Chapter XXV

Chapter XXVIt was Thursday. Stoffel came home with the important news that the king—I don’t know what king—had arrived in the city unexpectedly and would visit the theatre that evening. Everything and everybody was in a commotion; for in republican countries much importance is given to pomp and title.This time curiosity was more wrought up than usual. Many foreign princes, including an emperor, were visiting the king; and these distinguished personages would follow the court to Amsterdam, coming from The Hague, Utrecht and Haarlem. To put it tamely, it was to be a great occasion.That republican populace was to get to see the countenance and coat-tails not only of their tyrant, but also the countenances and coat-tails of many other tyrants, not to mention female tyrants.The old doughnut women on the “Dam,” which the city rented to them as a market-place, were threatening to bring suit against the city. They felt that it was hard to have to pay rent for the fresh air, day after day, with the prospect of selling a few doughnuts to the youth of the street, and now be run out because his majesty wanted to exhibit himself to the people from the balcony of the old City Hall.Why shouldn’t the old women be seen at their accustomed places? Must the doughnut industry be carried on secretly? Was it for fear of imitations andunprincely competition? Or was it to keep the old women from seeing the king?At any rate, the whole kit of them had to leave. At most, they could only mix with the crowd incognito, and afterwards might join in the prearranged “Long live the King!” or somebody else, as the case might be.It is really remarkable that princes die. Seemingly the “vivats” are of no avail.The crowd was especially large, on account of the many majesties and highnesses who had gathered about the tyrant.Among the number was the Prince of Caramania, who had especial claims upon the sympathy of the people, so all the newspapers said. One of his ancestors had been a captain in the service of the state and had, therefore, spilt his blood for the freedom of the Netherlands.This blood, and perhaps the freedom as well, was newspaper arabesque. It was certain, however, that the prince wore a green coat with gold frogs; and upon his head he had a big plume. It was, therefore, quite proper for the crowd to cry occasionally “Long live the Prince of Caramania!”Among the eminent gentlemen was a certain duke, who, by reason of his virtues, had got himself banished from his country. The man was thrifty and economical, though without neglecting himself. Nevertheless, the rabble had dethroned him and sent him across the border with a bushel of diamonds. Of these diamonds he was now to display a few dozen in the shape of coat-buttons and the like. The newspapersgave the crowd their cue accordingly. They were to cry: “Long live the Duke with his diamonds!”Princess Erika was the niece of the king, and was to marry the crown-prince of a great empire, which was indebted to the Netherlands for its prominence. The newspapers gave the assurance that this empire would pay off the national debt of the Netherlands if the people would only put enough enthusiasm into a “Long live Princess Erika!”The old Countess-palatine of Aetolia was descended directly from a certain knight who treated his hostlers like princes. In this case it was not inappropriate for a republican populace to ask for a prolongation of her ladyship’s life. The cry was: “Long live the Countess-palatine of Aetolia!”The Grand-duke of Ysland was the handsome grandson of a shopman. His merits would fill three columns of fine print. The man was a master of the type-case himself, and by exerting himself could even set up his own name. The newspapers said that having safely passed an ocean of pitfalls, he had now perfected himself as the brother-in-law of a demi-god. Therefore, whoever had the interest of his country at heart could not afford to fail to bellow at the top of his voice: “Long live the Grand-duke of Ysland!”There were still more potentates and ladies of quality who had honored Amsterdam with a visit. They had heard that the city wasla Vénise du Nord, that it wastres interessant, tres interessant! etc.And the Holland herrings!Délicieux!Unfortunately the Netherlanders didn’t know how to cook them; they must be baked.And the Holland school of painting!Rambrànn—magnifique!There were still other good things in Holland, as their highnesses testified with patronizing kindness.“Il parait qu’un certain Wondèle a écrit des choses, des choses—mais des choses—passablement bien!”And the dikes! And the Katwyk sluice—gigantesque!Whatever spare time they might have after making cheese and cooking herrings, the Holland people liked to devote to fighting the elements. After skating and racing this was the favorite recreation of the nation.I can assure the reader that the aristocratic party took their departure thoroughly satisfied with our country. The only person who received quite a different impression—but I will not anticipate the feelings of our hero. Even a writer has his duties.The first evening everything was to be illuminated. Two hundred and fifty thousand candles were to proclaim the enthusiasm of the people. Two hundred and fifty thousand fiery tongues were to cry: “Hosanna! Blessed be he who comes in the name of——” In whose name? Hosanna for whom? For what?Well, that was a matter of indifference to the people. They knew that there was something doing, that there was a crowd, and that was enough. People are somewhat like children, who amuse themselves immensely in the confusion of a “moving,” of adeath, or of anything that causes commotion and excitement.Walter had got permission to see the illumination. Unconsciously he assumed that stupid expression which is obligatory on such occasions. He listened to the conversation of those about him.“That’s what I call illuminating! Nine candles for such a big house!”“Twelve!” cried another.“No, nine.”“Twelve!”“Nine!”“Three—three—three—and three. Look there are twelve, or I can’t count.”“No, the three above don’t count. That story is rented. I know it.”“Well—if you mean it that way. I only said that four times three are twelve. What do you say, Hannes?”Hannes found the calculation correct.“How long will the candles burn?”“Till about one o’clock, I suppose.”“I don’t believe it!”“Well, I do!”“But I don’t!——”“Have you been in the Sukkelgracht?”“Oh, it isn’t pretty there.”“You think so? Prettier than here.”“Oh, no!”“Yes, it is!——”“Look there; there’s a verse.”“Yes, a verse. Can you read it?”“Certainly! Let me see, what is it?”“I can read it, too.”“It’s about ‘illustrious blood’——”“Yes, and ‘our country,’ and ‘dedicated to honor and virtue.’”“And ‘his illustrious blood’——”“No, there it stands—‘torn from the barbarians’——”“That comes later. ‘Illustrious blood’——”“Of Holland’s hero——”“Welcome, hero!”“I wonder if the king looks at the candles. Do you suppose he reads such verses and copies them?”“Oh, he has his ministers for that.”“Or generals. He has seen or read about lots of nice things.”“As nice as here?”“Why, of course!”“I don’t believe it.”“Well, I do.”“Do you know what I think? He likes to look at the lights too.”“You think so?”“Yes.”“No, you don’t believe that.”“Don’t crowd so!”“I can’t help it. They’re crowding me.”“The people are pushing and shoving as if they were crazy.”“Did you ever see the like? You know what I think? Kalver Street ought to be as wide again as it is.”“Yes, as wide again. The street’s too narrow.”“That’s why everybody’s scroudging so.”There was much truth in this. Pressure was high. People were mashed and squeezed together. Those who, by reason of a lack of avoirdupois, were less firmly attached to the ground, were lifted bodily. Walter hung suspended in mid-air and looked over the heads of men much taller than he.“Are you walking on stilts?” asked a big fat woman, whose hips had come into collision with Walter’s knees. “Well, that’s something.”The pressure was increasing. It seemed that the fat woman would soon have Walter on her shoulder, like a gun; while Walter was thinking that soon he would be roaming over the country like a knight. No one was looking at the candles now. People were finding their amusement in crowding and being crowded.No, Kalver Street ought not to be widened. For, properly understood, this crowding and pushing and shoving was the nicest part of the whole business.How tedious it would have been quietly to watch those two hundred and fifty thousand candles from some comfortable position.Our little man lay on the heads and shoulders of his brothers. Like some aspirants to a throne, he threw himself upon the masses. But he was beginning to feel generally uncomfortable. He wanted to hold on fast to something, or somebody—to somebody’s ears, or nose. That, however, did not suit the masses. They didn’t mind being squeezed; but they didn’t like to be held on to.Crash!Don’t let the reader be alarmed. Walter had not burst under the strain; but the pressure of the crowd had broken in the double doors of a café! The irruption was terrible. The way the crowd streamed in might be compared to the flow of molten lava. Walter described aparaboliccurve and landed on a table, without suffering any damage.“Walter Pieterse!” cried the astonished party sitting around the table.“Have you hurt yourself, Walter?”No, he hadn’t hurt himself; but he was rigid with surprise. Firstly, over his ascent; secondly, over his aërial journey; then over his descent among all kinds of glassware; and, finally—and that was not the least surprising thing—he was surprised to find himself all at once in the bosom of the Holsma family.It was Sietske who asked him if he was hurt.All the glasses, both great and small, were broken; but Walter was still in one piece. Uncle Sybrand helped him to his feet. It wasn’t easy, for the press was great. However, Walter’s size facilitated matters.The proprietor couldn’t reach the scene of action, but he was able to make his voice heard to the effect that everything broken must be paid for. From other tables came the noise of more breaking glass. The man was desperate. He cursed kings and masses indiscriminately.“One bottle of wine, three lemonades, six glasses!” cried Holsma, assuming the responsibility for Walter’s unintentional work of destruction.Uncle Sybrand was holding up the money to pay for everything.“Oh, M’neer, I’m afraid to go home after this,” cried Walter. “How can I pay for that? And my mother——”In the noise and jumble Holsma did not understand; but Sietske understood.“Sh!” she whispered. “Papa will pay for it all. Besides, I have money; and William, too; and Hermann. Just be quiet.”Walter still did not understand. When, under the protection of the Holsmas, he was safe on the outside again, and the entire party had escaped the mob by taking a side street, he reiterated that he did dare show his face to his mother and Stoffel.“It doesn’t make any difference about the money,” said Holsma. “I will attend to that. Why, boy, you’re scared half to death. You’re shaking. Come along home with us where you can rest a bit and quiet yourself.”The distance, however, proved too short to have the desired quieting effect on Walter.“My mother will be angry when I come home late.”Holsma told him that a messenger should be sent to his mother at once, so that she would know where he was.The doctor gave him a sedative and led him into a room adjoining that in which the Holsma family were sitting. Walter was to walk up and down the room till he felt better; but he soon got tired of this and did the very thing that he was not to do; he sat down on a sofa and fell asleep.Whether, in general, it is a good thing to keep in motion after a fright—that I do not know. Walter, on the contrary, always felt the need of sleep under such circumstances; and this remedy, with which nature provided him, usually restored his mental equilibrium. Perhaps, after all, it wasn’t real sleep: he merely dreamed.Again he was lifted up, higher and higher, borne by strong hands. A man bit him in the hand. The fact was he had scratched his hand on a refractory horsehair, which had become tired of acting as stuffing for a sofa-pillow.An angry woman assailed him with abuse. Stupid? Not stupid? We, the masses? She let him fall. But he fell in Sietske’s lap; and there wasn’t a single sliver of glassware.He was happy—but the horsehair scratched him again. Then he heard a voice. Was he still dreaming? Yes, dreaming again of soaring and falling. There was Femke.Of course there had to be something about her in his dream, and about bleaching the clothes. Father Jansen was there, too, exhibiting to the stars the particular garment that Femke had patched. Orion and the Great Bear admired this specimen of her handiwork. Walter did not.“Did you do it yourself?” he heardSietskeasking in the next room. “Or couldn’t you get through the crowd?”“No, it was impossible to get through such a mob. I turned it over to the man with the peddler’s wagon.”What was that? Walter sat up. Father Jansen was gone; Orion, too; and the clouds, and the “masses”; but—that voice!He heard it again.“I know him very well—oh, so well! He’s a good boy.” This he heard Femke say!He jumped up and ran into the room where the Holsmas were. He saw a triangular piece of a woman’s dress disappear through the door; then the door closed.He didn’t have the courage—or was something else beside courage necessary to ask, “Is that Femke?”On his way home that evening Walter did not suffer in the least from the sensation of being borne through the air; or from anything similar. He was on the earth, very much on the earth. He felt lowly.If he had only seen that bit of Femke’s dress somewhere else, and not at the Holsmas—not in that swell family; not in the company of Sietske, who had so much money in her “savings-bank,” nor in the presence of the vain William, who was studying Latin!He was brave enough to feel ashamed of himself; and that’s all I can say in his favor.Let us now look at things from the point of view of Juffrouw Pieterse. That lady was in the clouds. She was hoping that the messenger who had brought her news of Walter had not been able to find her flat at once. The idea of someone from Dr. Holsma’s asking for her through the neighborhood was decidedly pleasant. The longer he might have had to inquire for her the better!“Of course he was at the grocer’s,” she said.“Such messengers never know where they have to go. Of course he told that the ‘young gentleman’ was staying at Dr. Holsma’s! And such a man always tattles; such people don’t do anything but tattle. But, as far as I’m concerned, everybody can know it. I only mean that such people like to tattle. But—say, Walter, how did it happen that you went with the family? You’re a nice rascal. Stoffel, what do you say?”Stoffel made a serious face—as much as to say: “Hm! I’ll have to think over it. He’s been up to something.”“I met the Holsma family in Kalver Street,” Walter said. He told the truth; he had met the family in Kalver Street. But why didn’t he tell anything about the extraordinary circumstances under which he met them? Ah—there’s the rub!“Your back is so sticky!” complained Pietro, whose care it was to look after the washing.The family rubbed, and felt, and smelt; and then they declared unanimously that Walter’s back had been guilty of absorbing all kinds of sticky gases and liquids.“Really, it smells like lemon,” said Trudie.“And like wine!”“And it’s just coated with sugar. Boy, where have you been? Don’t you have any sense of shame? To go to visit such swell people with lemon and sugar on your back! It’s a disgrace, a disgrace.”“There was such a crowd on the street.”“That don’t explain the wine on your back—nor the lemon—nor the sugar. What say you, Trudie?”There was complete unanimity. Timid, as usual, Walter didn’t have the courage to tell everything. Nor would this have done any good. The understanding of the Pieterse family was like a rusty lock that no key will open. Walter knew this, and remembering former sad experiences, allowed the storm to rage above his head. Unfortunately he, too, in a sense, was rusty. His nobility of character had suffered; he had been guilty of cowardice.He felt it. No minister could pray it away. Not even God himself could revoke it. Everyone must act according to his conviction, Mevrouw Holsma had said. He had not done this.A dog would have kissed the hem of Femke’s garment, meeting her after such a long separation. For it was she. Certainly it was Femke—or——Oh, he was hunting for or’s!Could it have been somebody else? It must have been somebody else. How could Femke be at Dr. Holsma’s?No, no, it was she! Didn’t she say that she knew me? Didn’t she speak with the same voice that I heard when she called me a dear boy and gave me the kiss at the bridge?She didn’t know then what a coward I am! She wouldn’t deny me and betray me. She would say to everybody: That is Walter, my little friend that I kissed that time, because he was so brave in fighting off those boys!And I? Oh, help me God!No, God has nothing to do with it. I am a coward. I can’t live this way.He thought of suicide; and in this mood he spent that Thursday night. He arose Friday morning with the firm determination to put an end to his unworthy existence.Fortunately, just after breakfast he was put to work on a job that is calculated to reconcile one with life.He had been tried and convicted, the verdict being unanimous. The penalty was that he should wash his jacket till it was clean. He entered upon the task with such enthusiasm that in an hour he was running to his mother crying triumphantly:“Look, mother! You can’t see a trace of it now!”This little conquest dispelled all the clouds that had darkened his life.There are plenty of people who would gladly fall into a barrel of lemonade if they only understood the salutary effects of cleaning a coat.The poor unfortunate who has never washed his own clothes does not know what life is.I will ask her pardon, thought Walter; and he pictured it all to himself, wondering whether it would do for him to fall at her feet at Holsma’s, in the presence of the one who had delivered the message. Finally, however, he quieted himself with the thought that Femke would probably not be at the doctor’s very long. He hoped to be able then to settle the matter quietly, when only the two concerned were present. This was not courageous, to be sure; but his punishment was already on the way.Chapter XXVIThe events of an eventful Friday were at an end, as it seemed; and Walter prepared to climb into the narrow bedstead, which he shared with his brother Laurens. He was now in a tranquil frame of mind. He didn’t even have any desire to romp with Laurens, who, without laying claim to geometrical knowledge, usually managed to find the diagonal of the bed.It was Walter’s intention to think over recent events again. He wished to busy himself with others; he was tired of himself—at least he thought so for a moment.There was a prince, who distributed money among the people. Oh, if I were only a prince!That wasn’t a bad thought. Under the same circumstances, most people would have thought: Oh, if I could only have got some of the money!The countess-palatine from—where from? Well it makes no difference. She was in the museum and the papers said she was gracious, very gracious.I would do it too, thought Walter, if I were a countess-palatine. What sort of a profession is that?The king had given audiences—and a dinner—and had said—well, the usual things. But for Walter itwas new and interesting. The welfare of the city seemed to lie heavily on his majesty’s heart. It lay heavily on Walter’s heart, too; but that did not prevent Walter from admiring this peculiarity of the king. In Africa he would do the same thing.No, away with Africa!He threw off his left stocking so violently that it curled around the leg of the chair like a dying earthworm.What strange things he had heard of Princess Erika! It was said that she was to have married a grand-duke, but rejected him.The middle classes were delighted with this news; though not knowing but that it might merely have been stubbornness on the part of the princess.She was of such a strange nature that she did not know how to behave herself in her high position.Walter slipped off his other stocking, finding fault with the princess for disregarding the usual customs and conventions. Hm! He wondered if she would like to change places with him, and let him be Prince Erich—and she——He wondered if she too wore an ugly nightcap. But—no! Princesses would wear caps of diamonds.Princess Erika!Walter blew out the light—no, he was on the point of blowing it out. He had selected one of the triangles that Laurens had described in the bed, when suddenly he became aware of a great tumult in the Pieterse home.Yes, somebody had rung violently three or four times and was still banging at the door. Fire?Hm! Could it be Princess Erika, he thought, who was coming to change places with him?Alas, it was only Juffrouw Laps; and she did not come to exchange.Well, what did she want then, so late in the evening?Walter pulled himself together and listened.The compartment where Walter and Laurens slept was a boxed-up arrangement over the sitting-room. Two of their sisters shared the space with them. From considerations of modesty, therefore, the boys always had to get sleepy a quarter of an hour before the young ladies.The writer is unable to say how much oxygen fouryoung people need during eight hours without suffocating; but anyway there wasn’t much room in this little nook.In another closet-affair there was a similar division, and here, too, the hour for retiring was determined by similar laws of modesty.The reader will now understand why a part of the family, the female part of course, was still in the sitting-room when Walter imagined that Princess Erika had come to exchange places with him.Juffrouw Laps, who had rushed up the steps like a crazy woman, burst into the room weeping and moaning and sobbing.The usual cries of, “What on earth is the matter?” “Lord ’a’ mercy—what has happened?” were forthcoming. Walter noticed, too, that the customary glass of water was offered and drunk, and that proper efforts were being made to get the unhappy one to “calm herself.”Juffrouw Laps began her story with the positive assurance that it was impossible for her to utter a word.It seemed, therefore, that the affair was something important. Walter pulled on one of his stockings and prepared to listen.“I swear, Juffrouw Pieterse, by the omnipotent God, that I’m so frightened and excited that I can’t talk.”“Goodness!”“Where are your children? In bed? Not all of them, I hope. Really, I can’t speak. Give me another glass of water, Trudie. Listen, how my teeth are chattering. That comes from fright, doesn’t it? I’m in a tremble all over. Thank you, Trudie. Where’s—Stoffel?”“He’s undressing,” said Juffrouw Pieterse. “He goes to bed before me and Pietro. Mina makes so much noise, you know; and Trudie must stay with the boys to keep them from fighting. That’s why I sleep with Pietro, you see. Stoffel undresses himself, and then he draws the curtain when he hears us on the steps. But why——”“How that concerns me, you mean? To be sure. I’m just beside myself from fright! And is—Laurens in bed too?”“Of course! A long time already. He has to go to the printing-house early.”“All in bed! And I—I run through the streets, wretched, crazy, and don’t know what to do. Is everybody in bed?—everybody?”“But what has happened?”“I’m going to tell you, Juffrouw Pieterse. Oh, if you only knew how frightened I am!”Consideration of acoustics now led Walter to put on his other stocking.“You know, Juffrouw Pieterse, that of late so much stealing has been going on.”“Yes, but——”“And burglary and murder! And the police can’t catch anybody. You know the old woman and the servant-girl who were murdered in Lommer Street.”“But three are already behind the bars for it. What more do you want?”“That’s all right; the murderers are running around scot-free. They’ve locked up three fellows just to keep the people from thinking too much. They don’t want anybody to ask, ‘What are the police for?’ You see what I mean? I tell you that such a low-down rascal, who commits a murder and steals lots of money, cannot hide his bloody clothes; nor the money, either. He’s not used to having so much money. All the neighbors know his coat and breeches; and such a man hasn’t any trunk where he can hide his things. He doesn’t know how to manage with drafts and notes; and he don’t know enough to get away to a foreign country. As for friends to help him get rid of the stolen things, he hasn’t any. I tell you, Juffrouw Pieterse, a murder or a robbery, when they don’t catch the murderer right away—then some respectable person has done it, who has more clothes and boxes and presses and linen—and he has friends among bankers. A common fellow would stick a hundred thousand florins in the bread-box, and thechildren would find it when they went to slip a slice of bread and butter. What do you say, Trudie?”Trudie was not versed in criminal statistics and had never reflected on the matter. At least Walter heard no answer. Curiosity compelled him to draw on his trousers.“But,” he heard his mother saying again, “what has happened to you?”“What has happened? I am beside myself. Don’t you see how I’m trembling? The city is full of murderers!”“My goodness! How can I help it?”“You can’t. But I am beside myself, and I want to ask your advice. Do they all go to bed so early?—Stoffel—and Laurens—all of them? Look, how I’m shaking. Do you suppose I dare go back to my room?”“Why not? Do you think you’re going to be murdered?”“Yes. I do think it! The murderers of that old woman and of the servant-girl are still on the war-path. Yesterday at the illumination how many watches did they steal? And the police—what do they do? Nothing, nothing! Yes, they watch you to see if you beat a rug in the morning after ten o’clock. That’s what the police do. They don’t bother murderers.”“What do you know about the murderers? It’s your duty to report them if you know them.”Walter put on his vest and wrapped his muffler around his neck.“What I know about them! They are besiegingme in my own house. Isn’t that pretty rough? I went out at noon to see the boat race on the Amstel; but there was nothing to see, because there was no wind. And such a crowd! All the kings were there, and the visiting princes and princesses, you know; and everybody stared at the carriages, and I did too. Not that I care anything about a king. Goodness, no! For he is only a worm in God’s hand, and when the Master doesn’t aid him—all is vanity, vanity. Dust and ashes—that’s all. But I looked at the carriages, you know, and at the horses, and at the staring crowd. I thought to myself, I will fry the potatoes when I go home. They had been left over from dinner; and when there are any potatoes left over, you know, I always fry them for supper. There was a big crowd, and all were mad because there was no wind; for people are foolish about pleasure and never think of the Master. Worldly, worldly, they were—and the princes and princesses. I thought, well, it’s no wonder that there’s so much robbery and murder; for they try God’s patience. I thought, God will punish you; He’s only abiding His time. He always does it, Juffrouw Pieterse! A lady—the creature had red pimples on her face, and was older than you—what do you suppose she had on her head? A turban! She rode in a carriage with four horses. What do you think of that? She was playing with a fan; and, when a prince rode up to her carriage, she stuck out her hand and let the fan go up and down three times. And the prince did that way three times. Were they crazy, or not? What will the Master say to that? If He only doesn’t send a pestilence on us!”“Yes, but the murderers—what did they do to you?”“Why, certainly—what they did? I am going to tell you. I’m still trembling. I had sliced my potatoes, put them on a saucer and set them away in the cupboard. Then I thought, I will fry them when I come home; for I didn’t expect to stay long in the crowd, for I have been saved by grace and don’t care for worldly things—ah, dear Juffrouw Pieterse, you must call Stoffel, so he can hear what has happened.”Stoffel was already on his way down; and Walter was glad of it. Walter had heard the noise Stoffel was making putting on his clothes in the adjoining booth, and upon this he builded hopes that he too might be allowed to go down, where he could hear the exciting story better than was possible through the cracks in the floor. In the meantime he had completely dressed himself. The noises below told him of Stoffel’s arrival in the sitting-room. He heard the usual greetings and Juffrouw Laps’s solemn assurance that she was still in such a tremble that she couldn’t say a word. Then he heard her ask immediately where Laurens was.Laurens? Well, he was asleep.That youth’s absence seemed to trouble the visitor. She couldn’t proceed. Was it really necessary for Laurens to be present?“What do you say, Stoffel? Isn’t the city full of thieves and murderers?”Stoffel drew in his upper lip and tried to make the lower one touch his nose. Let the reader try thesame; then he will know how Stoffel answered, and what his answer meant.Juffrouw Laps pretended to believe that he had said “yes.”“Don’t you see, Stoffel says so too! The city is full of thieves and murderers, and—a respectable person is afraid to go to bed alone any more. It’s just that way.”“But—Juffrouw!”“The police? Nonsense! What good do the police do, when people don’t believe in God? That’s the truth. Whoever doesn’t do that is lost. Human help—I cannot understand at all why Laurens goes to bed so early. You surely know that so much sleep isn’t good for anybody. What does the Bible say? Watch and pray! But—everyone according to his notion. I swear before God that I don’t dare to go home alone and——”Walter’s curiosity was at high tension. In order to hear better he was leaning over, supporting himself with the chair. The point of support was unsteady. The chair slipped and rattled across the floor, crashing into another piece of furniture.“Heaven and earth! What are they up to now,” groaned the mother. “Laurens, is that you?”Walter peeped in, “It was me.” The result was that he was soon in the midst of the interesting conversation that he had been trying to hear from above.His entrance took place under unfavorable circumstances. He was blamed for not having been undressed.“Do you always put on your nightcap before you undress?” cried the mother.The boy had actually forgotten to take off his nightcap. He was so ashamed that he felt he would like to fall through the floor. He would rather have neglected anything else.“And—what have you there?”Alas, our hero looked more ridiculous than anyone could look by simply putting on a nightcap. He had armed himself with an old rusty knife that his father had used in prehistoric times for cutting leather!During the whole of the Laps recital, which progressed so slowly, he had thought and hoped and intended—yes, he heard something that sounded like, “Where is Walter?” The speaker really did not say it—no, on the contrary, those were the very words she wished to avoid—still, he thought he heard her say them. On this Friday he had acted mean and cowardly; but he was still Walter.Murderers? Thieves? A lady in danger? What other answer could there be but: “I am here, I, Walter!”Oh, fate, why did you put that sword in his hand and let him forget to remove that nightcap? Why didn’t you divide these two absurdities between Stoffel and Walter! Or why couldn’t you put that feathery diadem on the head of the sleeping Laurens? It would have been all the same to him how he looked in his sleep.Walter was in a rage.And I am, too. Towards Femke his chivalry had remained in the background; and now it must burst forth at a doubtful call from Juffrouw Laps!In his anger he threw the weapon down violently and allowed it to rebound across the room. He slapped the nightcap on the table.No one would have thought that the little man could be so vehement. His mother, with her usual solicitousness, inquired into the condition of his mind, asking if he was only cracked, or downright crazy.“I tell you,” said the visitor, “you ought not to worry that child so much.”“Go to bed at once!” cried the mother.“Why can’t you let the child stay here? But—oh, yes! I was going to tell you about my potatoes.”Walter stayed. For this privilege he was indebted to the general curiosity.“Just imagine, when I came home about half past ten o’clock—I couldn’t get away earlier on account of the crush, you know. Don’t you know, I don’t care for these big occasions. Well, when I got home—the city is full of thieves, murderers, and that must not be forgotten—well, my potatoes were—what do you think my potatoes were? They were—gone!”“Gone?”“Gone!”“All gone?”“All gone!”“Your potatoes—gone?”“My potatoes—all completely gone!”“But——”“I tell you those thieves and murderers did it. Who else could have done it? Thieves and murderers in my house! And I wanted to ask you—for I’m afraid in my room——”Walter’s eyes fairly shone.“I wanted to ask, if perhaps—your son Stoffel——”Stoffel’s face was a study, a curiosity. If the said thieves and murderers could have seen it they would have been greatly pleased, for it bore evidence of Stoffel’s intention to leave them undisturbed in their work.“But, Juffrouw,” he said, “haven’t you a cat in your room?”“A cat? A cat to fight murderers with!”“No, Juffrouw, not to fight murderers; but a cat that might have eaten the potatoes.”“I don’t know anything about a cat. I only know that the city is full of low-down people when so many murders are committed and no one tries to catch the murderers. Not that I am anxious about my life—no, not at all. When the Master calls me I shall say, ‘Let thy daughter go in peace; my eyes have seen thy glory.’”“But, woman, why didn’t you look in your closet, and under the bed?”“I didn’t want to do that, Juffrouw Pieterse! The Lord will take care of me—but one must not try the Lord’s patience. I would not go in the closet, or look under the bed—not for everything in the world! For of course he’s there, and that’s why I wanted to ask ifyour son—Stoffel, or, if Stoffel doesn’t want to, if perhaps your son—Laurens, or——”“But, Juffrouw, why didn’t you call the neighbors?”Thus spoke Stoffel.“The neighbors? Well, I guess they know about it. The man who lives under me is afraid of a poodle-dog, not to mention a murderer. There’s a man living next to me; but, you know, he is—what shall I say—he is a sort of bachelor, and I don’t want to get talked about. You know a woman must always think of her reputation, and not get mixed up in gossip.”It did not occur to anyone to ask what sort of a creature Stoffel was. Was he a bachelor? Or did his position as a teacher protect him against any worldly suspicion?“And, besides,” continued the seductive Laps, “do you think all men have courage? No! They’re as afraid of a thief as they are of death. Last week an insolent beggar was on the steps, and the fellow wouldn’t leave. Do you think the men did anything to him? Scared to death! But, I tell you, I got hold of him in a hurry and——”She had gone too far, and she saw it.“Well, I would have done that if I hadn’t been a woman; for awomanmust never use violence. It isn’t becoming. What do you say, Trudie? I ran and shut my door. Wasn’t that right? No, none of the men-folk has any courage!”None of the men-folk! Walter felt insulted. He was swelling with suppressed courage; he was eagerfor a fray. At least, he was eager to show that he was an exception to Juffrouw Laps’s general indictment. Of course Juffrouw Laps noticed this.“Well, if Stoffel doesn’t want to——”“To tell the truth, I——”“And if Laurens is already asleep—and if—if no one else will——”She arose.“Then I suppose I must, relying upon God, go alone. But it’s horrible for a woman to be entirely alone!”She looked at them all in turn, all except the one she was talking to. Walter felt that he was being forgotten, or overlooked. This only increased his latent courage and made him burn with a desire to be numbered with the knighthood of the house.“Yes, if there’s nobody here who’s not afraid——”“I’m not afraid!”All but Juffrouw Laps were surprised. She was a good psychologist, and had not expected anything else. It was her part, however, to pretend to be as much surprised as any of the rest.“You?”“You, Walter?”“Boy, are you crazy? You?”“Yes, I. I’m not afraid; not if there were ten in the closet and a hundred under the bed!”A little Luther! But with a difference. Luther had a God in whom he felt he could trust—reinforced by a few grand-dukes. Walter, without any grand-dukes, was ready to enter the field against a God whowas allowing any number of murderers to take shelter under the roof and bed of Juffrouw Laps.“Boy!”“I’ll risk it.”“Let him go, Juffrouw Pieterse. You understand—it’s company for me to have such a child with me. Then I’m not frightened so badly, if a murderer is in the closet. Nobody wants to be entirely alone. Isn’t that so?”Juffrouw Laps gained her point: Walter was permitted to go with her.It was principally their vanity that caused the Pieterses to consent so readily to Juffrouw Laps’s request and allow her to take Walter away to act as her castellan. Not one of them felt that it was a good thing for Walter to go with the Juffrouw; but they were all proud of his courage. The story would get noised abroad, and people would pass it on to their friends. Juffrouw Pieterse would see to it that the people knew it was “the same young gentlemen, you know, that went home with Dr. Holsma.”Yes, and then people would say: “There’s something in those Pieterse children.”Mothers like to hear such things.With his package under his arm Walter marched away with Juffrouw Laps to do battle for that pious lady. That prehistoric weapon he left behind, on her assuring him that she had a well-filled store of weapons and ammunition enough to kill all the murderers that he would have occasion to contend with.

Chapter XXVIt was Thursday. Stoffel came home with the important news that the king—I don’t know what king—had arrived in the city unexpectedly and would visit the theatre that evening. Everything and everybody was in a commotion; for in republican countries much importance is given to pomp and title.This time curiosity was more wrought up than usual. Many foreign princes, including an emperor, were visiting the king; and these distinguished personages would follow the court to Amsterdam, coming from The Hague, Utrecht and Haarlem. To put it tamely, it was to be a great occasion.That republican populace was to get to see the countenance and coat-tails not only of their tyrant, but also the countenances and coat-tails of many other tyrants, not to mention female tyrants.The old doughnut women on the “Dam,” which the city rented to them as a market-place, were threatening to bring suit against the city. They felt that it was hard to have to pay rent for the fresh air, day after day, with the prospect of selling a few doughnuts to the youth of the street, and now be run out because his majesty wanted to exhibit himself to the people from the balcony of the old City Hall.Why shouldn’t the old women be seen at their accustomed places? Must the doughnut industry be carried on secretly? Was it for fear of imitations andunprincely competition? Or was it to keep the old women from seeing the king?At any rate, the whole kit of them had to leave. At most, they could only mix with the crowd incognito, and afterwards might join in the prearranged “Long live the King!” or somebody else, as the case might be.It is really remarkable that princes die. Seemingly the “vivats” are of no avail.The crowd was especially large, on account of the many majesties and highnesses who had gathered about the tyrant.Among the number was the Prince of Caramania, who had especial claims upon the sympathy of the people, so all the newspapers said. One of his ancestors had been a captain in the service of the state and had, therefore, spilt his blood for the freedom of the Netherlands.This blood, and perhaps the freedom as well, was newspaper arabesque. It was certain, however, that the prince wore a green coat with gold frogs; and upon his head he had a big plume. It was, therefore, quite proper for the crowd to cry occasionally “Long live the Prince of Caramania!”Among the eminent gentlemen was a certain duke, who, by reason of his virtues, had got himself banished from his country. The man was thrifty and economical, though without neglecting himself. Nevertheless, the rabble had dethroned him and sent him across the border with a bushel of diamonds. Of these diamonds he was now to display a few dozen in the shape of coat-buttons and the like. The newspapersgave the crowd their cue accordingly. They were to cry: “Long live the Duke with his diamonds!”Princess Erika was the niece of the king, and was to marry the crown-prince of a great empire, which was indebted to the Netherlands for its prominence. The newspapers gave the assurance that this empire would pay off the national debt of the Netherlands if the people would only put enough enthusiasm into a “Long live Princess Erika!”The old Countess-palatine of Aetolia was descended directly from a certain knight who treated his hostlers like princes. In this case it was not inappropriate for a republican populace to ask for a prolongation of her ladyship’s life. The cry was: “Long live the Countess-palatine of Aetolia!”The Grand-duke of Ysland was the handsome grandson of a shopman. His merits would fill three columns of fine print. The man was a master of the type-case himself, and by exerting himself could even set up his own name. The newspapers said that having safely passed an ocean of pitfalls, he had now perfected himself as the brother-in-law of a demi-god. Therefore, whoever had the interest of his country at heart could not afford to fail to bellow at the top of his voice: “Long live the Grand-duke of Ysland!”There were still more potentates and ladies of quality who had honored Amsterdam with a visit. They had heard that the city wasla Vénise du Nord, that it wastres interessant, tres interessant! etc.And the Holland herrings!Délicieux!Unfortunately the Netherlanders didn’t know how to cook them; they must be baked.And the Holland school of painting!Rambrànn—magnifique!There were still other good things in Holland, as their highnesses testified with patronizing kindness.“Il parait qu’un certain Wondèle a écrit des choses, des choses—mais des choses—passablement bien!”And the dikes! And the Katwyk sluice—gigantesque!Whatever spare time they might have after making cheese and cooking herrings, the Holland people liked to devote to fighting the elements. After skating and racing this was the favorite recreation of the nation.I can assure the reader that the aristocratic party took their departure thoroughly satisfied with our country. The only person who received quite a different impression—but I will not anticipate the feelings of our hero. Even a writer has his duties.The first evening everything was to be illuminated. Two hundred and fifty thousand candles were to proclaim the enthusiasm of the people. Two hundred and fifty thousand fiery tongues were to cry: “Hosanna! Blessed be he who comes in the name of——” In whose name? Hosanna for whom? For what?Well, that was a matter of indifference to the people. They knew that there was something doing, that there was a crowd, and that was enough. People are somewhat like children, who amuse themselves immensely in the confusion of a “moving,” of adeath, or of anything that causes commotion and excitement.Walter had got permission to see the illumination. Unconsciously he assumed that stupid expression which is obligatory on such occasions. He listened to the conversation of those about him.“That’s what I call illuminating! Nine candles for such a big house!”“Twelve!” cried another.“No, nine.”“Twelve!”“Nine!”“Three—three—three—and three. Look there are twelve, or I can’t count.”“No, the three above don’t count. That story is rented. I know it.”“Well—if you mean it that way. I only said that four times three are twelve. What do you say, Hannes?”Hannes found the calculation correct.“How long will the candles burn?”“Till about one o’clock, I suppose.”“I don’t believe it!”“Well, I do!”“But I don’t!——”“Have you been in the Sukkelgracht?”“Oh, it isn’t pretty there.”“You think so? Prettier than here.”“Oh, no!”“Yes, it is!——”“Look there; there’s a verse.”“Yes, a verse. Can you read it?”“Certainly! Let me see, what is it?”“I can read it, too.”“It’s about ‘illustrious blood’——”“Yes, and ‘our country,’ and ‘dedicated to honor and virtue.’”“And ‘his illustrious blood’——”“No, there it stands—‘torn from the barbarians’——”“That comes later. ‘Illustrious blood’——”“Of Holland’s hero——”“Welcome, hero!”“I wonder if the king looks at the candles. Do you suppose he reads such verses and copies them?”“Oh, he has his ministers for that.”“Or generals. He has seen or read about lots of nice things.”“As nice as here?”“Why, of course!”“I don’t believe it.”“Well, I do.”“Do you know what I think? He likes to look at the lights too.”“You think so?”“Yes.”“No, you don’t believe that.”“Don’t crowd so!”“I can’t help it. They’re crowding me.”“The people are pushing and shoving as if they were crazy.”“Did you ever see the like? You know what I think? Kalver Street ought to be as wide again as it is.”“Yes, as wide again. The street’s too narrow.”“That’s why everybody’s scroudging so.”There was much truth in this. Pressure was high. People were mashed and squeezed together. Those who, by reason of a lack of avoirdupois, were less firmly attached to the ground, were lifted bodily. Walter hung suspended in mid-air and looked over the heads of men much taller than he.“Are you walking on stilts?” asked a big fat woman, whose hips had come into collision with Walter’s knees. “Well, that’s something.”The pressure was increasing. It seemed that the fat woman would soon have Walter on her shoulder, like a gun; while Walter was thinking that soon he would be roaming over the country like a knight. No one was looking at the candles now. People were finding their amusement in crowding and being crowded.No, Kalver Street ought not to be widened. For, properly understood, this crowding and pushing and shoving was the nicest part of the whole business.How tedious it would have been quietly to watch those two hundred and fifty thousand candles from some comfortable position.Our little man lay on the heads and shoulders of his brothers. Like some aspirants to a throne, he threw himself upon the masses. But he was beginning to feel generally uncomfortable. He wanted to hold on fast to something, or somebody—to somebody’s ears, or nose. That, however, did not suit the masses. They didn’t mind being squeezed; but they didn’t like to be held on to.Crash!Don’t let the reader be alarmed. Walter had not burst under the strain; but the pressure of the crowd had broken in the double doors of a café! The irruption was terrible. The way the crowd streamed in might be compared to the flow of molten lava. Walter described aparaboliccurve and landed on a table, without suffering any damage.“Walter Pieterse!” cried the astonished party sitting around the table.“Have you hurt yourself, Walter?”No, he hadn’t hurt himself; but he was rigid with surprise. Firstly, over his ascent; secondly, over his aërial journey; then over his descent among all kinds of glassware; and, finally—and that was not the least surprising thing—he was surprised to find himself all at once in the bosom of the Holsma family.It was Sietske who asked him if he was hurt.All the glasses, both great and small, were broken; but Walter was still in one piece. Uncle Sybrand helped him to his feet. It wasn’t easy, for the press was great. However, Walter’s size facilitated matters.The proprietor couldn’t reach the scene of action, but he was able to make his voice heard to the effect that everything broken must be paid for. From other tables came the noise of more breaking glass. The man was desperate. He cursed kings and masses indiscriminately.“One bottle of wine, three lemonades, six glasses!” cried Holsma, assuming the responsibility for Walter’s unintentional work of destruction.Uncle Sybrand was holding up the money to pay for everything.“Oh, M’neer, I’m afraid to go home after this,” cried Walter. “How can I pay for that? And my mother——”In the noise and jumble Holsma did not understand; but Sietske understood.“Sh!” she whispered. “Papa will pay for it all. Besides, I have money; and William, too; and Hermann. Just be quiet.”Walter still did not understand. When, under the protection of the Holsmas, he was safe on the outside again, and the entire party had escaped the mob by taking a side street, he reiterated that he did dare show his face to his mother and Stoffel.“It doesn’t make any difference about the money,” said Holsma. “I will attend to that. Why, boy, you’re scared half to death. You’re shaking. Come along home with us where you can rest a bit and quiet yourself.”The distance, however, proved too short to have the desired quieting effect on Walter.“My mother will be angry when I come home late.”Holsma told him that a messenger should be sent to his mother at once, so that she would know where he was.The doctor gave him a sedative and led him into a room adjoining that in which the Holsma family were sitting. Walter was to walk up and down the room till he felt better; but he soon got tired of this and did the very thing that he was not to do; he sat down on a sofa and fell asleep.Whether, in general, it is a good thing to keep in motion after a fright—that I do not know. Walter, on the contrary, always felt the need of sleep under such circumstances; and this remedy, with which nature provided him, usually restored his mental equilibrium. Perhaps, after all, it wasn’t real sleep: he merely dreamed.Again he was lifted up, higher and higher, borne by strong hands. A man bit him in the hand. The fact was he had scratched his hand on a refractory horsehair, which had become tired of acting as stuffing for a sofa-pillow.An angry woman assailed him with abuse. Stupid? Not stupid? We, the masses? She let him fall. But he fell in Sietske’s lap; and there wasn’t a single sliver of glassware.He was happy—but the horsehair scratched him again. Then he heard a voice. Was he still dreaming? Yes, dreaming again of soaring and falling. There was Femke.Of course there had to be something about her in his dream, and about bleaching the clothes. Father Jansen was there, too, exhibiting to the stars the particular garment that Femke had patched. Orion and the Great Bear admired this specimen of her handiwork. Walter did not.“Did you do it yourself?” he heardSietskeasking in the next room. “Or couldn’t you get through the crowd?”“No, it was impossible to get through such a mob. I turned it over to the man with the peddler’s wagon.”What was that? Walter sat up. Father Jansen was gone; Orion, too; and the clouds, and the “masses”; but—that voice!He heard it again.“I know him very well—oh, so well! He’s a good boy.” This he heard Femke say!He jumped up and ran into the room where the Holsmas were. He saw a triangular piece of a woman’s dress disappear through the door; then the door closed.He didn’t have the courage—or was something else beside courage necessary to ask, “Is that Femke?”On his way home that evening Walter did not suffer in the least from the sensation of being borne through the air; or from anything similar. He was on the earth, very much on the earth. He felt lowly.If he had only seen that bit of Femke’s dress somewhere else, and not at the Holsmas—not in that swell family; not in the company of Sietske, who had so much money in her “savings-bank,” nor in the presence of the vain William, who was studying Latin!He was brave enough to feel ashamed of himself; and that’s all I can say in his favor.Let us now look at things from the point of view of Juffrouw Pieterse. That lady was in the clouds. She was hoping that the messenger who had brought her news of Walter had not been able to find her flat at once. The idea of someone from Dr. Holsma’s asking for her through the neighborhood was decidedly pleasant. The longer he might have had to inquire for her the better!“Of course he was at the grocer’s,” she said.“Such messengers never know where they have to go. Of course he told that the ‘young gentleman’ was staying at Dr. Holsma’s! And such a man always tattles; such people don’t do anything but tattle. But, as far as I’m concerned, everybody can know it. I only mean that such people like to tattle. But—say, Walter, how did it happen that you went with the family? You’re a nice rascal. Stoffel, what do you say?”Stoffel made a serious face—as much as to say: “Hm! I’ll have to think over it. He’s been up to something.”“I met the Holsma family in Kalver Street,” Walter said. He told the truth; he had met the family in Kalver Street. But why didn’t he tell anything about the extraordinary circumstances under which he met them? Ah—there’s the rub!“Your back is so sticky!” complained Pietro, whose care it was to look after the washing.The family rubbed, and felt, and smelt; and then they declared unanimously that Walter’s back had been guilty of absorbing all kinds of sticky gases and liquids.“Really, it smells like lemon,” said Trudie.“And like wine!”“And it’s just coated with sugar. Boy, where have you been? Don’t you have any sense of shame? To go to visit such swell people with lemon and sugar on your back! It’s a disgrace, a disgrace.”“There was such a crowd on the street.”“That don’t explain the wine on your back—nor the lemon—nor the sugar. What say you, Trudie?”There was complete unanimity. Timid, as usual, Walter didn’t have the courage to tell everything. Nor would this have done any good. The understanding of the Pieterse family was like a rusty lock that no key will open. Walter knew this, and remembering former sad experiences, allowed the storm to rage above his head. Unfortunately he, too, in a sense, was rusty. His nobility of character had suffered; he had been guilty of cowardice.He felt it. No minister could pray it away. Not even God himself could revoke it. Everyone must act according to his conviction, Mevrouw Holsma had said. He had not done this.A dog would have kissed the hem of Femke’s garment, meeting her after such a long separation. For it was she. Certainly it was Femke—or——Oh, he was hunting for or’s!Could it have been somebody else? It must have been somebody else. How could Femke be at Dr. Holsma’s?No, no, it was she! Didn’t she say that she knew me? Didn’t she speak with the same voice that I heard when she called me a dear boy and gave me the kiss at the bridge?She didn’t know then what a coward I am! She wouldn’t deny me and betray me. She would say to everybody: That is Walter, my little friend that I kissed that time, because he was so brave in fighting off those boys!And I? Oh, help me God!No, God has nothing to do with it. I am a coward. I can’t live this way.He thought of suicide; and in this mood he spent that Thursday night. He arose Friday morning with the firm determination to put an end to his unworthy existence.Fortunately, just after breakfast he was put to work on a job that is calculated to reconcile one with life.He had been tried and convicted, the verdict being unanimous. The penalty was that he should wash his jacket till it was clean. He entered upon the task with such enthusiasm that in an hour he was running to his mother crying triumphantly:“Look, mother! You can’t see a trace of it now!”This little conquest dispelled all the clouds that had darkened his life.There are plenty of people who would gladly fall into a barrel of lemonade if they only understood the salutary effects of cleaning a coat.The poor unfortunate who has never washed his own clothes does not know what life is.I will ask her pardon, thought Walter; and he pictured it all to himself, wondering whether it would do for him to fall at her feet at Holsma’s, in the presence of the one who had delivered the message. Finally, however, he quieted himself with the thought that Femke would probably not be at the doctor’s very long. He hoped to be able then to settle the matter quietly, when only the two concerned were present. This was not courageous, to be sure; but his punishment was already on the way.

It was Thursday. Stoffel came home with the important news that the king—I don’t know what king—had arrived in the city unexpectedly and would visit the theatre that evening. Everything and everybody was in a commotion; for in republican countries much importance is given to pomp and title.

This time curiosity was more wrought up than usual. Many foreign princes, including an emperor, were visiting the king; and these distinguished personages would follow the court to Amsterdam, coming from The Hague, Utrecht and Haarlem. To put it tamely, it was to be a great occasion.

That republican populace was to get to see the countenance and coat-tails not only of their tyrant, but also the countenances and coat-tails of many other tyrants, not to mention female tyrants.

The old doughnut women on the “Dam,” which the city rented to them as a market-place, were threatening to bring suit against the city. They felt that it was hard to have to pay rent for the fresh air, day after day, with the prospect of selling a few doughnuts to the youth of the street, and now be run out because his majesty wanted to exhibit himself to the people from the balcony of the old City Hall.

Why shouldn’t the old women be seen at their accustomed places? Must the doughnut industry be carried on secretly? Was it for fear of imitations andunprincely competition? Or was it to keep the old women from seeing the king?

At any rate, the whole kit of them had to leave. At most, they could only mix with the crowd incognito, and afterwards might join in the prearranged “Long live the King!” or somebody else, as the case might be.

It is really remarkable that princes die. Seemingly the “vivats” are of no avail.

The crowd was especially large, on account of the many majesties and highnesses who had gathered about the tyrant.

Among the number was the Prince of Caramania, who had especial claims upon the sympathy of the people, so all the newspapers said. One of his ancestors had been a captain in the service of the state and had, therefore, spilt his blood for the freedom of the Netherlands.

This blood, and perhaps the freedom as well, was newspaper arabesque. It was certain, however, that the prince wore a green coat with gold frogs; and upon his head he had a big plume. It was, therefore, quite proper for the crowd to cry occasionally “Long live the Prince of Caramania!”

Among the eminent gentlemen was a certain duke, who, by reason of his virtues, had got himself banished from his country. The man was thrifty and economical, though without neglecting himself. Nevertheless, the rabble had dethroned him and sent him across the border with a bushel of diamonds. Of these diamonds he was now to display a few dozen in the shape of coat-buttons and the like. The newspapersgave the crowd their cue accordingly. They were to cry: “Long live the Duke with his diamonds!”

Princess Erika was the niece of the king, and was to marry the crown-prince of a great empire, which was indebted to the Netherlands for its prominence. The newspapers gave the assurance that this empire would pay off the national debt of the Netherlands if the people would only put enough enthusiasm into a “Long live Princess Erika!”

The old Countess-palatine of Aetolia was descended directly from a certain knight who treated his hostlers like princes. In this case it was not inappropriate for a republican populace to ask for a prolongation of her ladyship’s life. The cry was: “Long live the Countess-palatine of Aetolia!”

The Grand-duke of Ysland was the handsome grandson of a shopman. His merits would fill three columns of fine print. The man was a master of the type-case himself, and by exerting himself could even set up his own name. The newspapers said that having safely passed an ocean of pitfalls, he had now perfected himself as the brother-in-law of a demi-god. Therefore, whoever had the interest of his country at heart could not afford to fail to bellow at the top of his voice: “Long live the Grand-duke of Ysland!”

There were still more potentates and ladies of quality who had honored Amsterdam with a visit. They had heard that the city wasla Vénise du Nord, that it wastres interessant, tres interessant! etc.

And the Holland herrings!Délicieux!Unfortunately the Netherlanders didn’t know how to cook them; they must be baked.

And the Holland school of painting!Rambrànn—magnifique!

There were still other good things in Holland, as their highnesses testified with patronizing kindness.

“Il parait qu’un certain Wondèle a écrit des choses, des choses—mais des choses—passablement bien!”

And the dikes! And the Katwyk sluice—gigantesque!

Whatever spare time they might have after making cheese and cooking herrings, the Holland people liked to devote to fighting the elements. After skating and racing this was the favorite recreation of the nation.

I can assure the reader that the aristocratic party took their departure thoroughly satisfied with our country. The only person who received quite a different impression—but I will not anticipate the feelings of our hero. Even a writer has his duties.

The first evening everything was to be illuminated. Two hundred and fifty thousand candles were to proclaim the enthusiasm of the people. Two hundred and fifty thousand fiery tongues were to cry: “Hosanna! Blessed be he who comes in the name of——” In whose name? Hosanna for whom? For what?

Well, that was a matter of indifference to the people. They knew that there was something doing, that there was a crowd, and that was enough. People are somewhat like children, who amuse themselves immensely in the confusion of a “moving,” of adeath, or of anything that causes commotion and excitement.

Walter had got permission to see the illumination. Unconsciously he assumed that stupid expression which is obligatory on such occasions. He listened to the conversation of those about him.

“That’s what I call illuminating! Nine candles for such a big house!”

“Twelve!” cried another.

“No, nine.”

“Twelve!”

“Nine!”

“Three—three—three—and three. Look there are twelve, or I can’t count.”

“No, the three above don’t count. That story is rented. I know it.”

“Well—if you mean it that way. I only said that four times three are twelve. What do you say, Hannes?”

Hannes found the calculation correct.

“How long will the candles burn?”

“Till about one o’clock, I suppose.”

“I don’t believe it!”

“Well, I do!”

“But I don’t!——”

“Have you been in the Sukkelgracht?”

“Oh, it isn’t pretty there.”

“You think so? Prettier than here.”

“Oh, no!”

“Yes, it is!——”

“Look there; there’s a verse.”

“Yes, a verse. Can you read it?”

“Certainly! Let me see, what is it?”

“I can read it, too.”

“It’s about ‘illustrious blood’——”

“Yes, and ‘our country,’ and ‘dedicated to honor and virtue.’”

“And ‘his illustrious blood’——”

“No, there it stands—‘torn from the barbarians’——”

“That comes later. ‘Illustrious blood’——”

“Of Holland’s hero——”

“Welcome, hero!”

“I wonder if the king looks at the candles. Do you suppose he reads such verses and copies them?”

“Oh, he has his ministers for that.”

“Or generals. He has seen or read about lots of nice things.”

“As nice as here?”

“Why, of course!”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Well, I do.”

“Do you know what I think? He likes to look at the lights too.”

“You think so?”

“Yes.”

“No, you don’t believe that.”

“Don’t crowd so!”

“I can’t help it. They’re crowding me.”

“The people are pushing and shoving as if they were crazy.”

“Did you ever see the like? You know what I think? Kalver Street ought to be as wide again as it is.”

“Yes, as wide again. The street’s too narrow.”

“That’s why everybody’s scroudging so.”

There was much truth in this. Pressure was high. People were mashed and squeezed together. Those who, by reason of a lack of avoirdupois, were less firmly attached to the ground, were lifted bodily. Walter hung suspended in mid-air and looked over the heads of men much taller than he.

“Are you walking on stilts?” asked a big fat woman, whose hips had come into collision with Walter’s knees. “Well, that’s something.”

The pressure was increasing. It seemed that the fat woman would soon have Walter on her shoulder, like a gun; while Walter was thinking that soon he would be roaming over the country like a knight. No one was looking at the candles now. People were finding their amusement in crowding and being crowded.

No, Kalver Street ought not to be widened. For, properly understood, this crowding and pushing and shoving was the nicest part of the whole business.

How tedious it would have been quietly to watch those two hundred and fifty thousand candles from some comfortable position.

Our little man lay on the heads and shoulders of his brothers. Like some aspirants to a throne, he threw himself upon the masses. But he was beginning to feel generally uncomfortable. He wanted to hold on fast to something, or somebody—to somebody’s ears, or nose. That, however, did not suit the masses. They didn’t mind being squeezed; but they didn’t like to be held on to.

Crash!

Don’t let the reader be alarmed. Walter had not burst under the strain; but the pressure of the crowd had broken in the double doors of a café! The irruption was terrible. The way the crowd streamed in might be compared to the flow of molten lava. Walter described aparaboliccurve and landed on a table, without suffering any damage.

“Walter Pieterse!” cried the astonished party sitting around the table.

“Have you hurt yourself, Walter?”

No, he hadn’t hurt himself; but he was rigid with surprise. Firstly, over his ascent; secondly, over his aërial journey; then over his descent among all kinds of glassware; and, finally—and that was not the least surprising thing—he was surprised to find himself all at once in the bosom of the Holsma family.

It was Sietske who asked him if he was hurt.

All the glasses, both great and small, were broken; but Walter was still in one piece. Uncle Sybrand helped him to his feet. It wasn’t easy, for the press was great. However, Walter’s size facilitated matters.

The proprietor couldn’t reach the scene of action, but he was able to make his voice heard to the effect that everything broken must be paid for. From other tables came the noise of more breaking glass. The man was desperate. He cursed kings and masses indiscriminately.

“One bottle of wine, three lemonades, six glasses!” cried Holsma, assuming the responsibility for Walter’s unintentional work of destruction.

Uncle Sybrand was holding up the money to pay for everything.

“Oh, M’neer, I’m afraid to go home after this,” cried Walter. “How can I pay for that? And my mother——”

In the noise and jumble Holsma did not understand; but Sietske understood.

“Sh!” she whispered. “Papa will pay for it all. Besides, I have money; and William, too; and Hermann. Just be quiet.”

Walter still did not understand. When, under the protection of the Holsmas, he was safe on the outside again, and the entire party had escaped the mob by taking a side street, he reiterated that he did dare show his face to his mother and Stoffel.

“It doesn’t make any difference about the money,” said Holsma. “I will attend to that. Why, boy, you’re scared half to death. You’re shaking. Come along home with us where you can rest a bit and quiet yourself.”

The distance, however, proved too short to have the desired quieting effect on Walter.

“My mother will be angry when I come home late.”

Holsma told him that a messenger should be sent to his mother at once, so that she would know where he was.

The doctor gave him a sedative and led him into a room adjoining that in which the Holsma family were sitting. Walter was to walk up and down the room till he felt better; but he soon got tired of this and did the very thing that he was not to do; he sat down on a sofa and fell asleep.

Whether, in general, it is a good thing to keep in motion after a fright—that I do not know. Walter, on the contrary, always felt the need of sleep under such circumstances; and this remedy, with which nature provided him, usually restored his mental equilibrium. Perhaps, after all, it wasn’t real sleep: he merely dreamed.

Again he was lifted up, higher and higher, borne by strong hands. A man bit him in the hand. The fact was he had scratched his hand on a refractory horsehair, which had become tired of acting as stuffing for a sofa-pillow.

An angry woman assailed him with abuse. Stupid? Not stupid? We, the masses? She let him fall. But he fell in Sietske’s lap; and there wasn’t a single sliver of glassware.

He was happy—but the horsehair scratched him again. Then he heard a voice. Was he still dreaming? Yes, dreaming again of soaring and falling. There was Femke.

Of course there had to be something about her in his dream, and about bleaching the clothes. Father Jansen was there, too, exhibiting to the stars the particular garment that Femke had patched. Orion and the Great Bear admired this specimen of her handiwork. Walter did not.

“Did you do it yourself?” he heardSietskeasking in the next room. “Or couldn’t you get through the crowd?”

“No, it was impossible to get through such a mob. I turned it over to the man with the peddler’s wagon.”

What was that? Walter sat up. Father Jansen was gone; Orion, too; and the clouds, and the “masses”; but—that voice!

He heard it again.

“I know him very well—oh, so well! He’s a good boy.” This he heard Femke say!

He jumped up and ran into the room where the Holsmas were. He saw a triangular piece of a woman’s dress disappear through the door; then the door closed.

He didn’t have the courage—or was something else beside courage necessary to ask, “Is that Femke?”

On his way home that evening Walter did not suffer in the least from the sensation of being borne through the air; or from anything similar. He was on the earth, very much on the earth. He felt lowly.

If he had only seen that bit of Femke’s dress somewhere else, and not at the Holsmas—not in that swell family; not in the company of Sietske, who had so much money in her “savings-bank,” nor in the presence of the vain William, who was studying Latin!

He was brave enough to feel ashamed of himself; and that’s all I can say in his favor.

Let us now look at things from the point of view of Juffrouw Pieterse. That lady was in the clouds. She was hoping that the messenger who had brought her news of Walter had not been able to find her flat at once. The idea of someone from Dr. Holsma’s asking for her through the neighborhood was decidedly pleasant. The longer he might have had to inquire for her the better!

“Of course he was at the grocer’s,” she said.“Such messengers never know where they have to go. Of course he told that the ‘young gentleman’ was staying at Dr. Holsma’s! And such a man always tattles; such people don’t do anything but tattle. But, as far as I’m concerned, everybody can know it. I only mean that such people like to tattle. But—say, Walter, how did it happen that you went with the family? You’re a nice rascal. Stoffel, what do you say?”

Stoffel made a serious face—as much as to say: “Hm! I’ll have to think over it. He’s been up to something.”

“I met the Holsma family in Kalver Street,” Walter said. He told the truth; he had met the family in Kalver Street. But why didn’t he tell anything about the extraordinary circumstances under which he met them? Ah—there’s the rub!

“Your back is so sticky!” complained Pietro, whose care it was to look after the washing.

The family rubbed, and felt, and smelt; and then they declared unanimously that Walter’s back had been guilty of absorbing all kinds of sticky gases and liquids.

“Really, it smells like lemon,” said Trudie.

“And like wine!”

“And it’s just coated with sugar. Boy, where have you been? Don’t you have any sense of shame? To go to visit such swell people with lemon and sugar on your back! It’s a disgrace, a disgrace.”

“There was such a crowd on the street.”

“That don’t explain the wine on your back—nor the lemon—nor the sugar. What say you, Trudie?”

There was complete unanimity. Timid, as usual, Walter didn’t have the courage to tell everything. Nor would this have done any good. The understanding of the Pieterse family was like a rusty lock that no key will open. Walter knew this, and remembering former sad experiences, allowed the storm to rage above his head. Unfortunately he, too, in a sense, was rusty. His nobility of character had suffered; he had been guilty of cowardice.

He felt it. No minister could pray it away. Not even God himself could revoke it. Everyone must act according to his conviction, Mevrouw Holsma had said. He had not done this.

A dog would have kissed the hem of Femke’s garment, meeting her after such a long separation. For it was she. Certainly it was Femke—or——

Oh, he was hunting for or’s!

Could it have been somebody else? It must have been somebody else. How could Femke be at Dr. Holsma’s?

No, no, it was she! Didn’t she say that she knew me? Didn’t she speak with the same voice that I heard when she called me a dear boy and gave me the kiss at the bridge?

She didn’t know then what a coward I am! She wouldn’t deny me and betray me. She would say to everybody: That is Walter, my little friend that I kissed that time, because he was so brave in fighting off those boys!

And I? Oh, help me God!

No, God has nothing to do with it. I am a coward. I can’t live this way.

He thought of suicide; and in this mood he spent that Thursday night. He arose Friday morning with the firm determination to put an end to his unworthy existence.

Fortunately, just after breakfast he was put to work on a job that is calculated to reconcile one with life.

He had been tried and convicted, the verdict being unanimous. The penalty was that he should wash his jacket till it was clean. He entered upon the task with such enthusiasm that in an hour he was running to his mother crying triumphantly:

“Look, mother! You can’t see a trace of it now!”

This little conquest dispelled all the clouds that had darkened his life.

There are plenty of people who would gladly fall into a barrel of lemonade if they only understood the salutary effects of cleaning a coat.

The poor unfortunate who has never washed his own clothes does not know what life is.

I will ask her pardon, thought Walter; and he pictured it all to himself, wondering whether it would do for him to fall at her feet at Holsma’s, in the presence of the one who had delivered the message. Finally, however, he quieted himself with the thought that Femke would probably not be at the doctor’s very long. He hoped to be able then to settle the matter quietly, when only the two concerned were present. This was not courageous, to be sure; but his punishment was already on the way.

Chapter XXVIThe events of an eventful Friday were at an end, as it seemed; and Walter prepared to climb into the narrow bedstead, which he shared with his brother Laurens. He was now in a tranquil frame of mind. He didn’t even have any desire to romp with Laurens, who, without laying claim to geometrical knowledge, usually managed to find the diagonal of the bed.It was Walter’s intention to think over recent events again. He wished to busy himself with others; he was tired of himself—at least he thought so for a moment.There was a prince, who distributed money among the people. Oh, if I were only a prince!That wasn’t a bad thought. Under the same circumstances, most people would have thought: Oh, if I could only have got some of the money!The countess-palatine from—where from? Well it makes no difference. She was in the museum and the papers said she was gracious, very gracious.I would do it too, thought Walter, if I were a countess-palatine. What sort of a profession is that?The king had given audiences—and a dinner—and had said—well, the usual things. But for Walter itwas new and interesting. The welfare of the city seemed to lie heavily on his majesty’s heart. It lay heavily on Walter’s heart, too; but that did not prevent Walter from admiring this peculiarity of the king. In Africa he would do the same thing.No, away with Africa!He threw off his left stocking so violently that it curled around the leg of the chair like a dying earthworm.What strange things he had heard of Princess Erika! It was said that she was to have married a grand-duke, but rejected him.The middle classes were delighted with this news; though not knowing but that it might merely have been stubbornness on the part of the princess.She was of such a strange nature that she did not know how to behave herself in her high position.Walter slipped off his other stocking, finding fault with the princess for disregarding the usual customs and conventions. Hm! He wondered if she would like to change places with him, and let him be Prince Erich—and she——He wondered if she too wore an ugly nightcap. But—no! Princesses would wear caps of diamonds.Princess Erika!Walter blew out the light—no, he was on the point of blowing it out. He had selected one of the triangles that Laurens had described in the bed, when suddenly he became aware of a great tumult in the Pieterse home.Yes, somebody had rung violently three or four times and was still banging at the door. Fire?Hm! Could it be Princess Erika, he thought, who was coming to change places with him?Alas, it was only Juffrouw Laps; and she did not come to exchange.Well, what did she want then, so late in the evening?Walter pulled himself together and listened.The compartment where Walter and Laurens slept was a boxed-up arrangement over the sitting-room. Two of their sisters shared the space with them. From considerations of modesty, therefore, the boys always had to get sleepy a quarter of an hour before the young ladies.The writer is unable to say how much oxygen fouryoung people need during eight hours without suffocating; but anyway there wasn’t much room in this little nook.In another closet-affair there was a similar division, and here, too, the hour for retiring was determined by similar laws of modesty.The reader will now understand why a part of the family, the female part of course, was still in the sitting-room when Walter imagined that Princess Erika had come to exchange places with him.Juffrouw Laps, who had rushed up the steps like a crazy woman, burst into the room weeping and moaning and sobbing.The usual cries of, “What on earth is the matter?” “Lord ’a’ mercy—what has happened?” were forthcoming. Walter noticed, too, that the customary glass of water was offered and drunk, and that proper efforts were being made to get the unhappy one to “calm herself.”Juffrouw Laps began her story with the positive assurance that it was impossible for her to utter a word.It seemed, therefore, that the affair was something important. Walter pulled on one of his stockings and prepared to listen.“I swear, Juffrouw Pieterse, by the omnipotent God, that I’m so frightened and excited that I can’t talk.”“Goodness!”“Where are your children? In bed? Not all of them, I hope. Really, I can’t speak. Give me another glass of water, Trudie. Listen, how my teeth are chattering. That comes from fright, doesn’t it? I’m in a tremble all over. Thank you, Trudie. Where’s—Stoffel?”“He’s undressing,” said Juffrouw Pieterse. “He goes to bed before me and Pietro. Mina makes so much noise, you know; and Trudie must stay with the boys to keep them from fighting. That’s why I sleep with Pietro, you see. Stoffel undresses himself, and then he draws the curtain when he hears us on the steps. But why——”“How that concerns me, you mean? To be sure. I’m just beside myself from fright! And is—Laurens in bed too?”“Of course! A long time already. He has to go to the printing-house early.”“All in bed! And I—I run through the streets, wretched, crazy, and don’t know what to do. Is everybody in bed?—everybody?”“But what has happened?”“I’m going to tell you, Juffrouw Pieterse. Oh, if you only knew how frightened I am!”Consideration of acoustics now led Walter to put on his other stocking.“You know, Juffrouw Pieterse, that of late so much stealing has been going on.”“Yes, but——”“And burglary and murder! And the police can’t catch anybody. You know the old woman and the servant-girl who were murdered in Lommer Street.”“But three are already behind the bars for it. What more do you want?”“That’s all right; the murderers are running around scot-free. They’ve locked up three fellows just to keep the people from thinking too much. They don’t want anybody to ask, ‘What are the police for?’ You see what I mean? I tell you that such a low-down rascal, who commits a murder and steals lots of money, cannot hide his bloody clothes; nor the money, either. He’s not used to having so much money. All the neighbors know his coat and breeches; and such a man hasn’t any trunk where he can hide his things. He doesn’t know how to manage with drafts and notes; and he don’t know enough to get away to a foreign country. As for friends to help him get rid of the stolen things, he hasn’t any. I tell you, Juffrouw Pieterse, a murder or a robbery, when they don’t catch the murderer right away—then some respectable person has done it, who has more clothes and boxes and presses and linen—and he has friends among bankers. A common fellow would stick a hundred thousand florins in the bread-box, and thechildren would find it when they went to slip a slice of bread and butter. What do you say, Trudie?”Trudie was not versed in criminal statistics and had never reflected on the matter. At least Walter heard no answer. Curiosity compelled him to draw on his trousers.“But,” he heard his mother saying again, “what has happened to you?”“What has happened? I am beside myself. Don’t you see how I’m trembling? The city is full of murderers!”“My goodness! How can I help it?”“You can’t. But I am beside myself, and I want to ask your advice. Do they all go to bed so early?—Stoffel—and Laurens—all of them? Look, how I’m shaking. Do you suppose I dare go back to my room?”“Why not? Do you think you’re going to be murdered?”“Yes. I do think it! The murderers of that old woman and of the servant-girl are still on the war-path. Yesterday at the illumination how many watches did they steal? And the police—what do they do? Nothing, nothing! Yes, they watch you to see if you beat a rug in the morning after ten o’clock. That’s what the police do. They don’t bother murderers.”“What do you know about the murderers? It’s your duty to report them if you know them.”Walter put on his vest and wrapped his muffler around his neck.“What I know about them! They are besiegingme in my own house. Isn’t that pretty rough? I went out at noon to see the boat race on the Amstel; but there was nothing to see, because there was no wind. And such a crowd! All the kings were there, and the visiting princes and princesses, you know; and everybody stared at the carriages, and I did too. Not that I care anything about a king. Goodness, no! For he is only a worm in God’s hand, and when the Master doesn’t aid him—all is vanity, vanity. Dust and ashes—that’s all. But I looked at the carriages, you know, and at the horses, and at the staring crowd. I thought to myself, I will fry the potatoes when I go home. They had been left over from dinner; and when there are any potatoes left over, you know, I always fry them for supper. There was a big crowd, and all were mad because there was no wind; for people are foolish about pleasure and never think of the Master. Worldly, worldly, they were—and the princes and princesses. I thought, well, it’s no wonder that there’s so much robbery and murder; for they try God’s patience. I thought, God will punish you; He’s only abiding His time. He always does it, Juffrouw Pieterse! A lady—the creature had red pimples on her face, and was older than you—what do you suppose she had on her head? A turban! She rode in a carriage with four horses. What do you think of that? She was playing with a fan; and, when a prince rode up to her carriage, she stuck out her hand and let the fan go up and down three times. And the prince did that way three times. Were they crazy, or not? What will the Master say to that? If He only doesn’t send a pestilence on us!”“Yes, but the murderers—what did they do to you?”“Why, certainly—what they did? I am going to tell you. I’m still trembling. I had sliced my potatoes, put them on a saucer and set them away in the cupboard. Then I thought, I will fry them when I come home; for I didn’t expect to stay long in the crowd, for I have been saved by grace and don’t care for worldly things—ah, dear Juffrouw Pieterse, you must call Stoffel, so he can hear what has happened.”Stoffel was already on his way down; and Walter was glad of it. Walter had heard the noise Stoffel was making putting on his clothes in the adjoining booth, and upon this he builded hopes that he too might be allowed to go down, where he could hear the exciting story better than was possible through the cracks in the floor. In the meantime he had completely dressed himself. The noises below told him of Stoffel’s arrival in the sitting-room. He heard the usual greetings and Juffrouw Laps’s solemn assurance that she was still in such a tremble that she couldn’t say a word. Then he heard her ask immediately where Laurens was.Laurens? Well, he was asleep.That youth’s absence seemed to trouble the visitor. She couldn’t proceed. Was it really necessary for Laurens to be present?“What do you say, Stoffel? Isn’t the city full of thieves and murderers?”Stoffel drew in his upper lip and tried to make the lower one touch his nose. Let the reader try thesame; then he will know how Stoffel answered, and what his answer meant.Juffrouw Laps pretended to believe that he had said “yes.”“Don’t you see, Stoffel says so too! The city is full of thieves and murderers, and—a respectable person is afraid to go to bed alone any more. It’s just that way.”“But—Juffrouw!”“The police? Nonsense! What good do the police do, when people don’t believe in God? That’s the truth. Whoever doesn’t do that is lost. Human help—I cannot understand at all why Laurens goes to bed so early. You surely know that so much sleep isn’t good for anybody. What does the Bible say? Watch and pray! But—everyone according to his notion. I swear before God that I don’t dare to go home alone and——”Walter’s curiosity was at high tension. In order to hear better he was leaning over, supporting himself with the chair. The point of support was unsteady. The chair slipped and rattled across the floor, crashing into another piece of furniture.“Heaven and earth! What are they up to now,” groaned the mother. “Laurens, is that you?”Walter peeped in, “It was me.” The result was that he was soon in the midst of the interesting conversation that he had been trying to hear from above.His entrance took place under unfavorable circumstances. He was blamed for not having been undressed.“Do you always put on your nightcap before you undress?” cried the mother.The boy had actually forgotten to take off his nightcap. He was so ashamed that he felt he would like to fall through the floor. He would rather have neglected anything else.“And—what have you there?”Alas, our hero looked more ridiculous than anyone could look by simply putting on a nightcap. He had armed himself with an old rusty knife that his father had used in prehistoric times for cutting leather!During the whole of the Laps recital, which progressed so slowly, he had thought and hoped and intended—yes, he heard something that sounded like, “Where is Walter?” The speaker really did not say it—no, on the contrary, those were the very words she wished to avoid—still, he thought he heard her say them. On this Friday he had acted mean and cowardly; but he was still Walter.Murderers? Thieves? A lady in danger? What other answer could there be but: “I am here, I, Walter!”Oh, fate, why did you put that sword in his hand and let him forget to remove that nightcap? Why didn’t you divide these two absurdities between Stoffel and Walter! Or why couldn’t you put that feathery diadem on the head of the sleeping Laurens? It would have been all the same to him how he looked in his sleep.Walter was in a rage.And I am, too. Towards Femke his chivalry had remained in the background; and now it must burst forth at a doubtful call from Juffrouw Laps!In his anger he threw the weapon down violently and allowed it to rebound across the room. He slapped the nightcap on the table.No one would have thought that the little man could be so vehement. His mother, with her usual solicitousness, inquired into the condition of his mind, asking if he was only cracked, or downright crazy.“I tell you,” said the visitor, “you ought not to worry that child so much.”“Go to bed at once!” cried the mother.“Why can’t you let the child stay here? But—oh, yes! I was going to tell you about my potatoes.”Walter stayed. For this privilege he was indebted to the general curiosity.“Just imagine, when I came home about half past ten o’clock—I couldn’t get away earlier on account of the crush, you know. Don’t you know, I don’t care for these big occasions. Well, when I got home—the city is full of thieves, murderers, and that must not be forgotten—well, my potatoes were—what do you think my potatoes were? They were—gone!”“Gone?”“Gone!”“All gone?”“All gone!”“Your potatoes—gone?”“My potatoes—all completely gone!”“But——”“I tell you those thieves and murderers did it. Who else could have done it? Thieves and murderers in my house! And I wanted to ask you—for I’m afraid in my room——”Walter’s eyes fairly shone.“I wanted to ask, if perhaps—your son Stoffel——”Stoffel’s face was a study, a curiosity. If the said thieves and murderers could have seen it they would have been greatly pleased, for it bore evidence of Stoffel’s intention to leave them undisturbed in their work.“But, Juffrouw,” he said, “haven’t you a cat in your room?”“A cat? A cat to fight murderers with!”“No, Juffrouw, not to fight murderers; but a cat that might have eaten the potatoes.”“I don’t know anything about a cat. I only know that the city is full of low-down people when so many murders are committed and no one tries to catch the murderers. Not that I am anxious about my life—no, not at all. When the Master calls me I shall say, ‘Let thy daughter go in peace; my eyes have seen thy glory.’”“But, woman, why didn’t you look in your closet, and under the bed?”“I didn’t want to do that, Juffrouw Pieterse! The Lord will take care of me—but one must not try the Lord’s patience. I would not go in the closet, or look under the bed—not for everything in the world! For of course he’s there, and that’s why I wanted to ask ifyour son—Stoffel, or, if Stoffel doesn’t want to, if perhaps your son—Laurens, or——”“But, Juffrouw, why didn’t you call the neighbors?”Thus spoke Stoffel.“The neighbors? Well, I guess they know about it. The man who lives under me is afraid of a poodle-dog, not to mention a murderer. There’s a man living next to me; but, you know, he is—what shall I say—he is a sort of bachelor, and I don’t want to get talked about. You know a woman must always think of her reputation, and not get mixed up in gossip.”It did not occur to anyone to ask what sort of a creature Stoffel was. Was he a bachelor? Or did his position as a teacher protect him against any worldly suspicion?“And, besides,” continued the seductive Laps, “do you think all men have courage? No! They’re as afraid of a thief as they are of death. Last week an insolent beggar was on the steps, and the fellow wouldn’t leave. Do you think the men did anything to him? Scared to death! But, I tell you, I got hold of him in a hurry and——”She had gone too far, and she saw it.“Well, I would have done that if I hadn’t been a woman; for awomanmust never use violence. It isn’t becoming. What do you say, Trudie? I ran and shut my door. Wasn’t that right? No, none of the men-folk has any courage!”None of the men-folk! Walter felt insulted. He was swelling with suppressed courage; he was eagerfor a fray. At least, he was eager to show that he was an exception to Juffrouw Laps’s general indictment. Of course Juffrouw Laps noticed this.“Well, if Stoffel doesn’t want to——”“To tell the truth, I——”“And if Laurens is already asleep—and if—if no one else will——”She arose.“Then I suppose I must, relying upon God, go alone. But it’s horrible for a woman to be entirely alone!”She looked at them all in turn, all except the one she was talking to. Walter felt that he was being forgotten, or overlooked. This only increased his latent courage and made him burn with a desire to be numbered with the knighthood of the house.“Yes, if there’s nobody here who’s not afraid——”“I’m not afraid!”All but Juffrouw Laps were surprised. She was a good psychologist, and had not expected anything else. It was her part, however, to pretend to be as much surprised as any of the rest.“You?”“You, Walter?”“Boy, are you crazy? You?”“Yes, I. I’m not afraid; not if there were ten in the closet and a hundred under the bed!”A little Luther! But with a difference. Luther had a God in whom he felt he could trust—reinforced by a few grand-dukes. Walter, without any grand-dukes, was ready to enter the field against a God whowas allowing any number of murderers to take shelter under the roof and bed of Juffrouw Laps.“Boy!”“I’ll risk it.”“Let him go, Juffrouw Pieterse. You understand—it’s company for me to have such a child with me. Then I’m not frightened so badly, if a murderer is in the closet. Nobody wants to be entirely alone. Isn’t that so?”Juffrouw Laps gained her point: Walter was permitted to go with her.It was principally their vanity that caused the Pieterses to consent so readily to Juffrouw Laps’s request and allow her to take Walter away to act as her castellan. Not one of them felt that it was a good thing for Walter to go with the Juffrouw; but they were all proud of his courage. The story would get noised abroad, and people would pass it on to their friends. Juffrouw Pieterse would see to it that the people knew it was “the same young gentlemen, you know, that went home with Dr. Holsma.”Yes, and then people would say: “There’s something in those Pieterse children.”Mothers like to hear such things.With his package under his arm Walter marched away with Juffrouw Laps to do battle for that pious lady. That prehistoric weapon he left behind, on her assuring him that she had a well-filled store of weapons and ammunition enough to kill all the murderers that he would have occasion to contend with.

The events of an eventful Friday were at an end, as it seemed; and Walter prepared to climb into the narrow bedstead, which he shared with his brother Laurens. He was now in a tranquil frame of mind. He didn’t even have any desire to romp with Laurens, who, without laying claim to geometrical knowledge, usually managed to find the diagonal of the bed.

It was Walter’s intention to think over recent events again. He wished to busy himself with others; he was tired of himself—at least he thought so for a moment.

There was a prince, who distributed money among the people. Oh, if I were only a prince!

That wasn’t a bad thought. Under the same circumstances, most people would have thought: Oh, if I could only have got some of the money!

The countess-palatine from—where from? Well it makes no difference. She was in the museum and the papers said she was gracious, very gracious.

I would do it too, thought Walter, if I were a countess-palatine. What sort of a profession is that?

The king had given audiences—and a dinner—and had said—well, the usual things. But for Walter itwas new and interesting. The welfare of the city seemed to lie heavily on his majesty’s heart. It lay heavily on Walter’s heart, too; but that did not prevent Walter from admiring this peculiarity of the king. In Africa he would do the same thing.

No, away with Africa!

He threw off his left stocking so violently that it curled around the leg of the chair like a dying earthworm.

What strange things he had heard of Princess Erika! It was said that she was to have married a grand-duke, but rejected him.

The middle classes were delighted with this news; though not knowing but that it might merely have been stubbornness on the part of the princess.

She was of such a strange nature that she did not know how to behave herself in her high position.

Walter slipped off his other stocking, finding fault with the princess for disregarding the usual customs and conventions. Hm! He wondered if she would like to change places with him, and let him be Prince Erich—and she——

He wondered if she too wore an ugly nightcap. But—no! Princesses would wear caps of diamonds.

Princess Erika!

Walter blew out the light—no, he was on the point of blowing it out. He had selected one of the triangles that Laurens had described in the bed, when suddenly he became aware of a great tumult in the Pieterse home.

Yes, somebody had rung violently three or four times and was still banging at the door. Fire?

Hm! Could it be Princess Erika, he thought, who was coming to change places with him?

Alas, it was only Juffrouw Laps; and she did not come to exchange.

Well, what did she want then, so late in the evening?

Walter pulled himself together and listened.

The compartment where Walter and Laurens slept was a boxed-up arrangement over the sitting-room. Two of their sisters shared the space with them. From considerations of modesty, therefore, the boys always had to get sleepy a quarter of an hour before the young ladies.

The writer is unable to say how much oxygen fouryoung people need during eight hours without suffocating; but anyway there wasn’t much room in this little nook.

In another closet-affair there was a similar division, and here, too, the hour for retiring was determined by similar laws of modesty.

The reader will now understand why a part of the family, the female part of course, was still in the sitting-room when Walter imagined that Princess Erika had come to exchange places with him.

Juffrouw Laps, who had rushed up the steps like a crazy woman, burst into the room weeping and moaning and sobbing.

The usual cries of, “What on earth is the matter?” “Lord ’a’ mercy—what has happened?” were forthcoming. Walter noticed, too, that the customary glass of water was offered and drunk, and that proper efforts were being made to get the unhappy one to “calm herself.”

Juffrouw Laps began her story with the positive assurance that it was impossible for her to utter a word.

It seemed, therefore, that the affair was something important. Walter pulled on one of his stockings and prepared to listen.

“I swear, Juffrouw Pieterse, by the omnipotent God, that I’m so frightened and excited that I can’t talk.”

“Goodness!”

“Where are your children? In bed? Not all of them, I hope. Really, I can’t speak. Give me another glass of water, Trudie. Listen, how my teeth are chattering. That comes from fright, doesn’t it? I’m in a tremble all over. Thank you, Trudie. Where’s—Stoffel?”

“He’s undressing,” said Juffrouw Pieterse. “He goes to bed before me and Pietro. Mina makes so much noise, you know; and Trudie must stay with the boys to keep them from fighting. That’s why I sleep with Pietro, you see. Stoffel undresses himself, and then he draws the curtain when he hears us on the steps. But why——”

“How that concerns me, you mean? To be sure. I’m just beside myself from fright! And is—Laurens in bed too?”

“Of course! A long time already. He has to go to the printing-house early.”

“All in bed! And I—I run through the streets, wretched, crazy, and don’t know what to do. Is everybody in bed?—everybody?”

“But what has happened?”

“I’m going to tell you, Juffrouw Pieterse. Oh, if you only knew how frightened I am!”

Consideration of acoustics now led Walter to put on his other stocking.

“You know, Juffrouw Pieterse, that of late so much stealing has been going on.”

“Yes, but——”

“And burglary and murder! And the police can’t catch anybody. You know the old woman and the servant-girl who were murdered in Lommer Street.”

“But three are already behind the bars for it. What more do you want?”

“That’s all right; the murderers are running around scot-free. They’ve locked up three fellows just to keep the people from thinking too much. They don’t want anybody to ask, ‘What are the police for?’ You see what I mean? I tell you that such a low-down rascal, who commits a murder and steals lots of money, cannot hide his bloody clothes; nor the money, either. He’s not used to having so much money. All the neighbors know his coat and breeches; and such a man hasn’t any trunk where he can hide his things. He doesn’t know how to manage with drafts and notes; and he don’t know enough to get away to a foreign country. As for friends to help him get rid of the stolen things, he hasn’t any. I tell you, Juffrouw Pieterse, a murder or a robbery, when they don’t catch the murderer right away—then some respectable person has done it, who has more clothes and boxes and presses and linen—and he has friends among bankers. A common fellow would stick a hundred thousand florins in the bread-box, and thechildren would find it when they went to slip a slice of bread and butter. What do you say, Trudie?”

Trudie was not versed in criminal statistics and had never reflected on the matter. At least Walter heard no answer. Curiosity compelled him to draw on his trousers.

“But,” he heard his mother saying again, “what has happened to you?”

“What has happened? I am beside myself. Don’t you see how I’m trembling? The city is full of murderers!”

“My goodness! How can I help it?”

“You can’t. But I am beside myself, and I want to ask your advice. Do they all go to bed so early?—Stoffel—and Laurens—all of them? Look, how I’m shaking. Do you suppose I dare go back to my room?”

“Why not? Do you think you’re going to be murdered?”

“Yes. I do think it! The murderers of that old woman and of the servant-girl are still on the war-path. Yesterday at the illumination how many watches did they steal? And the police—what do they do? Nothing, nothing! Yes, they watch you to see if you beat a rug in the morning after ten o’clock. That’s what the police do. They don’t bother murderers.”

“What do you know about the murderers? It’s your duty to report them if you know them.”

Walter put on his vest and wrapped his muffler around his neck.

“What I know about them! They are besiegingme in my own house. Isn’t that pretty rough? I went out at noon to see the boat race on the Amstel; but there was nothing to see, because there was no wind. And such a crowd! All the kings were there, and the visiting princes and princesses, you know; and everybody stared at the carriages, and I did too. Not that I care anything about a king. Goodness, no! For he is only a worm in God’s hand, and when the Master doesn’t aid him—all is vanity, vanity. Dust and ashes—that’s all. But I looked at the carriages, you know, and at the horses, and at the staring crowd. I thought to myself, I will fry the potatoes when I go home. They had been left over from dinner; and when there are any potatoes left over, you know, I always fry them for supper. There was a big crowd, and all were mad because there was no wind; for people are foolish about pleasure and never think of the Master. Worldly, worldly, they were—and the princes and princesses. I thought, well, it’s no wonder that there’s so much robbery and murder; for they try God’s patience. I thought, God will punish you; He’s only abiding His time. He always does it, Juffrouw Pieterse! A lady—the creature had red pimples on her face, and was older than you—what do you suppose she had on her head? A turban! She rode in a carriage with four horses. What do you think of that? She was playing with a fan; and, when a prince rode up to her carriage, she stuck out her hand and let the fan go up and down three times. And the prince did that way three times. Were they crazy, or not? What will the Master say to that? If He only doesn’t send a pestilence on us!”

“Yes, but the murderers—what did they do to you?”

“Why, certainly—what they did? I am going to tell you. I’m still trembling. I had sliced my potatoes, put them on a saucer and set them away in the cupboard. Then I thought, I will fry them when I come home; for I didn’t expect to stay long in the crowd, for I have been saved by grace and don’t care for worldly things—ah, dear Juffrouw Pieterse, you must call Stoffel, so he can hear what has happened.”

Stoffel was already on his way down; and Walter was glad of it. Walter had heard the noise Stoffel was making putting on his clothes in the adjoining booth, and upon this he builded hopes that he too might be allowed to go down, where he could hear the exciting story better than was possible through the cracks in the floor. In the meantime he had completely dressed himself. The noises below told him of Stoffel’s arrival in the sitting-room. He heard the usual greetings and Juffrouw Laps’s solemn assurance that she was still in such a tremble that she couldn’t say a word. Then he heard her ask immediately where Laurens was.

Laurens? Well, he was asleep.

That youth’s absence seemed to trouble the visitor. She couldn’t proceed. Was it really necessary for Laurens to be present?

“What do you say, Stoffel? Isn’t the city full of thieves and murderers?”

Stoffel drew in his upper lip and tried to make the lower one touch his nose. Let the reader try thesame; then he will know how Stoffel answered, and what his answer meant.

Juffrouw Laps pretended to believe that he had said “yes.”

“Don’t you see, Stoffel says so too! The city is full of thieves and murderers, and—a respectable person is afraid to go to bed alone any more. It’s just that way.”

“But—Juffrouw!”

“The police? Nonsense! What good do the police do, when people don’t believe in God? That’s the truth. Whoever doesn’t do that is lost. Human help—I cannot understand at all why Laurens goes to bed so early. You surely know that so much sleep isn’t good for anybody. What does the Bible say? Watch and pray! But—everyone according to his notion. I swear before God that I don’t dare to go home alone and——”

Walter’s curiosity was at high tension. In order to hear better he was leaning over, supporting himself with the chair. The point of support was unsteady. The chair slipped and rattled across the floor, crashing into another piece of furniture.

“Heaven and earth! What are they up to now,” groaned the mother. “Laurens, is that you?”

Walter peeped in, “It was me.” The result was that he was soon in the midst of the interesting conversation that he had been trying to hear from above.

His entrance took place under unfavorable circumstances. He was blamed for not having been undressed.

“Do you always put on your nightcap before you undress?” cried the mother.

The boy had actually forgotten to take off his nightcap. He was so ashamed that he felt he would like to fall through the floor. He would rather have neglected anything else.

“And—what have you there?”

Alas, our hero looked more ridiculous than anyone could look by simply putting on a nightcap. He had armed himself with an old rusty knife that his father had used in prehistoric times for cutting leather!

During the whole of the Laps recital, which progressed so slowly, he had thought and hoped and intended—yes, he heard something that sounded like, “Where is Walter?” The speaker really did not say it—no, on the contrary, those were the very words she wished to avoid—still, he thought he heard her say them. On this Friday he had acted mean and cowardly; but he was still Walter.

Murderers? Thieves? A lady in danger? What other answer could there be but: “I am here, I, Walter!”

Oh, fate, why did you put that sword in his hand and let him forget to remove that nightcap? Why didn’t you divide these two absurdities between Stoffel and Walter! Or why couldn’t you put that feathery diadem on the head of the sleeping Laurens? It would have been all the same to him how he looked in his sleep.

Walter was in a rage.

And I am, too. Towards Femke his chivalry had remained in the background; and now it must burst forth at a doubtful call from Juffrouw Laps!

In his anger he threw the weapon down violently and allowed it to rebound across the room. He slapped the nightcap on the table.

No one would have thought that the little man could be so vehement. His mother, with her usual solicitousness, inquired into the condition of his mind, asking if he was only cracked, or downright crazy.

“I tell you,” said the visitor, “you ought not to worry that child so much.”

“Go to bed at once!” cried the mother.

“Why can’t you let the child stay here? But—oh, yes! I was going to tell you about my potatoes.”

Walter stayed. For this privilege he was indebted to the general curiosity.

“Just imagine, when I came home about half past ten o’clock—I couldn’t get away earlier on account of the crush, you know. Don’t you know, I don’t care for these big occasions. Well, when I got home—the city is full of thieves, murderers, and that must not be forgotten—well, my potatoes were—what do you think my potatoes were? They were—gone!”

“Gone?”

“Gone!”

“All gone?”

“All gone!”

“Your potatoes—gone?”

“My potatoes—all completely gone!”

“But——”

“I tell you those thieves and murderers did it. Who else could have done it? Thieves and murderers in my house! And I wanted to ask you—for I’m afraid in my room——”

Walter’s eyes fairly shone.

“I wanted to ask, if perhaps—your son Stoffel——”

Stoffel’s face was a study, a curiosity. If the said thieves and murderers could have seen it they would have been greatly pleased, for it bore evidence of Stoffel’s intention to leave them undisturbed in their work.

“But, Juffrouw,” he said, “haven’t you a cat in your room?”

“A cat? A cat to fight murderers with!”

“No, Juffrouw, not to fight murderers; but a cat that might have eaten the potatoes.”

“I don’t know anything about a cat. I only know that the city is full of low-down people when so many murders are committed and no one tries to catch the murderers. Not that I am anxious about my life—no, not at all. When the Master calls me I shall say, ‘Let thy daughter go in peace; my eyes have seen thy glory.’”

“But, woman, why didn’t you look in your closet, and under the bed?”

“I didn’t want to do that, Juffrouw Pieterse! The Lord will take care of me—but one must not try the Lord’s patience. I would not go in the closet, or look under the bed—not for everything in the world! For of course he’s there, and that’s why I wanted to ask ifyour son—Stoffel, or, if Stoffel doesn’t want to, if perhaps your son—Laurens, or——”

“But, Juffrouw, why didn’t you call the neighbors?”

Thus spoke Stoffel.

“The neighbors? Well, I guess they know about it. The man who lives under me is afraid of a poodle-dog, not to mention a murderer. There’s a man living next to me; but, you know, he is—what shall I say—he is a sort of bachelor, and I don’t want to get talked about. You know a woman must always think of her reputation, and not get mixed up in gossip.”

It did not occur to anyone to ask what sort of a creature Stoffel was. Was he a bachelor? Or did his position as a teacher protect him against any worldly suspicion?

“And, besides,” continued the seductive Laps, “do you think all men have courage? No! They’re as afraid of a thief as they are of death. Last week an insolent beggar was on the steps, and the fellow wouldn’t leave. Do you think the men did anything to him? Scared to death! But, I tell you, I got hold of him in a hurry and——”

She had gone too far, and she saw it.

“Well, I would have done that if I hadn’t been a woman; for awomanmust never use violence. It isn’t becoming. What do you say, Trudie? I ran and shut my door. Wasn’t that right? No, none of the men-folk has any courage!”

None of the men-folk! Walter felt insulted. He was swelling with suppressed courage; he was eagerfor a fray. At least, he was eager to show that he was an exception to Juffrouw Laps’s general indictment. Of course Juffrouw Laps noticed this.

“Well, if Stoffel doesn’t want to——”

“To tell the truth, I——”

“And if Laurens is already asleep—and if—if no one else will——”

She arose.

“Then I suppose I must, relying upon God, go alone. But it’s horrible for a woman to be entirely alone!”

She looked at them all in turn, all except the one she was talking to. Walter felt that he was being forgotten, or overlooked. This only increased his latent courage and made him burn with a desire to be numbered with the knighthood of the house.

“Yes, if there’s nobody here who’s not afraid——”

“I’m not afraid!”

All but Juffrouw Laps were surprised. She was a good psychologist, and had not expected anything else. It was her part, however, to pretend to be as much surprised as any of the rest.

“You?”

“You, Walter?”

“Boy, are you crazy? You?”

“Yes, I. I’m not afraid; not if there were ten in the closet and a hundred under the bed!”

A little Luther! But with a difference. Luther had a God in whom he felt he could trust—reinforced by a few grand-dukes. Walter, without any grand-dukes, was ready to enter the field against a God whowas allowing any number of murderers to take shelter under the roof and bed of Juffrouw Laps.

“Boy!”

“I’ll risk it.”

“Let him go, Juffrouw Pieterse. You understand—it’s company for me to have such a child with me. Then I’m not frightened so badly, if a murderer is in the closet. Nobody wants to be entirely alone. Isn’t that so?”

Juffrouw Laps gained her point: Walter was permitted to go with her.

It was principally their vanity that caused the Pieterses to consent so readily to Juffrouw Laps’s request and allow her to take Walter away to act as her castellan. Not one of them felt that it was a good thing for Walter to go with the Juffrouw; but they were all proud of his courage. The story would get noised abroad, and people would pass it on to their friends. Juffrouw Pieterse would see to it that the people knew it was “the same young gentlemen, you know, that went home with Dr. Holsma.”

Yes, and then people would say: “There’s something in those Pieterse children.”

Mothers like to hear such things.

With his package under his arm Walter marched away with Juffrouw Laps to do battle for that pious lady. That prehistoric weapon he left behind, on her assuring him that she had a well-filled store of weapons and ammunition enough to kill all the murderers that he would have occasion to contend with.

Back to IndexNext