calling him, Father Jansen answered kindly:“So? You live there? Then I will tell you the next time why I am so deaf in my left ear—entirely deaf, you understand!”Thank God, Walter thought, and wiped away his tears. In his eyes his mother had committed a sin so grave that about fifty “confiteors” would be necessary for its expiation.“Oh, yes. I was going to tell you——”With these words Father Jansen turned around again. He continued: “The flower-pot of the old lady, Juffrouw Dungelaar, you know—it wasn’t for the flowers, you understand, nor for the pot, but only because I could climb so well. Otherwise—one mustn’t take anything away, even if it is so high up.Adieu, young man!”After giving Juffrouw Pieterse a friendly greeting that she did not deserve, the man continued on his way.Stoffel said that to walk with a priest was “simply preposterous.”“As if he were crazy!” said Juffrouw Pieterse.“Yes,” agreed Stoffel, “but it’s because he has nothing to do but loaf around. If that keeps up, he will never amount to anything.”True, Walter was loafing around; but he was not idle. His activities brought nothing palpable to light, still he was building up the inner life in a manner of which Stoffel had no idea.“Of course!” said the mother. “He must have work. If he were only willing to be a compositor! or an apprentice in the shoe-business. To make shoes—that he shall never do.”“This running with priests comes only from idleness, mother. Do I run with priests? Never. Why not? Because I have to go to my school every day!”“Yes, Stoffel, you go to your school every day.”“Besides, there are good priests. There was Luther, for instance. He was a sort of priest. What did he do?”“Yes, I know. He reformed the people.”“He made them Lutherans, mother; but that’s almost the same thing. One mustn’t be narrow-minded.”“That’s what I say, Stoffel, people ought not to be so narrow-minded. What difference does it make what a person’s religion is, just so he’s upright, and not a Roman Catholic!”When Walter told Father Jansen that he “was in business,” and that he was “going back to business,” he spoke better than he himself knew. He did go back to business.Through a leather-dealer, who, speaking commercially, was in close touch with shoes that came from Paris, Walter got a position with a firm whose “responsibility” was somewhat less apocryphal than that of Messrs. Motto, Business & Co. He was to begin his new apprenticeship in the offices of Messrs.Ouwetyd & Kopperlith, a firm of world-wide reputation.However, before he was to enter upon his new duties, all sorts of things were destined to happen, with the tendency to make Walter appear as a “hero of romance,” which he wasn’t at all.
Chapter XXII“A responsible business firm wants a young man (Dt. Ref.) of good family. He must be moral, well-behaved and not under fifteen years old. Prospect of salary if diligent and reliable. Good treatment guaranteed. Address written applications in own handwriting to ‘Business,’ care E. Maaskamp’s book and art store, Nieuwendyk, Amsterdam.”The writer cannot recall what sort of art publications E. Maaskamp was dealing in just at that time, and will not make any guesses, for fear of getting the reader into chronological difficulties. If it should become necessary in writing Walter’s history, the writer would have no compunctions of conscience in putting the republic after Louis, or William I. before the republic.And as for that “Dt. Ref.”—Dutch Reform—in the advertisement—that gives the writer no trouble. He knows very well that “Dt. Ref.” as a necessary qualification for servants, apprentices, etc., was introduced after E. Maaskamp’s pictures had been forgotten. Nevertheless, it must be insisted upon that the aforesaid abbreviation was in the advertisement which was now occupying the undivided attention of the Pieterses.“There couldn’t be anything more fortunate,” said the mother. “What do you think, Stoffel?”“Yes, mother, it couldn’t be better.”“What pleases me especially is the ‘well-behaved.’”“Moral and well-behaved, mother.”“Yes, moral and well-behaved—do you hear, Walter? Just as I have always said. And ‘prospect of salary.’ What do you think of that, Stoffel?”“Yes, mother; but—he must be ‘diligent and reliable.’”“Yes, Walter, you must be diligent and reliable. Haven’t I always told you that? And they require ‘Dt. Ref.’; but you are that, thank God.”“Yes, mother, he’s that all right.”“Stoffel, don’t you think you’d better write the letter?”“But it says ‘in own handwriting.’”“That’s so! But if you write the letter in your own handwriting—that will be better than for such a child to write it.”Stoffel had some difficulty in making it plain to his mother that “own handwriting” meant Walter’s own handwriting; but she finally saw the point, and Walter was given a seat at the table.“Well? What must I write at the top?”“Now, have you forgotten that again? Such a simple thing? Have you got down the date? Then write ‘Gentlemen,’ in business style. It says, ‘responsible business firm.’”“Yes,” said the mother, “and add that your father had a business, too. We sold shoes from Paris. Otherwise they will think we’re only shoemakers.”“And write that you are the first in school.”“And that you belong to the Dutch Reform Church.”“And that you are moral and well-behaved.”“And that you are diligent and reliable. Don’t you see, you may get a salary then right away.”At last the letter was ready. It only remained to stamp it and post it. But why couldn’t the young applicant deliver the letter in person and save the postage? Stoffel thought there would be no impropriety in such a course. Even a responsible business firm ought to overlook such a detail.With a heavy heart Walter started out on his important errand. He was entering the real world, and was about to become a worshiper of the great god of “business.” He was depressed by his lack of confidence, and felt that it was unbecoming in himself to make application to a “responsible business firm.”If he met a man that looked well-to-do, he would ask himself if the gentleman was a “business man,” and belonged to a “responsible business firm.” This last high-sounding expression embodied mysteries which he did not attempt to understand. He would learn it all later.Walter stammered an excuse to the young fellow in the shop for not having sent his letter by post. The fellow didn’t understand him, but threw the letter carelessly into a box containing a few dozen others that were awaiting the favorable consideration of Messrs. Motto, Business & Co.The fellow was busy with some Turkish battles in glaring colors, and declined to enter into any conversationwith our hero. Walter’s mouth watered for a bright picture of Grecian chivalry. But what good did it do? He had no money; and, besides, he was out for business, not for heroic deeds.“Later!” he thought.Arrived at home he received the usual scolding. His mother maintained that he had certainly not entered the shop in a “respectable” manner; otherwise the young gentleman would have given him a friendlier reception. She was afraid that those excellent gentlemen, Motto, Business & Co., would take this into consideration to his detriment.“And you say there were already a whole lot of letters there? You see, Stoffel—if he only isn’t too late! That’s the way—those people would break their necks or be first. And who knows but what some of them are Roman Catholics? I wonder if they all think they’re moral and well-behaved. You can just see what kind of people there are in the world!”Walter had to go back to Maaskamp’s and get the address of the firm in question. The idea was for him to call on the firm in person and thus get ahead of everybody else. Juffrouw Pieterse wanted to bet her ears that not a one of the other applicants could boast of a father who had sold Parisian shoes.“Tell them that! Your father never took a stitch in his life. He didn’t even know how to. It’s only to prove that we had a business, too. He never had an awl in his hand—isn’t it so, Stoffel?”Those eminently respectable gentlemen, Motto, Business & Co., lived—I don’t know where they lived; but they had founded on the Zeedyk a cigar store anda circulating library. It was probably not far from the place where six or eight centuries earlier a few fishermen had founded the greatest commercial city of Europe.Walter found one of those worthy gentlemen behind the counter. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and was engaged in weighing out some snuff for an old woman. “Business” was evidently being carried on.As Walter had formed no conception of “responsible business firm,” he was far from thinking that the gentlemen had claimed too much for themselves. With his peculiar timidity he even reproached himself for not having understood the conception “business” before.Now he understood it. Business meant to stand behind a counter, in shirt-sleeves, and weigh snuff. And, too, on the Zeedyk.The cigar store occupied only half the width of the house, and was connected with the circulating library by a side door. Motto, Business & Co. were simultaneously cultivating two industries: those who didn’t care for snuff or tobacco could get something to read, and vice versa.Over the shelves, on the tobacco side, were posted signs bearing the assurance that something was “manufactured” here. Differing entirely from the Pieterses, these gentlemen seemed to think that to make a thing meant more than merely to sell it. We leave the question undecided.Was it true that this business firm manufactured anything? The only thing they manufactured was the paper bags that were to be pasted together by themoral, well-behaved, diligent and reliable young man who was a member of the Dutch Reform Church.The amount of business done was small, the profits barely paying the rent. The wicked world on the Zeedyk even said that the two blue porcelain vases bearing in old-fashioned letters the inscriptions “Rappee” and “Zinking,” had been borrowed from a second-hand dealer in the neighborhood, and that the good man came by every day to look after his property.The shop was small, and was closed off in the rear by a green curtain, which was calculated to make customers think there was something more beyond. To be exact, therewassomething beyond that curtain. There hung a dilapidated mirror, consoling with a lonely chair, which was now ornamented by the coat of the worthy senior partner; and leaning against the wall was a half-round table, on which a pomatum-pot was making fun of a comb because for years it had been expecting to grow new teeth. Business was not so exacting but that Mr. Motto could devote a little spare time to the improvement of his personal beauty. He had succeeded in developing two beautiful bunches of hair on the sides of his face. They cost him much pains and grease; but they were the delight of all the ladies who entered the shop.“And so you want to go into business, do you?” asked Mr. Motto, after he had given the old woman a “pinch” from the jar. “What all have you studied? Reading, writing, arithmetic, French? Eh? And what are your parents.”“They dealt in shoes—from Paris, M’neer. But Idon’t know French. Arithmetic—yes. Went through Strabbe.”“And you know arithmetic, do you? How much then is a Pietje and a half?”Walter stammered that he didn’t know. Does the reader know?“But you must know that if you expect to calculate. And you don’t know what a Pietje is? Do you know the difference between a sesthalf and a shilling? And between a dollar and a twenty-eight piece? Look——”Mr. Motto pulled out the cash-drawer and seemed to be hunting for a dollar; but for some reason or other he decided to make out with a sesthalf. This he laid on the counter and asked Walter to imagine a shilling lying beside it. He then proceeded to test Walter’s knowledge of business by asking him to point out the differences between the two coins. Mr. Motto claimed that in business one must know these details thoroughly.And Mr. Motto was right about it. At that time there were more different kinds of money in the Netherlands than there are in Germany now. To be able to distinguish the various coins readily and make change accurately a regular course of study was necessary. Just as a law was about to be passed to confer the title, “Doctor of Numismatics,” on examination, the secretary of the treasury discovered that all this trouble could be spared by simplifying the money. He became very unpopular after this.In Walter’s time, though, such a reform had not been thought of. The florin had twenty stivers; the regular Holland dollar had fifty stivers, the Zeelanddollar had forty-two. The dollar was worth a florin and a half, and the gold florin was called a “twenty-eight,” because it contained twenty-eight stivers. The coins were well-worn and seldom exhibited any traces of inscriptions, milling, etc. Matters were further complicated by three-florin pieces and ducats of sixty-three stivers, not to mention any other coins.For Walter the money question was a serious one.“And you don’t know French, either?” in a tone that was scarcely encouraging.“No——” mournfully.“And would your parents put up cash security for you?”Walter didn’t understand the question.“Caution. Don’t you understand? Security! There’s lots of money handled, and I must know who I’m turning the shop over to. And—do you know Danish?”Mr. Motto did not always speak grammatically.“No—M’neer.”“What! Nor Danish, either? But Danish sailors come in here to buy tobacco, and then you need to speak Danish. In a business like this here you must know all languages. That’s the main thing—otherwise your cake’s dough! I’ve even had Greeks to come in here.”Walter’s heart gave a jump. What heroic deeds might they not do on such occasions!“Yes, Greeks; but they were drunk and wanted a smoke for nothing. We don’t do it that way. The main thing is to look out for the little things. Otherwise your cake’s dough, you understand. Yes, inbusiness you must know all languages, otherwise you can’t talk to the customers. That’s the main thing. But that will be all right if your parents can deposit a caution. Sometimes there are at least ten florins in the cash-drawer, you know; and in business a man must have security. That’s the main thing. Otherwise your cake’s dough; you can see that for yourself.”“My father is dead,” said Walter, as if that fact rendered the cash security unnecessary. He didn’t know anything else to say.“That so? Dead! Yes, it often happens. Dead? All right! But haven’t you a mother who can pay for you?”“I—will—ask—her,” Walter stammered.“Certainly. Ask her right away; for you know in business things are done in a hurry. Said, done! That’s the main thing. Otherwise your cake’s dough. Here is another shop, and you will have work to do in there, too—if your mother can put up the money. That’s the main thing.”Mr. Motto conducted Walter into the circulating library. On three sides of the room were bookcases reaching to the rather low ceiling. For the rest, the place was provided with a ladder to be used in gathering such fruits of literature as hung out of reach. And then there was a big, thick book, in which the diligent and reliable young man of Protestant faith was to enroll the names of the people who paid a dubbeltje a week for a book. It’s cheaper now.“You see,” said Mr. Motto, “that is the book, so to say the great book. You understand bookkeeping, don’t you?”Unfortunately Walter had to admit that he had not yet studied that branch.“Nor bookkeeping, either? Boy! that’s the main thing in business. If a man can’t do that his cake’s dough. It’s very simple. You write down who takes out a book, with the day and date and street and number. And when they bring the book back you drawn a line through it; and you’ve got a pretty kettle of fish if you don’t do it. When you don’t know the people you must——”“Ask for a deposit!” cried Walter quickly, rejoiced that he knew something. It’s doubtful if he knew what he was to draw the line through.“Yes, a deposit. A florin a week for a volume. Then, you understand, when a volume’s gone, the cake’s dough with that volume. Later I will explain to you everything about the cigars and tobacco; but first I must know whether your mother—ask her right away! And now I’ve explained everything to you at least half a dozen times. For there’s no lack of boys that want to go into business; but when it comes to Moses and the Prophets—then they set the bow-sails. And that’s the main thing. Otherwise you look a little delicate, but I must know first if your mother can deposit a caution.Adieu!”Walter went home in a peculiar frame of mind. At first the family did not think favorably of that “cash security.” Stoffel, however, had often heard of such things, and negotiations were opened with the said firm. It was finally agreed that a deposit of one hundred florins should be made, for which the firm agreed to pay 3½% interest.JuffrouwPieterse wasnot quite satisfied with this, as she was accustomed to getting 4%; but “one must do something for one’s children.”Stoffel, who represented the Pieterses in these negotiations, was surprised that he never got to see more than the first half of the firm—or, better, the first third. He even took the liberty of remarking on the peculiar circumstance, when he learned that the “Co.” was merely ornamental, while “Business” existed only in Mr. Motto’s imagination. In fact that handsome and worthy gentleman alone constituted the “responsible business firm,” and like an Atlas carried on his broad shoulders all the responsibilities incident to such a complicated and extensive undertaking. It was quite natural that he should desire to put a part of the burden on the back of some diligent, reliable Protestant boy, who could furnish cash security. For that was “the main thing.”On the library side Walter developed a diligence against which only one thing could be urged: it was prejudicial to the tobacco industry adjoining. If he had smoked as much as he read, he would have made himself sick; and even his reading wasn’t the best thing in the world for his health.He devoured everything indiscriminately—whether ripe or green. Most of that literary fruit was green. In a short time he was able to foretell the fate of the hero with a certainty that would have piqued the author. The cleverest literary craftsman couldn’t let the poor orphan boy be as poor as a church mouse for ten pages, but that Walter would see the flashing of the stars and knightly crucifixes with which he wasto be decked out on the last page. One might think this would cause him to lose interest in the book; but, no! He was constant to the end—to the official triumph. For him it would have been a sin to call to the Saxons and Normans a second too soon: “See if Ivanhoe isn’t going to smash that big-mouthed Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert!” And all the time he felt as if he were—Ivanhoe? No, as if he were the deity, who must give the hero strength to overcome that infamous scoundrel, Brian de Bois-Guilbert.Then all at once the door-bell would ring, and the magnanimous Walter would have to occupy himself with things less chivalrous.The only thing he could do in such moments was to weigh accurately, and not give anybody a cigar from the “tens” instead of from the “eights.” Such conscienciousness, however, was futile, for in the cigar-boxes were cigars that ought to have been called “twenties.” Mr. Motto said that the customers were usually drunk, and that it was all right to give them cabbage leaves to smoke. “You must size up your customer. That’s the main thing.”This was something Walter never could learn. With him, ten was ten, eight eight—no matter who the customer was. To take an unfair advantage, or tell a lie never occurred to him. From fear or embarrassment he might possibly tell an untruth; but if he had been asked a second time——As strange as it may seem, this aversion to lying and deception was nourished by the books he read. The brave knight fought till he was victorious, or dead. Only the fatally wounded surrendered. Allthis had Walter’s hearty endorsement: He would not have acted differently. The beautiful heroine was loved by everybody; and the rejected suitors died of despair, or joined some desperate band. All quite proper. The good remained steadfast, in spite of the Devil and all his machinations—yes, in spite of tedium. Once selected by the author to be a high-toned, moral hero—then spotless garments! Walter wondered if such a one could have a pain in the stomach, or suffer other inconvenience. Certainly not in books!He did not know that such perfection was humbug. He was satisfied when the characters in such novels did what was required of them by the author. The villains were always betraying somebody; the heroes killed everything that got in their way; and the beautiful virgins charmed everybody. Even God, the God of romance, did his duty much better than—but that’s another detail.Yesterday on the Zeedyk a big boy had beaten a little fellow. That ought to happen in a book. How all the knights would have come running! Walter, too, was going to—but how could he help it if his employer called him back? “What in the devil have you got to do with that? Your work is here in the store. You attend to your own business now, and don’t mix yourself in other people’s brawls. That’s the main thing!”As a rule of conduct, this was not just what Walter was used to in his novels.Despite such interruptions he continued his reading. He was almost ready to begin on the last section ofbooks, when he came to the store one morning and found everything locked up and under seal.The worthy Mr. Motto, it seems, had gone to America, as a sailor; and doubtless that was the “main thing.” The unfortunate owner of the two snuff-vases had a big law suit over them. The point was whether they were a part of the assets, or not.On the Zeedyk at Amsterdam such processes must be tried according to Roman law; but as the Romans did not use snuff there is nothing said about “Rappee” in the Roman laws. The writer doesn’t know how the matter finally turned out. It is to be hoped that everybody got what was coming to him.Juffrouw Pieterse, however, did not recover her hundred florins; and, as usual, she groaned: “There’s always trouble with this boy.”Walter couldn’t help her. He had his own troubles: he had been cruelly interrupted in his reading. Of course the mysterious parentage of the young robber was perfectly clear to him; but still one likes to see whether one has guessed correctly, or not.
“A responsible business firm wants a young man (Dt. Ref.) of good family. He must be moral, well-behaved and not under fifteen years old. Prospect of salary if diligent and reliable. Good treatment guaranteed. Address written applications in own handwriting to ‘Business,’ care E. Maaskamp’s book and art store, Nieuwendyk, Amsterdam.”
The writer cannot recall what sort of art publications E. Maaskamp was dealing in just at that time, and will not make any guesses, for fear of getting the reader into chronological difficulties. If it should become necessary in writing Walter’s history, the writer would have no compunctions of conscience in putting the republic after Louis, or William I. before the republic.
And as for that “Dt. Ref.”—Dutch Reform—in the advertisement—that gives the writer no trouble. He knows very well that “Dt. Ref.” as a necessary qualification for servants, apprentices, etc., was introduced after E. Maaskamp’s pictures had been forgotten. Nevertheless, it must be insisted upon that the aforesaid abbreviation was in the advertisement which was now occupying the undivided attention of the Pieterses.
“There couldn’t be anything more fortunate,” said the mother. “What do you think, Stoffel?”
“Yes, mother, it couldn’t be better.”
“What pleases me especially is the ‘well-behaved.’”
“Moral and well-behaved, mother.”
“Yes, moral and well-behaved—do you hear, Walter? Just as I have always said. And ‘prospect of salary.’ What do you think of that, Stoffel?”
“Yes, mother; but—he must be ‘diligent and reliable.’”
“Yes, Walter, you must be diligent and reliable. Haven’t I always told you that? And they require ‘Dt. Ref.’; but you are that, thank God.”
“Yes, mother, he’s that all right.”
“Stoffel, don’t you think you’d better write the letter?”
“But it says ‘in own handwriting.’”
“That’s so! But if you write the letter in your own handwriting—that will be better than for such a child to write it.”
Stoffel had some difficulty in making it plain to his mother that “own handwriting” meant Walter’s own handwriting; but she finally saw the point, and Walter was given a seat at the table.
“Well? What must I write at the top?”
“Now, have you forgotten that again? Such a simple thing? Have you got down the date? Then write ‘Gentlemen,’ in business style. It says, ‘responsible business firm.’”
“Yes,” said the mother, “and add that your father had a business, too. We sold shoes from Paris. Otherwise they will think we’re only shoemakers.”
“And write that you are the first in school.”
“And that you belong to the Dutch Reform Church.”
“And that you are moral and well-behaved.”
“And that you are diligent and reliable. Don’t you see, you may get a salary then right away.”
At last the letter was ready. It only remained to stamp it and post it. But why couldn’t the young applicant deliver the letter in person and save the postage? Stoffel thought there would be no impropriety in such a course. Even a responsible business firm ought to overlook such a detail.
With a heavy heart Walter started out on his important errand. He was entering the real world, and was about to become a worshiper of the great god of “business.” He was depressed by his lack of confidence, and felt that it was unbecoming in himself to make application to a “responsible business firm.”
If he met a man that looked well-to-do, he would ask himself if the gentleman was a “business man,” and belonged to a “responsible business firm.” This last high-sounding expression embodied mysteries which he did not attempt to understand. He would learn it all later.
Walter stammered an excuse to the young fellow in the shop for not having sent his letter by post. The fellow didn’t understand him, but threw the letter carelessly into a box containing a few dozen others that were awaiting the favorable consideration of Messrs. Motto, Business & Co.
The fellow was busy with some Turkish battles in glaring colors, and declined to enter into any conversationwith our hero. Walter’s mouth watered for a bright picture of Grecian chivalry. But what good did it do? He had no money; and, besides, he was out for business, not for heroic deeds.
“Later!” he thought.
Arrived at home he received the usual scolding. His mother maintained that he had certainly not entered the shop in a “respectable” manner; otherwise the young gentleman would have given him a friendlier reception. She was afraid that those excellent gentlemen, Motto, Business & Co., would take this into consideration to his detriment.
“And you say there were already a whole lot of letters there? You see, Stoffel—if he only isn’t too late! That’s the way—those people would break their necks or be first. And who knows but what some of them are Roman Catholics? I wonder if they all think they’re moral and well-behaved. You can just see what kind of people there are in the world!”
Walter had to go back to Maaskamp’s and get the address of the firm in question. The idea was for him to call on the firm in person and thus get ahead of everybody else. Juffrouw Pieterse wanted to bet her ears that not a one of the other applicants could boast of a father who had sold Parisian shoes.
“Tell them that! Your father never took a stitch in his life. He didn’t even know how to. It’s only to prove that we had a business, too. He never had an awl in his hand—isn’t it so, Stoffel?”
Those eminently respectable gentlemen, Motto, Business & Co., lived—I don’t know where they lived; but they had founded on the Zeedyk a cigar store anda circulating library. It was probably not far from the place where six or eight centuries earlier a few fishermen had founded the greatest commercial city of Europe.
Walter found one of those worthy gentlemen behind the counter. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and was engaged in weighing out some snuff for an old woman. “Business” was evidently being carried on.
As Walter had formed no conception of “responsible business firm,” he was far from thinking that the gentlemen had claimed too much for themselves. With his peculiar timidity he even reproached himself for not having understood the conception “business” before.
Now he understood it. Business meant to stand behind a counter, in shirt-sleeves, and weigh snuff. And, too, on the Zeedyk.
The cigar store occupied only half the width of the house, and was connected with the circulating library by a side door. Motto, Business & Co. were simultaneously cultivating two industries: those who didn’t care for snuff or tobacco could get something to read, and vice versa.
Over the shelves, on the tobacco side, were posted signs bearing the assurance that something was “manufactured” here. Differing entirely from the Pieterses, these gentlemen seemed to think that to make a thing meant more than merely to sell it. We leave the question undecided.
Was it true that this business firm manufactured anything? The only thing they manufactured was the paper bags that were to be pasted together by themoral, well-behaved, diligent and reliable young man who was a member of the Dutch Reform Church.
The amount of business done was small, the profits barely paying the rent. The wicked world on the Zeedyk even said that the two blue porcelain vases bearing in old-fashioned letters the inscriptions “Rappee” and “Zinking,” had been borrowed from a second-hand dealer in the neighborhood, and that the good man came by every day to look after his property.
The shop was small, and was closed off in the rear by a green curtain, which was calculated to make customers think there was something more beyond. To be exact, therewassomething beyond that curtain. There hung a dilapidated mirror, consoling with a lonely chair, which was now ornamented by the coat of the worthy senior partner; and leaning against the wall was a half-round table, on which a pomatum-pot was making fun of a comb because for years it had been expecting to grow new teeth. Business was not so exacting but that Mr. Motto could devote a little spare time to the improvement of his personal beauty. He had succeeded in developing two beautiful bunches of hair on the sides of his face. They cost him much pains and grease; but they were the delight of all the ladies who entered the shop.
“And so you want to go into business, do you?” asked Mr. Motto, after he had given the old woman a “pinch” from the jar. “What all have you studied? Reading, writing, arithmetic, French? Eh? And what are your parents.”
“They dealt in shoes—from Paris, M’neer. But Idon’t know French. Arithmetic—yes. Went through Strabbe.”
“And you know arithmetic, do you? How much then is a Pietje and a half?”
Walter stammered that he didn’t know. Does the reader know?
“But you must know that if you expect to calculate. And you don’t know what a Pietje is? Do you know the difference between a sesthalf and a shilling? And between a dollar and a twenty-eight piece? Look——”
Mr. Motto pulled out the cash-drawer and seemed to be hunting for a dollar; but for some reason or other he decided to make out with a sesthalf. This he laid on the counter and asked Walter to imagine a shilling lying beside it. He then proceeded to test Walter’s knowledge of business by asking him to point out the differences between the two coins. Mr. Motto claimed that in business one must know these details thoroughly.
And Mr. Motto was right about it. At that time there were more different kinds of money in the Netherlands than there are in Germany now. To be able to distinguish the various coins readily and make change accurately a regular course of study was necessary. Just as a law was about to be passed to confer the title, “Doctor of Numismatics,” on examination, the secretary of the treasury discovered that all this trouble could be spared by simplifying the money. He became very unpopular after this.
In Walter’s time, though, such a reform had not been thought of. The florin had twenty stivers; the regular Holland dollar had fifty stivers, the Zeelanddollar had forty-two. The dollar was worth a florin and a half, and the gold florin was called a “twenty-eight,” because it contained twenty-eight stivers. The coins were well-worn and seldom exhibited any traces of inscriptions, milling, etc. Matters were further complicated by three-florin pieces and ducats of sixty-three stivers, not to mention any other coins.
For Walter the money question was a serious one.
“And you don’t know French, either?” in a tone that was scarcely encouraging.
“No——” mournfully.
“And would your parents put up cash security for you?”
Walter didn’t understand the question.
“Caution. Don’t you understand? Security! There’s lots of money handled, and I must know who I’m turning the shop over to. And—do you know Danish?”
Mr. Motto did not always speak grammatically.
“No—M’neer.”
“What! Nor Danish, either? But Danish sailors come in here to buy tobacco, and then you need to speak Danish. In a business like this here you must know all languages. That’s the main thing—otherwise your cake’s dough! I’ve even had Greeks to come in here.”
Walter’s heart gave a jump. What heroic deeds might they not do on such occasions!
“Yes, Greeks; but they were drunk and wanted a smoke for nothing. We don’t do it that way. The main thing is to look out for the little things. Otherwise your cake’s dough, you understand. Yes, inbusiness you must know all languages, otherwise you can’t talk to the customers. That’s the main thing. But that will be all right if your parents can deposit a caution. Sometimes there are at least ten florins in the cash-drawer, you know; and in business a man must have security. That’s the main thing. Otherwise your cake’s dough; you can see that for yourself.”
“My father is dead,” said Walter, as if that fact rendered the cash security unnecessary. He didn’t know anything else to say.
“That so? Dead! Yes, it often happens. Dead? All right! But haven’t you a mother who can pay for you?”
“I—will—ask—her,” Walter stammered.
“Certainly. Ask her right away; for you know in business things are done in a hurry. Said, done! That’s the main thing. Otherwise your cake’s dough. Here is another shop, and you will have work to do in there, too—if your mother can put up the money. That’s the main thing.”
Mr. Motto conducted Walter into the circulating library. On three sides of the room were bookcases reaching to the rather low ceiling. For the rest, the place was provided with a ladder to be used in gathering such fruits of literature as hung out of reach. And then there was a big, thick book, in which the diligent and reliable young man of Protestant faith was to enroll the names of the people who paid a dubbeltje a week for a book. It’s cheaper now.
“You see,” said Mr. Motto, “that is the book, so to say the great book. You understand bookkeeping, don’t you?”
Unfortunately Walter had to admit that he had not yet studied that branch.
“Nor bookkeeping, either? Boy! that’s the main thing in business. If a man can’t do that his cake’s dough. It’s very simple. You write down who takes out a book, with the day and date and street and number. And when they bring the book back you drawn a line through it; and you’ve got a pretty kettle of fish if you don’t do it. When you don’t know the people you must——”
“Ask for a deposit!” cried Walter quickly, rejoiced that he knew something. It’s doubtful if he knew what he was to draw the line through.
“Yes, a deposit. A florin a week for a volume. Then, you understand, when a volume’s gone, the cake’s dough with that volume. Later I will explain to you everything about the cigars and tobacco; but first I must know whether your mother—ask her right away! And now I’ve explained everything to you at least half a dozen times. For there’s no lack of boys that want to go into business; but when it comes to Moses and the Prophets—then they set the bow-sails. And that’s the main thing. Otherwise you look a little delicate, but I must know first if your mother can deposit a caution.Adieu!”
Walter went home in a peculiar frame of mind. At first the family did not think favorably of that “cash security.” Stoffel, however, had often heard of such things, and negotiations were opened with the said firm. It was finally agreed that a deposit of one hundred florins should be made, for which the firm agreed to pay 3½% interest.JuffrouwPieterse wasnot quite satisfied with this, as she was accustomed to getting 4%; but “one must do something for one’s children.”
Stoffel, who represented the Pieterses in these negotiations, was surprised that he never got to see more than the first half of the firm—or, better, the first third. He even took the liberty of remarking on the peculiar circumstance, when he learned that the “Co.” was merely ornamental, while “Business” existed only in Mr. Motto’s imagination. In fact that handsome and worthy gentleman alone constituted the “responsible business firm,” and like an Atlas carried on his broad shoulders all the responsibilities incident to such a complicated and extensive undertaking. It was quite natural that he should desire to put a part of the burden on the back of some diligent, reliable Protestant boy, who could furnish cash security. For that was “the main thing.”
On the library side Walter developed a diligence against which only one thing could be urged: it was prejudicial to the tobacco industry adjoining. If he had smoked as much as he read, he would have made himself sick; and even his reading wasn’t the best thing in the world for his health.
He devoured everything indiscriminately—whether ripe or green. Most of that literary fruit was green. In a short time he was able to foretell the fate of the hero with a certainty that would have piqued the author. The cleverest literary craftsman couldn’t let the poor orphan boy be as poor as a church mouse for ten pages, but that Walter would see the flashing of the stars and knightly crucifixes with which he wasto be decked out on the last page. One might think this would cause him to lose interest in the book; but, no! He was constant to the end—to the official triumph. For him it would have been a sin to call to the Saxons and Normans a second too soon: “See if Ivanhoe isn’t going to smash that big-mouthed Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert!” And all the time he felt as if he were—Ivanhoe? No, as if he were the deity, who must give the hero strength to overcome that infamous scoundrel, Brian de Bois-Guilbert.
Then all at once the door-bell would ring, and the magnanimous Walter would have to occupy himself with things less chivalrous.
The only thing he could do in such moments was to weigh accurately, and not give anybody a cigar from the “tens” instead of from the “eights.” Such conscienciousness, however, was futile, for in the cigar-boxes were cigars that ought to have been called “twenties.” Mr. Motto said that the customers were usually drunk, and that it was all right to give them cabbage leaves to smoke. “You must size up your customer. That’s the main thing.”
This was something Walter never could learn. With him, ten was ten, eight eight—no matter who the customer was. To take an unfair advantage, or tell a lie never occurred to him. From fear or embarrassment he might possibly tell an untruth; but if he had been asked a second time——
As strange as it may seem, this aversion to lying and deception was nourished by the books he read. The brave knight fought till he was victorious, or dead. Only the fatally wounded surrendered. Allthis had Walter’s hearty endorsement: He would not have acted differently. The beautiful heroine was loved by everybody; and the rejected suitors died of despair, or joined some desperate band. All quite proper. The good remained steadfast, in spite of the Devil and all his machinations—yes, in spite of tedium. Once selected by the author to be a high-toned, moral hero—then spotless garments! Walter wondered if such a one could have a pain in the stomach, or suffer other inconvenience. Certainly not in books!
He did not know that such perfection was humbug. He was satisfied when the characters in such novels did what was required of them by the author. The villains were always betraying somebody; the heroes killed everything that got in their way; and the beautiful virgins charmed everybody. Even God, the God of romance, did his duty much better than—but that’s another detail.
Yesterday on the Zeedyk a big boy had beaten a little fellow. That ought to happen in a book. How all the knights would have come running! Walter, too, was going to—but how could he help it if his employer called him back? “What in the devil have you got to do with that? Your work is here in the store. You attend to your own business now, and don’t mix yourself in other people’s brawls. That’s the main thing!”
As a rule of conduct, this was not just what Walter was used to in his novels.
Despite such interruptions he continued his reading. He was almost ready to begin on the last section ofbooks, when he came to the store one morning and found everything locked up and under seal.
The worthy Mr. Motto, it seems, had gone to America, as a sailor; and doubtless that was the “main thing.” The unfortunate owner of the two snuff-vases had a big law suit over them. The point was whether they were a part of the assets, or not.
On the Zeedyk at Amsterdam such processes must be tried according to Roman law; but as the Romans did not use snuff there is nothing said about “Rappee” in the Roman laws. The writer doesn’t know how the matter finally turned out. It is to be hoped that everybody got what was coming to him.
Juffrouw Pieterse, however, did not recover her hundred florins; and, as usual, she groaned: “There’s always trouble with this boy.”
Walter couldn’t help her. He had his own troubles: he had been cruelly interrupted in his reading. Of course the mysterious parentage of the young robber was perfectly clear to him; but still one likes to see whether one has guessed correctly, or not.
Chapter XXIII“Do you think stivers grow on my back?” asked the mother the next day. “You still don’t earn a doit! Do you have to buy tobacco for old soldiers?”Walter had nothing to say. Recently his mother had given him a shilling to give to Holsma’s maid. Walter neglected to do this, and spent one stiver of the money on snuff for an old soldier.The mother continued her tirade, making use of the word “prodigue,” prodigal.“No, mother,” said Stoffel, “that isn’t it. He’s behind in everything. He doesn’t know yet how to handle money, that’s it!”“Yes. He doesn’t know how to handle money! All the other children at his age—when they have a stiver they either save it or buy themselves something. And he—what does he do? He goes and gives it away! Boy, boy, will you never learn any sense?”Walter was cut to the quick by the accusation of wastefulness and prodigality. In his eyes a prodigal was somebody, a man! “Prodigue, prodigue,” he murmured. He knew the word.In one of the bedrooms hung a series of crude, highly colored pictures illustrating the story of the prodigal son. The pictures were French; and a studyof the titles convinced the family that “prodigue” could mean nothing but prodigal in the worst sense,i. e., “lost.” Stoffel had maintained this proposition against one of his colleagues, till that one drew a lexicon on him.After much argument it was decided to compromise on the “mistake” in the French Bible by allowing “prodigue” to have sometimes the meaning of “extravagant.” Those pictures had afforded Walter much food for thought.First picture:The “lost” or prodigal son tells his father good-bye. The old gentleman wears a purple coat. Very pretty—but the prodigal himself! A mantle floated about his shoulders—it seemed to be windy in the colonnade. It was princely; and his turkish trousers were of pure gold. At his side was a bent sabre, and on his head a turban, with a stone in it—certainly onyx, or sardonox, or a pearl, or a precious stone—or whatever it might be!The old gentleman seemed to be out of humor; but no wonder—all those loaded camels, and the slaves, and all the accessories for that long, long journey! A negro, as black as pitch, was holding a horse by the rein. Another negro was holding the stirrup, and seemed to say: “Off to the Devil; prodigal, get on!”What boy wouldn’t have been a prodigal son? The bent sabre alone was worth the sin.Second picture:Hm—hm. Wicked, wicked! Why, certainly; but not for Walter, who in his innocence attached no importance to the extravagant dresses of the “Juffrouwen.” It was sufficient that all were eating and drinking bountifully, and that theywere in goodspiritsand enjoying themselves. How prettily one of the girls, in glossy silk, was leaning over the shoulder of the “lost” one! How much nicer to be lost than found!—anyway, that was the impression the feast made on Walter. The true purpose of the picture—to deter people from a life of dissoluteness—escaped Walter entirely. Perhaps he knew what it meant; but in his heart he felt that it meant something else. What attracted him most was not the food and drink, under which the table “groaned,” nor the sinful sensuality painted on the faces of the ladies. It was the freedom and unconventionality of the company that charmed him. In order to emphasize the idea of prodigality, the painter had allowed some big dogs to upset an open cask of wine.The wine was streaming, and straying away as if it were the lost sinner. This pleased Walter immensely. None of the guests seemed to notice such a small trifle, not even the waiters. This ought to have happened just once in the Pieterse home—and even if it were only a stein of beer!The artist says to himself, Do you suppose I didn’t foresee the seductive influence of such a picture? The next one makes it all right!Well, maybe so.Third picture:Magnificent. How romantic this wilderness! Oh, to sit there on that boulder and stare into the immeasurable depths of the universe—alone!To think, think, think!No schoolmaster, no mother, brother, or anyone tosay what he must do with his heart, with his time, with his elbows, or with his breeches! That’s the way Walter saw it. The young man there didn’t even have on breeches; and he looked as if he wouldn’t have been ashamed to stretch himself out on his back, with his arms over his head, and watch with wide-open eyes the passing of the moon and stars. Walter asked himself what he would think of when he had founded such an empire of solitude.Hm! Femke could sit on the boulder with him. Prodigal son—oh, sin divine with her! He was surprised that in the whole Bible there was only one prodigal son. Of all sins this seemed to him the most seductive.And the desert was so—endurable. There were trees in it, which one could climb, when one really got lost, or use to build a nice little cabin—for Femke, of course.The prodigal in the picture didn’t seem to have thought of all that. Why wasn’t the Juffrouw in green silk with him? She will come soon, Walter said to himself. Perhaps she’s not quite through with her prodigality. If she would only hurry up and come! He longs for her. But that is the only annoyance that a genuine prodigal takes with him from the profane world into that capital wilderness.It must be remarked in passing, however, that the hogs with which that picture was equipped looked ugly. The pious artist had made them shield-bearers of sin, and had supplied their physiognomies with all kinds of horrible features. And, too, the trough looked dirty.If it happens to me, said Walter, I’ll take sheep with me; and Femke can card the wool.The artist ought to admit that even this third picture is inadequate to inspire a proper disgust for prodigality.And the fourth one? No better.The old gentleman is excessively friendly. We are again in the colonnade, where the camels have just waited so patiently. One of the slaves clasps his hands and looks toward heaven—because he’s glad, of course, that little Walter has come back.He? The real Walter? Returned home, and friendly received in his high rank of a “has-been” and “recovered” prodigal? Oh, no!And that fatted calf! In direct opposition to the custom that was familiar to Walter! It worried the boy. Juffrouw Pieterse never slaughtered anything. She ran a weekly account with Keesje’s father; and even a roast was a rarity.There was no prospect of a fatted calf, whether he became a prodigal or not. But that didn’t keep the rank of a prodigal from being higher than that of a stupid boy who didn’t know how to handle money.He was encouraged to think that he was indebted to his friendly enemy, Juffrouw Laps, for something. She always cited the Bible, and spoke continually of feeding swine. Walter wanted to answer: “That’s very nice, Juffrouw Laps, but can’t it be sheep this time?”He knew very well that she had never had any passion for carding, and consequently was not interestedin that blue muffler, which would be so becoming to Femke’s favorite sheep.But she assured him that he was a prodigal; and that was enough.“That’s what I’ve always said!” replied Juffrouw Pieterse. “What does he do but squander his mother’s money? If that man wants snuff, let him buy it. The king pays him. I have to work too hard for my money. Don’t I, Stoffel?”“Yes, mother; but it’s only childishness in Walter!”“Childishness! That’s what I call it.”“No it isn’t!” cried the pious Laps. “He’s on the straight road to the trough of Luke 15. He will eat husks! Do you think the Master doesn’t carry out his parables? Just send him to me. The pastors are to blame for it. They don’t explain the Bible. Send him to me.”“If I only knew how he gets such things into his head!”“You don’t know? It’s arrogance!”She spoke the truth.“Arrogance, Arrogance pure and simple—just as it was in Belshazzar, or Sennacherib, or Nebuchadnezzar.”How thankful Walter was! If at this moment he had had a letter to write—preferably to Femke—he would have boasted of being as wicked as three old kings put together.“Arrogance!” repeated Juffrouw Laps. “Gold on top, iron in the middle, and feet of clay. The Master will overthrow him. Send him to me.”This invitation to turn over the royal villain to her for religious instruction was repeated so often that it was necessary to give her an answer.“But, dear Juffrouw, the boy don’t want to. He’s stubborn; and what can one do with such a child?”Walter knew that his mother was not quite truthful; but, after his former experience with his friendly enemy, he found it desirable to keep quiet. When pressed, however, for an explanation he said:“The man wanted snuff, and nobody would give him any; so I——”Juffrouw Laps knew enough. Walter was as good as her prisoner: she now knew exactly how to take his fortifications, if they could be taken at all.“If he doesn’t want to come to me, don’t compel him,” she said sweetly on leaving. “To force him won’t do any good. Let him exercise his own pleasure. I’m afraid you pick at the child too much, anyway. What an awful fuss we’ve made over a stiver!”“That’s what I say, too,” replied the mother. “It looks as if we begrudged him the money! We could have spared another stiver, and we wouldn’t have missed it, would we, Stoffel?”“Yes, mother, but it’s time for Walter——”“Goodness, what a hullaballoo to raise about a few pinches of snuff! The Master will repay it seven times seventy times. Whatever ye have done to the least of my brothers——”With this consoling passage on her lips she took her leave of the astonished family.Yes, it wasn’t so easy to see through Juffrouw Laps!
“Do you think stivers grow on my back?” asked the mother the next day. “You still don’t earn a doit! Do you have to buy tobacco for old soldiers?”
Walter had nothing to say. Recently his mother had given him a shilling to give to Holsma’s maid. Walter neglected to do this, and spent one stiver of the money on snuff for an old soldier.
The mother continued her tirade, making use of the word “prodigue,” prodigal.
“No, mother,” said Stoffel, “that isn’t it. He’s behind in everything. He doesn’t know yet how to handle money, that’s it!”
“Yes. He doesn’t know how to handle money! All the other children at his age—when they have a stiver they either save it or buy themselves something. And he—what does he do? He goes and gives it away! Boy, boy, will you never learn any sense?”
Walter was cut to the quick by the accusation of wastefulness and prodigality. In his eyes a prodigal was somebody, a man! “Prodigue, prodigue,” he murmured. He knew the word.
In one of the bedrooms hung a series of crude, highly colored pictures illustrating the story of the prodigal son. The pictures were French; and a studyof the titles convinced the family that “prodigue” could mean nothing but prodigal in the worst sense,i. e., “lost.” Stoffel had maintained this proposition against one of his colleagues, till that one drew a lexicon on him.
After much argument it was decided to compromise on the “mistake” in the French Bible by allowing “prodigue” to have sometimes the meaning of “extravagant.” Those pictures had afforded Walter much food for thought.
First picture:The “lost” or prodigal son tells his father good-bye. The old gentleman wears a purple coat. Very pretty—but the prodigal himself! A mantle floated about his shoulders—it seemed to be windy in the colonnade. It was princely; and his turkish trousers were of pure gold. At his side was a bent sabre, and on his head a turban, with a stone in it—certainly onyx, or sardonox, or a pearl, or a precious stone—or whatever it might be!
The old gentleman seemed to be out of humor; but no wonder—all those loaded camels, and the slaves, and all the accessories for that long, long journey! A negro, as black as pitch, was holding a horse by the rein. Another negro was holding the stirrup, and seemed to say: “Off to the Devil; prodigal, get on!”
What boy wouldn’t have been a prodigal son? The bent sabre alone was worth the sin.
Second picture:Hm—hm. Wicked, wicked! Why, certainly; but not for Walter, who in his innocence attached no importance to the extravagant dresses of the “Juffrouwen.” It was sufficient that all were eating and drinking bountifully, and that theywere in goodspiritsand enjoying themselves. How prettily one of the girls, in glossy silk, was leaning over the shoulder of the “lost” one! How much nicer to be lost than found!—anyway, that was the impression the feast made on Walter. The true purpose of the picture—to deter people from a life of dissoluteness—escaped Walter entirely. Perhaps he knew what it meant; but in his heart he felt that it meant something else. What attracted him most was not the food and drink, under which the table “groaned,” nor the sinful sensuality painted on the faces of the ladies. It was the freedom and unconventionality of the company that charmed him. In order to emphasize the idea of prodigality, the painter had allowed some big dogs to upset an open cask of wine.
The wine was streaming, and straying away as if it were the lost sinner. This pleased Walter immensely. None of the guests seemed to notice such a small trifle, not even the waiters. This ought to have happened just once in the Pieterse home—and even if it were only a stein of beer!
The artist says to himself, Do you suppose I didn’t foresee the seductive influence of such a picture? The next one makes it all right!
Well, maybe so.
Third picture:Magnificent. How romantic this wilderness! Oh, to sit there on that boulder and stare into the immeasurable depths of the universe—alone!
To think, think, think!
No schoolmaster, no mother, brother, or anyone tosay what he must do with his heart, with his time, with his elbows, or with his breeches! That’s the way Walter saw it. The young man there didn’t even have on breeches; and he looked as if he wouldn’t have been ashamed to stretch himself out on his back, with his arms over his head, and watch with wide-open eyes the passing of the moon and stars. Walter asked himself what he would think of when he had founded such an empire of solitude.
Hm! Femke could sit on the boulder with him. Prodigal son—oh, sin divine with her! He was surprised that in the whole Bible there was only one prodigal son. Of all sins this seemed to him the most seductive.
And the desert was so—endurable. There were trees in it, which one could climb, when one really got lost, or use to build a nice little cabin—for Femke, of course.
The prodigal in the picture didn’t seem to have thought of all that. Why wasn’t the Juffrouw in green silk with him? She will come soon, Walter said to himself. Perhaps she’s not quite through with her prodigality. If she would only hurry up and come! He longs for her. But that is the only annoyance that a genuine prodigal takes with him from the profane world into that capital wilderness.
It must be remarked in passing, however, that the hogs with which that picture was equipped looked ugly. The pious artist had made them shield-bearers of sin, and had supplied their physiognomies with all kinds of horrible features. And, too, the trough looked dirty.
If it happens to me, said Walter, I’ll take sheep with me; and Femke can card the wool.
The artist ought to admit that even this third picture is inadequate to inspire a proper disgust for prodigality.
And the fourth one? No better.
The old gentleman is excessively friendly. We are again in the colonnade, where the camels have just waited so patiently. One of the slaves clasps his hands and looks toward heaven—because he’s glad, of course, that little Walter has come back.
He? The real Walter? Returned home, and friendly received in his high rank of a “has-been” and “recovered” prodigal? Oh, no!
And that fatted calf! In direct opposition to the custom that was familiar to Walter! It worried the boy. Juffrouw Pieterse never slaughtered anything. She ran a weekly account with Keesje’s father; and even a roast was a rarity.
There was no prospect of a fatted calf, whether he became a prodigal or not. But that didn’t keep the rank of a prodigal from being higher than that of a stupid boy who didn’t know how to handle money.
He was encouraged to think that he was indebted to his friendly enemy, Juffrouw Laps, for something. She always cited the Bible, and spoke continually of feeding swine. Walter wanted to answer: “That’s very nice, Juffrouw Laps, but can’t it be sheep this time?”
He knew very well that she had never had any passion for carding, and consequently was not interestedin that blue muffler, which would be so becoming to Femke’s favorite sheep.
But she assured him that he was a prodigal; and that was enough.
“That’s what I’ve always said!” replied Juffrouw Pieterse. “What does he do but squander his mother’s money? If that man wants snuff, let him buy it. The king pays him. I have to work too hard for my money. Don’t I, Stoffel?”
“Yes, mother; but it’s only childishness in Walter!”
“Childishness! That’s what I call it.”
“No it isn’t!” cried the pious Laps. “He’s on the straight road to the trough of Luke 15. He will eat husks! Do you think the Master doesn’t carry out his parables? Just send him to me. The pastors are to blame for it. They don’t explain the Bible. Send him to me.”
“If I only knew how he gets such things into his head!”
“You don’t know? It’s arrogance!”
She spoke the truth.
“Arrogance, Arrogance pure and simple—just as it was in Belshazzar, or Sennacherib, or Nebuchadnezzar.”
How thankful Walter was! If at this moment he had had a letter to write—preferably to Femke—he would have boasted of being as wicked as three old kings put together.
“Arrogance!” repeated Juffrouw Laps. “Gold on top, iron in the middle, and feet of clay. The Master will overthrow him. Send him to me.”
This invitation to turn over the royal villain to her for religious instruction was repeated so often that it was necessary to give her an answer.
“But, dear Juffrouw, the boy don’t want to. He’s stubborn; and what can one do with such a child?”
Walter knew that his mother was not quite truthful; but, after his former experience with his friendly enemy, he found it desirable to keep quiet. When pressed, however, for an explanation he said:
“The man wanted snuff, and nobody would give him any; so I——”
Juffrouw Laps knew enough. Walter was as good as her prisoner: she now knew exactly how to take his fortifications, if they could be taken at all.
“If he doesn’t want to come to me, don’t compel him,” she said sweetly on leaving. “To force him won’t do any good. Let him exercise his own pleasure. I’m afraid you pick at the child too much, anyway. What an awful fuss we’ve made over a stiver!”
“That’s what I say, too,” replied the mother. “It looks as if we begrudged him the money! We could have spared another stiver, and we wouldn’t have missed it, would we, Stoffel?”
“Yes, mother, but it’s time for Walter——”
“Goodness, what a hullaballoo to raise about a few pinches of snuff! The Master will repay it seven times seventy times. Whatever ye have done to the least of my brothers——”
With this consoling passage on her lips she took her leave of the astonished family.
Yes, it wasn’t so easy to see through Juffrouw Laps!
Chapter XXIVIn his efforts to reconcile the various conflicting authorities contesting for supremacy in his soul, Walter threw himself into a severe spell of blues. He was not conscious of the contrast between the world of his high-flown fancy and the earthy environment of his home-life. The sympathetic care which he should have received after his illness had not fallen to his lot.He felt dejected.“Femke!” he thought; and he longed for her fresh healthy face, for her pure, unselfish glance, for her friendly smile. The Fancy that had led him away to the stars in search of his misty sister had got lodged on that girl of the Amsterdam lowlands, Femke—with her unpoetical length, breadth, thickness, and weight.“I am going to see her,” he cried. “I will! And if Mrs. Claus asks me about worms a dozen times, it’s all the same to me; I am going to see her!”Walter reached the house and knocked. “Come in!” someone called. This was a little sudden, for it took some time to get hold of the latch. But Walter did it. Perhaps he was thinking of Missolonghi.The Turks that he saw now were not revolting in appearance. They were unarmed and did not murder a single baby.But—Femke was not in the party.Mrs. Claus was at the wash-tub, while Father Jansen was quietly smoking.“Is that you, young man? Very nice! That’s the young man who gave Femke the picture, you remember, father?”The father nodded to him kindly and smoked away, without manifesting any special Godliness.“Yes, Juffrouw, I wanted to——”“Very nice of you! Won’t you have a slice of bread and butter? And how is your mother? Is she better now? She was sick, wasn’t she? That’s a good boy, father. Femke said so. Is your mother better again? It was fever, wasn’t it? or apoplexy—or what was it then?”“Oh, no! Juffrouw.”“You mustn’t call me Juffrouw. I am only a wash-woman. Everyone must stay in his own class, mustn’t he, father? Well, it’s all the better; I thought she had been sick. It must have been somebody else. One has so much to think of. Do you like cheese?”The good woman prepared a slice of bread and butter, with cheese. If Trudie could have seen it, she would have fainted. In the “citizen’s class,” such and such a sub-class, according to Pennewip, is found a certain scantiness that does not obtain in the common laboring class. In the matter of eating, laborers, who do not invest their money in Geneva, are not troubled so much by “good form” as people who give their children French names.Walter had never seen such a slice of bread. He didn’t know whether he ought to bite through thewidth, or the thickness. The bit of cheese gave him his cue.He liked Mrs. Claus much better this time. And Father Jansen, too; even if he wasn’t like Walter had imagined him to be.He had never conceived a preacher as being anything else but a very supernatural and spiritual and celestial sort of person. Father Jansen didn’t seem to be that kind of a man at all.He visited the sheep of his fold, especially the plain people, not to make a display of beneficence—for he had nothing, but because he was happiest among simple people. He was fond of bread and butter of the Mrs. Claus variety. For the rest, he said mass, preached about sin, catechised, confirmed, absolved, and did whatever needed to be done. He performed the functions of his office, and did not think it at all strange that he should have gone into the church, while his brother in Nordbrabant succeeded to the business of his father, who was a farrier and inn-keeper.“And what are you going to be?” he asked Walter; “for everybody in the world must be something. Wouldn’t you like to be a bookbinder? That’s a good trade.”“I was—I was in business, M’neer; and I’m going back to business.”“That’s good, my boy. You may get rich. Especially here in Amsterdam; for Amsterdam is a commercial city.”Walter wanted to add: “The greatest commercial city of Europe.” But he was abashed by the—worldlinessof Father Jansen’s talk. He didn’t find it disagreeable: he was merely surprised at it.“A boy like you ought to eat a lot. You look pale. My brother can bend a horseshoe. What do you say to that? Have you ever eaten our Brabant bread? Ham isn’t bad, either. A person that doesn’t eat enough gets weak. I always eat two slices of bread and butter whenever I’m here at Mrs. Claus’s; but I’m not nearly so strong as my brother. You ought to see the Vucht fair. That’s a great time.”Walter was more than surprised to hear such talk from a preacher: he was almost pleased. He had never received such charming messages from heaven. Of course they came from heaven, those friendly words uttered in Brabant dialect between the puffs of Father Jansen’s pipe. This man in a priest’s coat chattered away as if there were no such thing in the world as God, Grace, and Hell—especially the latter. He was as happy as a child in telling about the strength of his brother, the horseshoer. It was his business to lead the world to eternal happiness; and he liked thick slices of bread and butter with cheese.Walter had never had religious things opened up to him so delightfully. He felt encouraged to speak:“M’neer, I would like to know who God is!”Father Jansen started, and looked at Walter as if he hadn’t clearly understood the question.“Yes—that’s very praiseworthy in you. You must——”“But, father,” cried Mrs. Claus, “the child isn’t in the church! Are you?”—to Walter.“Yes, Juffrouw, I have been confirmed.”“To be sure, to be sure, but——”“On the Noordermarkt!”“Well, you see he’s in the church all right.”The good woman didn’t have the heart—or else she had too much heart—to tell the father that it wasn’t the right church.“Whoever wants to get acquainted with God,” said Father Jansen, “must study diligently.”“To be sure,” said Mrs. Claus, “the articles of faith. You ought to hear my Femke repeat them. It’s a pleasure, isn’t it, father? She’s my only child, but—she’s a girl worth having!”“Yes, Femke is an excellent girl. I don’t have any trouble with her.”The father spoke in a business-like manner; and he meant it that way. The spots on Femke’s soul were easily removed. He praised Femke as a cook would praise a kitchen-pot.Father Jansen had still more praise for Femke: she had patched his drawers so nicely.Oh, Fancy!The mention of this fact did not touch Walter’s æsthetic feelings. With him there were other considerations. Fancy was used to seeing everything nude—fathers, humanity—so there was no difficulty here.Walter was sixteen years old, already a little man—why must Femke patch drawers for this father!“Yes,” said the mother. “Femke is clever at patching. If you’ve got anything else that needs mending, just send it over.”Walter was warm. If it had been collars, socks,waistcoats, or—well, if it had to be something questionable—if it had only been trousers!“Just send it over, and if Femke isn’t here——”“Where is she going to be?” thought Walter.“Then I will attend to it myself. I can do it neatly.”Thank God! Dear, good, magnificent Mrs. Claus! Do it, do it yourself, and leave Femke where she is.But—where was she?Thus Walter’s thoughts; but what did he say?—the hypocrite, the budding man.“Yes, indeed, Mrs. Claus, I had almost forgotten to ask where your daughter Femke is.”“Femke? She’s at my niece’s, where the girl is sick. You know we’re of good family. Femke is looking after my niece’s children.”Walter didn’t have the courage to ask where this niece lived, so he assumed a look of contentment.After much waiting and twisting and turning on his chair, Walter finally left the house with Father Jansen. He had not yet learned how to end a visit: some people never learn it.“Don’t you want to do me a favor?” said the good man. “Then walk on my right side. I’m deaf here”—pointing to his left ear.“I will tell you how it happened. When I was a little boy—are you a good climber?”“No, M’neer!”“Well, I am! In the whole of Vucht there wasn’t a boy who could climb as well as I could. Do you know what I did once? I climbed up and slipped a flower-pot from a third-story window. And—mypriest wasn’t in a good humor at all! He didn’t want to accept me till I had returned that flower-pot; and then I had to go and beg the old woman’s pardon. And she herself went to the priest to intercede for me. Then he accepted me. But I got twenty ‘confiteors’—oh, he was severe!“But I was going to tell you why I’m deaf in the left ear.“In one of the seminaries was a student—he’s a canonicus in the Rhine country, and will get to be a cardinal, perhaps pope, for—he was very sly! I will tell you, his name was—Rake; but, you understand, his name was really something else. This Rake was a mean rascal; but he was never punished, because he was careful. See if he doesn’t get to be a cardinal, or pope! You ought to hear him quote from the Vulgate. He could rattle away for three hours and never made a mistake.” * * *“Are you perfectly crazy, boy, or what is the matter with you? Walking with a priest! What in the name of the Lord are you thinking about? Go in the house—quick! Jesu, what troubles I have with that child!”With these words Juffrouw Pieterse broke off Walter’s acquaintance with Father Jansen for this time.The way that the father and Walter had taken led them directly by Walter’s home. Juffrouw Pieterse, who was haggling with a Jew over the price of a basket of potatoes, narrowly escaped a stroke of apoplexy when she saw them together.“With a priest!—Stoffel! Come down quick—that boy is walking with a priest!”Tears rose in Walter’s eyes. He had found Father Jansen a good man, and was grieved that that gentleman should meet with such a reception.It is to be hoped that those rude words were received by his left ear. In fact, this seemed to be the case, for when Walter said that he was at home now and that his mother was calling him, Father Jansen answered kindly:“So? You live there? Then I will tell you the next time why I am so deaf in my left ear—entirely deaf, you understand!”Thank God, Walter thought, and wiped away his tears. In his eyes his mother had committed a sin so grave that about fifty “confiteors” would be necessary for its expiation.“Oh, yes. I was going to tell you——”With these words Father Jansen turned around again. He continued: “The flower-pot of the old lady, Juffrouw Dungelaar, you know—it wasn’t for the flowers, you understand, nor for the pot, but only because I could climb so well. Otherwise—one mustn’t take anything away, even if it is so high up.Adieu, young man!”After giving Juffrouw Pieterse a friendly greeting that she did not deserve, the man continued on his way.Stoffel said that to walk with a priest was “simply preposterous.”“As if he were crazy!” said Juffrouw Pieterse.“Yes,” agreed Stoffel, “but it’s because he has nothing to do but loaf around. If that keeps up, he will never amount to anything.”True, Walter was loafing around; but he was not idle. His activities brought nothing palpable to light, still he was building up the inner life in a manner of which Stoffel had no idea.“Of course!” said the mother. “He must have work. If he were only willing to be a compositor! or an apprentice in the shoe-business. To make shoes—that he shall never do.”“This running with priests comes only from idleness, mother. Do I run with priests? Never. Why not? Because I have to go to my school every day!”“Yes, Stoffel, you go to your school every day.”“Besides, there are good priests. There was Luther, for instance. He was a sort of priest. What did he do?”“Yes, I know. He reformed the people.”“He made them Lutherans, mother; but that’s almost the same thing. One mustn’t be narrow-minded.”“That’s what I say, Stoffel, people ought not to be so narrow-minded. What difference does it make what a person’s religion is, just so he’s upright, and not a Roman Catholic!”When Walter told Father Jansen that he “was in business,” and that he was “going back to business,” he spoke better than he himself knew. He did go back to business.Through a leather-dealer, who, speaking commercially, was in close touch with shoes that came from Paris, Walter got a position with a firm whose “responsibility” was somewhat less apocryphal than that of Messrs. Motto, Business & Co. He was to begin his new apprenticeship in the offices of Messrs.Ouwetyd & Kopperlith, a firm of world-wide reputation.However, before he was to enter upon his new duties, all sorts of things were destined to happen, with the tendency to make Walter appear as a “hero of romance,” which he wasn’t at all.
In his efforts to reconcile the various conflicting authorities contesting for supremacy in his soul, Walter threw himself into a severe spell of blues. He was not conscious of the contrast between the world of his high-flown fancy and the earthy environment of his home-life. The sympathetic care which he should have received after his illness had not fallen to his lot.
He felt dejected.
“Femke!” he thought; and he longed for her fresh healthy face, for her pure, unselfish glance, for her friendly smile. The Fancy that had led him away to the stars in search of his misty sister had got lodged on that girl of the Amsterdam lowlands, Femke—with her unpoetical length, breadth, thickness, and weight.
“I am going to see her,” he cried. “I will! And if Mrs. Claus asks me about worms a dozen times, it’s all the same to me; I am going to see her!”
Walter reached the house and knocked. “Come in!” someone called. This was a little sudden, for it took some time to get hold of the latch. But Walter did it. Perhaps he was thinking of Missolonghi.
The Turks that he saw now were not revolting in appearance. They were unarmed and did not murder a single baby.
But—Femke was not in the party.
Mrs. Claus was at the wash-tub, while Father Jansen was quietly smoking.
“Is that you, young man? Very nice! That’s the young man who gave Femke the picture, you remember, father?”
The father nodded to him kindly and smoked away, without manifesting any special Godliness.
“Yes, Juffrouw, I wanted to——”
“Very nice of you! Won’t you have a slice of bread and butter? And how is your mother? Is she better now? She was sick, wasn’t she? That’s a good boy, father. Femke said so. Is your mother better again? It was fever, wasn’t it? or apoplexy—or what was it then?”
“Oh, no! Juffrouw.”
“You mustn’t call me Juffrouw. I am only a wash-woman. Everyone must stay in his own class, mustn’t he, father? Well, it’s all the better; I thought she had been sick. It must have been somebody else. One has so much to think of. Do you like cheese?”
The good woman prepared a slice of bread and butter, with cheese. If Trudie could have seen it, she would have fainted. In the “citizen’s class,” such and such a sub-class, according to Pennewip, is found a certain scantiness that does not obtain in the common laboring class. In the matter of eating, laborers, who do not invest their money in Geneva, are not troubled so much by “good form” as people who give their children French names.
Walter had never seen such a slice of bread. He didn’t know whether he ought to bite through thewidth, or the thickness. The bit of cheese gave him his cue.
He liked Mrs. Claus much better this time. And Father Jansen, too; even if he wasn’t like Walter had imagined him to be.
He had never conceived a preacher as being anything else but a very supernatural and spiritual and celestial sort of person. Father Jansen didn’t seem to be that kind of a man at all.
He visited the sheep of his fold, especially the plain people, not to make a display of beneficence—for he had nothing, but because he was happiest among simple people. He was fond of bread and butter of the Mrs. Claus variety. For the rest, he said mass, preached about sin, catechised, confirmed, absolved, and did whatever needed to be done. He performed the functions of his office, and did not think it at all strange that he should have gone into the church, while his brother in Nordbrabant succeeded to the business of his father, who was a farrier and inn-keeper.
“And what are you going to be?” he asked Walter; “for everybody in the world must be something. Wouldn’t you like to be a bookbinder? That’s a good trade.”
“I was—I was in business, M’neer; and I’m going back to business.”
“That’s good, my boy. You may get rich. Especially here in Amsterdam; for Amsterdam is a commercial city.”
Walter wanted to add: “The greatest commercial city of Europe.” But he was abashed by the—worldlinessof Father Jansen’s talk. He didn’t find it disagreeable: he was merely surprised at it.
“A boy like you ought to eat a lot. You look pale. My brother can bend a horseshoe. What do you say to that? Have you ever eaten our Brabant bread? Ham isn’t bad, either. A person that doesn’t eat enough gets weak. I always eat two slices of bread and butter whenever I’m here at Mrs. Claus’s; but I’m not nearly so strong as my brother. You ought to see the Vucht fair. That’s a great time.”
Walter was more than surprised to hear such talk from a preacher: he was almost pleased. He had never received such charming messages from heaven. Of course they came from heaven, those friendly words uttered in Brabant dialect between the puffs of Father Jansen’s pipe. This man in a priest’s coat chattered away as if there were no such thing in the world as God, Grace, and Hell—especially the latter. He was as happy as a child in telling about the strength of his brother, the horseshoer. It was his business to lead the world to eternal happiness; and he liked thick slices of bread and butter with cheese.
Walter had never had religious things opened up to him so delightfully. He felt encouraged to speak:
“M’neer, I would like to know who God is!”
Father Jansen started, and looked at Walter as if he hadn’t clearly understood the question.
“Yes—that’s very praiseworthy in you. You must——”
“But, father,” cried Mrs. Claus, “the child isn’t in the church! Are you?”—to Walter.
“Yes, Juffrouw, I have been confirmed.”
“To be sure, to be sure, but——”
“On the Noordermarkt!”
“Well, you see he’s in the church all right.”
The good woman didn’t have the heart—or else she had too much heart—to tell the father that it wasn’t the right church.
“Whoever wants to get acquainted with God,” said Father Jansen, “must study diligently.”
“To be sure,” said Mrs. Claus, “the articles of faith. You ought to hear my Femke repeat them. It’s a pleasure, isn’t it, father? She’s my only child, but—she’s a girl worth having!”
“Yes, Femke is an excellent girl. I don’t have any trouble with her.”
The father spoke in a business-like manner; and he meant it that way. The spots on Femke’s soul were easily removed. He praised Femke as a cook would praise a kitchen-pot.
Father Jansen had still more praise for Femke: she had patched his drawers so nicely.
Oh, Fancy!
The mention of this fact did not touch Walter’s æsthetic feelings. With him there were other considerations. Fancy was used to seeing everything nude—fathers, humanity—so there was no difficulty here.
Walter was sixteen years old, already a little man—why must Femke patch drawers for this father!
“Yes,” said the mother. “Femke is clever at patching. If you’ve got anything else that needs mending, just send it over.”
Walter was warm. If it had been collars, socks,waistcoats, or—well, if it had to be something questionable—if it had only been trousers!
“Just send it over, and if Femke isn’t here——”
“Where is she going to be?” thought Walter.
“Then I will attend to it myself. I can do it neatly.”
Thank God! Dear, good, magnificent Mrs. Claus! Do it, do it yourself, and leave Femke where she is.
But—where was she?
Thus Walter’s thoughts; but what did he say?—the hypocrite, the budding man.
“Yes, indeed, Mrs. Claus, I had almost forgotten to ask where your daughter Femke is.”
“Femke? She’s at my niece’s, where the girl is sick. You know we’re of good family. Femke is looking after my niece’s children.”
Walter didn’t have the courage to ask where this niece lived, so he assumed a look of contentment.
After much waiting and twisting and turning on his chair, Walter finally left the house with Father Jansen. He had not yet learned how to end a visit: some people never learn it.
“Don’t you want to do me a favor?” said the good man. “Then walk on my right side. I’m deaf here”—pointing to his left ear.
“I will tell you how it happened. When I was a little boy—are you a good climber?”
“No, M’neer!”
“Well, I am! In the whole of Vucht there wasn’t a boy who could climb as well as I could. Do you know what I did once? I climbed up and slipped a flower-pot from a third-story window. And—mypriest wasn’t in a good humor at all! He didn’t want to accept me till I had returned that flower-pot; and then I had to go and beg the old woman’s pardon. And she herself went to the priest to intercede for me. Then he accepted me. But I got twenty ‘confiteors’—oh, he was severe!
“But I was going to tell you why I’m deaf in the left ear.
“In one of the seminaries was a student—he’s a canonicus in the Rhine country, and will get to be a cardinal, perhaps pope, for—he was very sly! I will tell you, his name was—Rake; but, you understand, his name was really something else. This Rake was a mean rascal; but he was never punished, because he was careful. See if he doesn’t get to be a cardinal, or pope! You ought to hear him quote from the Vulgate. He could rattle away for three hours and never made a mistake.” * * *
“Are you perfectly crazy, boy, or what is the matter with you? Walking with a priest! What in the name of the Lord are you thinking about? Go in the house—quick! Jesu, what troubles I have with that child!”
With these words Juffrouw Pieterse broke off Walter’s acquaintance with Father Jansen for this time.
The way that the father and Walter had taken led them directly by Walter’s home. Juffrouw Pieterse, who was haggling with a Jew over the price of a basket of potatoes, narrowly escaped a stroke of apoplexy when she saw them together.
“With a priest!—Stoffel! Come down quick—that boy is walking with a priest!”
Tears rose in Walter’s eyes. He had found Father Jansen a good man, and was grieved that that gentleman should meet with such a reception.
It is to be hoped that those rude words were received by his left ear. In fact, this seemed to be the case, for when Walter said that he was at home now and that his mother was calling him, Father Jansen answered kindly:
“So? You live there? Then I will tell you the next time why I am so deaf in my left ear—entirely deaf, you understand!”
Thank God, Walter thought, and wiped away his tears. In his eyes his mother had committed a sin so grave that about fifty “confiteors” would be necessary for its expiation.
“Oh, yes. I was going to tell you——”
With these words Father Jansen turned around again. He continued: “The flower-pot of the old lady, Juffrouw Dungelaar, you know—it wasn’t for the flowers, you understand, nor for the pot, but only because I could climb so well. Otherwise—one mustn’t take anything away, even if it is so high up.Adieu, young man!”
After giving Juffrouw Pieterse a friendly greeting that she did not deserve, the man continued on his way.
Stoffel said that to walk with a priest was “simply preposterous.”
“As if he were crazy!” said Juffrouw Pieterse.
“Yes,” agreed Stoffel, “but it’s because he has nothing to do but loaf around. If that keeps up, he will never amount to anything.”
True, Walter was loafing around; but he was not idle. His activities brought nothing palpable to light, still he was building up the inner life in a manner of which Stoffel had no idea.
“Of course!” said the mother. “He must have work. If he were only willing to be a compositor! or an apprentice in the shoe-business. To make shoes—that he shall never do.”
“This running with priests comes only from idleness, mother. Do I run with priests? Never. Why not? Because I have to go to my school every day!”
“Yes, Stoffel, you go to your school every day.”
“Besides, there are good priests. There was Luther, for instance. He was a sort of priest. What did he do?”
“Yes, I know. He reformed the people.”
“He made them Lutherans, mother; but that’s almost the same thing. One mustn’t be narrow-minded.”
“That’s what I say, Stoffel, people ought not to be so narrow-minded. What difference does it make what a person’s religion is, just so he’s upright, and not a Roman Catholic!”
When Walter told Father Jansen that he “was in business,” and that he was “going back to business,” he spoke better than he himself knew. He did go back to business.
Through a leather-dealer, who, speaking commercially, was in close touch with shoes that came from Paris, Walter got a position with a firm whose “responsibility” was somewhat less apocryphal than that of Messrs. Motto, Business & Co. He was to begin his new apprenticeship in the offices of Messrs.Ouwetyd & Kopperlith, a firm of world-wide reputation.
However, before he was to enter upon his new duties, all sorts of things were destined to happen, with the tendency to make Walter appear as a “hero of romance,” which he wasn’t at all.