Walter Pieterse: A Story of Holland

by Multatuli

Chapter XIV

Juffrouw Pieterse must have inherited something, for all at once the Pieterses moved to a more respectable neighborhood, and the daughters no longer knew any of the girls that they used to sew with. Such things do happen in cases of inheritance, when one moves to a more select quarter. Besides, there were other signs. They exerted themselves in trying to get Leentje to speak “better Dutch.” Stoffel was zealous in teaching her, but Juffrouw Pieterse spoiled everything by her bad example.

Walter was now wearing a new jacket, with a small collar, such as cabmen wore later. For him a jacket to stuff in the trousers was a thing of the past. It “looked so babyish,” the young ladies said, and was “out of the question now when the boy can write poetry.”

That Walter could write poetry was boasted of to everybody that would listen. Under the circumstances they really had no right to reap any fame from Walter’s robber song; but this only showed what an important rôle vanity plays in the world. Of course he himself never heard anything of this; it was mentioned only when he was not present.

The image of Cecilia had disappeared from Walter’s heart; and little Emma was forgotten. Omicron must show her face in the stars from time to time to remind the child of his love. And even when he looked at the evening sky and his soul was stirred by an inexpressible longing after the good, it was not so much that he was thinking of Omicron as that he was moved by vague sweet memories. In the twelve years of his life there was a mythical prehistoric period which was difficult to separate from the historical period.

He didn’t know that he could write verses. He accepted it as a matter of course that his robber song was very poor, and looked upon Klaasje van der Gracht with awe. It was from Juffrouw Laps he learned that he could write poetry; and it was an illumination for him.

Juffrouw Laps had an uncle whose birthday was coming the next week. She had paid the Pieterses a swell visit to ask if Walter wouldn’t write her a poem for the occasion. She would see that he got some bonbons.

“But Juffrouw Pieterse, you must tell him that it must be religious and that my uncle is a widower. He must bring that in. I should like for it to be in the melody of the 103d psalm, for my uncle has that psalm in his lyre.”

The reader will note that she did not mean the lyre of Apollo. What she spoke of was a thing that turned, and made a screechy noise.

Juffrouw Pieterse was going to speak with Walter about it when he came from school, but first she had to consider the matter with Stoffel, to decide whether it should be a request or a command, so that Walter would have no reason to be “stuck-up.” For that she could not endure in a child.

“Walter, did you know your lesson?”

“No, mother; I had to learn thirteen mountains in Asia, and I knew only nine.”

“Now, look here, that won’t do. I’m paying tuition for nothing. Do you think money grows on my back? I don’t know what’s to become of you.”

“I don’t know, either.”

After all, though, Walter was flattered by the commission to write a poem. Stoffel’s and Juffrouw Pieterse’s efforts to conceal their real opinion of his poetical talents had been useless. It was a pleasant surprise for the boy to learn that he was looked up to. He had always heard that he was worse than worthless, and that he would never amount to anything. It interested him now to hear the assurance of his mother and Stoffel that the commission was only a punishment for not knowing the mountains in Asia. In a great rush Stoffel taught him the difference between “masculine” and “feminine” verses, explaining that these must alternate, that all must be of the same length, and that if at any time the boy was in doubt he would clear the matter up, etc., etc.

Walter was delighted. He went to the back room, got a slate pencil and began to write. It could hardly be called a success. “A widower of God”—“O God, a widower!” That was as far as he got.

He gnawed on the pencil till he had pulverized it and worn out his teeth, but it wouldn’t go. He was continually being interrupted by Stoffel’s masculine and feminine verses. He had been too proud, and now he was receiving his punishment. He began to believe that his mother was right when she said nothing would ever come of him.

Nor could Leentje help him. So he determined to make another attempt to-morrow. Perhaps he could do better then. Leentje agreed with him.

“All right,” said Juffrouw Pieterse. “But don’t disgrace us all. Remember, I told Juffrouw Laps you could do it; and the man’s birthday comes Thursday week. So you haven’t any too much time.”

Walter went to Ash Gate, found his bridge and began to weep bitterly.

“See what’s the matter with that boy,” he heard a woman saying to a girl fourteen or fifteen years old. “Perhaps he has lost something.”

“Have you lost anything?”

Walter looked up, and was surprised; for he seemed to have seen that face before. It reminded him of Fancy.

“Now, everything will be all right There you are; and I have been hunting for you.”

“For me?”

“Yes, yes, but I just didn’t know it. But I know it now. Tell me right quick how to write the poem!”

The girl, who was helping her mother place the linen on the grass for bleaching, looked at Walter in astonishment. She hurried back to her mother to say that she didn’t know what was the matter with the boy, but that there was certainly something wrong. “He looks as if he were scared half to death,” she decided.

Then she ran and fetched water from the house near by and made Walter drink. He saw that he had made a mistake; but there was something in the manner of the girl that drew him to her irresistibly, even though her name was only Femke. So the mother addressed her. And this name reminded him of Fancy, which was something.

Femke pointed to an inverted basket and told him to tell the cause of his trouble; and Walter did it as well as he could, while the mother was busy with the linen.

“Maybe I can help you,” the mother said. “I have a nephew who is a widower.”

“Yes, Juffrouw—but the poem? And there must be something about God in it.”

“Certainly. It’s a long story. His wife was a niece of my husband’s—you see we are Catholics, and she acted according to her religion—put a stone on those cloths, Femke, or they’ll blow away—yes, bleaching is a job. You have no idea what a bother it is—yes, she acted according to her religion; and that was right. People that don’t do that are not much. But he—draw that shirt back a little, Femke. The sleeve is hanging in the ditch—but he didn’t believe in it, and said it was all nonsense. But when she died, and he saw all that was done for her—it was Father Jansen who was there. Of course you know him—he always walks with a black cane, but he never lets it touch the ground——”

The women looked at Walter questioningly. The poor boy sat on the basket, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands. He had listened with open mouth, wondering how he was going to apply it all to his poem. Of Father Jansen and that cane which despised the ground he had never heard. This he had to confess.

“Yes, it was Father Jansen who was there, and when my husband’s nephew saw all that—don’t spill any, Femke, or the mud will splatter so bad—yes, when he saw that a human being doesn’t die like an animal, then he was more respectful, and after that he observed Easter like other people. And last year when he broke his leg—he’s a dyer, you know—he drew thirteen stivers for nine weeks. And so I wanted to tell you that there’s a widower in our family. And now you must get up, for I need the basket.”

Walter arose quickly, as if he feared he might seem to be trespassing; and the woman went away, after having warned Femke to watch the linen and call her if any bad boys should come along.

“Are you better now?” Femke asked kindly.

“Oh yes; but I don’t see how I’m to use all that in my poem. You must remember that it has to rhyme, and the verses must be of the same length, and that they must be masculine and feminine; for my brother said so, and he’s a school-teacher.”

Femke reflected, then all at once she cried, “Do you know Latin?” As if Latin would help Walter.

“No,” disconsolately.

“Well, it really makes no difference. It’s in Dutch, too. Just watch the linen a minute.”

Walter promised, and Femke ran to the house.

Then some boys came along throwing rocks. Walter, conscious of his responsibility, called to them to desist—or words to that effect. This only made them worse. They came closer, and, to worry Walter, began to walk over the linen. For him it was as if they were mistreating Femke, and he charged on the miscreants. But it was two against one, and a weaker one at that; so he would have soon been defeated if his lady had not returned quickly. She rescued him and drove off his assailants; and when she saw that his lip was bleeding she gave him a kiss. The boy’s heart trembled; all at once his soul was lifted to an unfamiliar level; and for the first time in weeks he felt again that princely nature that had given Leentje such a fright. His eyes shone, and the boy, who but a moment ago did not know how he was to write some rhymes, was filled with the feelings and emotions that make poets of men.

“O Fancy, Fancy, to die for thee—to die with such a kiss on the lips!”

It hurt him to think that the boys were gone. If there had been ten of them he would have had courage for the unequal fight.

And Femke, who had never heard of poetical overflows, understood him immediately, for she was a pure, innocent girl. She felt Walter’s chivalry, and knew that she was the lady to reward it.

“You are a dear sweet boy,” she said, taking his head between her hands and kissing him again, and again—as if she had done something of this kind before. But such was not the case.

“And now you must read the verses in the little book. Maybe it will help you to write for your aunt——”

“She isn’t my aunt,” Walter said, “but of course I will look through the book.”

He laid it on the railing of the bridge and began to read. Femke, who was taller than he, had put one arm around his neck, while with the other hand she was pointing out what he should read.

“Don’t you see?” she said, “the lines are the same length.”

“Yes, but they don’t rhyme.” And Walter read:

Mother most pure,

Mother undefiled,

Virgin most powerful,

Virgin most merciful,

Virgin most faithful,

Spiritual vessel,

Vessel of honor,

Vessel of singular devotion,

Mystical rose,

Tower of David,

Tower of Ivory,

Gate of Heaven——

“But, Femke, how am I to use that for my poem? I don’t understand any of it.”

Femke didn’t understand much of it either. She had been reading the book every day for the past four or five years, and she had always been satisfied with her comprehension of it. But now she saw that she was as ignorant about it as Walter. She was ashamed and closed the book.

“But don’t you know what Faith is?” she asked, as if this defect might account for the general ignorance of both.

“Not that way,” Walter replied. “I learned it another way.”

“But you believe in Jesus, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes. That’s God’s son. But I didn’t learn anything about vessels and towers. Do they belong to faith?”

“Why, certainly! But you know the holy virgin, Maria!”

“So? Maria? No, I don’t.”

“And Purgatory?”

“I don’t know anything about it.”

“And confession?”

“No.”

“What do you do then?”

“How do you mean, Femke?”

“I mean to be saved.”

“I don’t know,” Walter replied. “You mean, to get to heaven?”

“Why, certainly. That’s the point. And you can’t do that without the holy virgin and such a book. Shall I teach you the creed, Walter? Then we’ll be together in heaven.”

That pleased Walter, and Femke and Walter began:

“God created the world——”

“What did he do before that, Femke?”

“I don’t know. But the people were made wicked by a snake; then the Pope pronounced a curse upon the snake, for the Pope lives in Rome, you know. And then Jesus was crucified to make the people good again. That was a long time ago.”

“Yes, I know,” Walter said, “Jesus changed the number of the year. At his birth he began at nought.”

Femke didn’t know again. In this way each supplemented the knowledge of the other; and Walter was proud that he knew something about the creed, even if Femke did think it the wrong creed.

“And so Jesus made the people good again, and if you will pray out of such a book you will be saved. Do you understand, Walter?”

“Not quite. What is an ivory tower?”

“Why, that’s only a name for the virgin. It’s as if you were to call the pastor father. Now you understand.”

Femke hunted for another illustration.

“You have a mother; what do you call her?”

“Why, I call her mother.”

“Correct. What do the other people call her?”

“They call her Juffrouw Pieterse.”

“Just so. When we call the holy virgin ‘ivory tower’ it’s just like calling your mother Juffrouw Pieterse. Ivory gate means that to get to heaven we must go through the holy virgin. That’s the main thing.”

“But, Femke, what is a virgin?”

Femke blushed.

“That is anybody that has never had a child.”

“Me?” asked Walter in astonishment.

“No, child, it must be a girl!”

“Are you a virgin?”

“Of course!”

Femke spoke the unvarnished truth.

“Of course—because I’m not married.”

“But Maria was married—and Jesus was her child.”

“Ah, that’s where the holiness comes in,” replied Femke. “And for that reason she is called the ivory gate. Do you understand now, Walter?”

Walter did not understand; but he asked permission to take the book home with him, that he might study it. That, however, was not possible, as Femke needed the book every day. Walter consoled himself easily, for not for anything in the world would he have endangered Femke’s salvation. Femke asked him to come again. She would be glad to tell him all she knew about the matter; and, if both should get tangled up, she would ask Father Jansen about it. And then Walter would soon be as wise as she was.

Walter withdrew; i. e., after he had kissed Femke heartily. This meeting with her, the mysterious book, salvation, the fight with the boys—all these things would run through his mind whenever he tried to think of the poem. It seemed to him that there was some connection between them.

When he got home he turned through Stoffel’s books, hoping to find something about holy vessels, ivory towers, and immaculate virgins. But they were all school books, and gave information about everything else but salvation. Walter was crushed, but he was still searching.

“Master Pennewip had a father and mother; and certainly old Pennewip, too, who slaughtered hogs; and the one before him, too—but who was the first Pennewip? And who slaughtered the hogs before old Pennewip? And before there were any hogs, what did butchers do? And——”

I will know all of that some day, Walter thought. If he could have only quieted himself so well about his poem! If that were only written, he thought, then he would clear up the lost causes of everything. In the meanwhile he dreamed of Femke, of her blue eyes, her friendliness, her soft lips—and of her voice, when she said, “You are a dear, sweet boy.”

Could it be that she is Omicron? he thought.

And thus the child dreamed, dreamed; and, just as in the development of humanity, in his life was working a three-fold impulse, towards love, knowledge, and conflict.

“But Walter, don’t you read any books at home about the creed?”

Thus Femke questioned her little friend the next day, as he sat on her basket again.

“Yes, but they’re not pretty.”

“Don’t you know anything by heart?”

Walter repeated a stanza of a reformed church hymn. This found no favor with Femke; though she liked his reciting.

“Don’t you read anything else?”

Walter reflected: he flew through Stoffel’s library—works of the Poetical Society, Geology by Ippel, On Orthography, Regulations for the Fire-Watch, Story of Joseph by Hulshoff, Brave Henry, Jacob Among His Children, Sermons by Hellendoorn, A Catechism by the same, Hoorn’s Song-book.

He felt that all of this would not prove very imposing for Femke. Finally:

“I do know something, but it isn’t about faith and the creed. It’s about Glorioso.”

Femke promised to listen, and he began to relate the story. At first he spoke mechanically, using all the “and then’s”: but soon he put himself into the soul of the hero and told the story better than he had read it in the greasy book. At every deed of Glorioso he would spring from the basket and act the part of that hero in a way that made Femke’s blood run cold. Still, how magnificent she found it! And when at last he was through, a spark from his peculiar but sincere enthusiasm had fallen into her heart, which like his beat with delight over the beauty of what she had heard. Her cheeks glowed—really, if a Treckschent had started to Italy at that moment I believe she would have gone along, in order to take part in so much danger and adventure—and love. The nicest thing about the story was that it showed how firm such a robber is in the faith.

“Don’t you know another story?”

“Yes,” said Walter. “One more. It’s in a little book—a calendar, I believe.”

And he related the story of Telasco and Kusco and the beautiful Aztalpa.

Telasco and Kusco, sons of the King of the Sun-worshipers, were twins; and so both were equally near the throne. They loved each other devotedly; so which would give way for the other? Which of the two was to become Inca? Funeral pyres were built, one for each, and prayers were offered to the sun that one of the piles might be ignited. But the sun did not light either. He ordered that Aztalpa, the sister, should choose one. That one to whom she offered her hand should inherit the throne and the empire. But the princess could not decide, for she loved them both dearly and both equally. It was then decided that both should go out hunting on a certain morning, and that the one who killed the first doe should become king. Telasco had red arrows, Kusco blue. The morning came. The brothers were lying in a thicket as the deer approached. Both fired, and both missed. Then they swore mutually not to miss intentionally the next time. They kept the oath, and two deer fell; but Telasco had shot one of Kusco’s arrows, and Kusco one of Telasco’s. Telasco then proposed that Aztalpa should be killed, to avoid any discord in the empire; and in the other world both would enjoy the same place in her affections. All agreed to this; but when the fatal day came, Aztalpa fell on her knees before Telasco and begged that she might receive her death at the hand of Kusco. Telasco cried: “Aztalpa, you have chosen!” All bowed down before Kusco; and when they looked for Telasco he had disappeared. He was never seen again.

Often Femke interrupted with questions, for there was much that was strange and wonderful to her; but she was charmed with the story and shared all of Walter’s enthusiasm.

“I tell you, though, Walter, if that girl had known what Telasco was up to she wouldn’t have done it. But the story is beautiful. I wonder if such things really happen.”

“That was far from here, Femke, and a long time ago. That’s just the way it was in the book. But now I must go home, for I haven’t a stiver to pay the gate-keeper if I come in after eight. Oh, Femke—if I were only through with that poetry business.”

“It will turn out all right. Just think of Telasco. He had a difficult task, too.”

“No! I will think of the girl. Good-evening, Femke——”

Walter received the hearty kiss that his story had earned him, and dreaming of Aztalpa, who was guarding the linen, he passed through the Ash Gate and turned towards home. The moon shone so brightly that he was annoyed not to have been able to remain with Femke. How much better, he thought, could he have told his story by moonlight! But he didn’t have the price—a stiver.