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