Chapter XXI
To readers of a certain class of fiction it will no doubt seem strange if I say that Walter’s visit to the Holsma family influenced greatly his spiritual development. Not immediately; but a seed had been planted which was to grow later. He saw now that after all independent thought was possible, even if he could not yet allow himself that luxury. The mere knowledge that there were other opinions in the world than those of his daily mentors was a long stride forward.
He was depressed on account of his lack of knowledge. Those children knew so much more than he did; and this made him sad.
They had spoken of someone who was startled to find footprints. Who was it? The child had never heard of Defoe’s hermit. He asked Stoffel.
“Footprints? Footprints? Well, you must tell me what footprints you mean—whose footprints. You must give names when you ask questions.”
“That’s right,” said the mother, “when you want to know anything you must mention names. And Mevrouw made the salad herself? Well, that’s strange. The girl must have been out somewhere.”
As to other “strange” things, which were not likely to meet the approbation of his family, Walter was silent. Not a word about that Saturnalia, or the omission of grace at a “warm meal”! Nor did he mention the liberties that were allowed the children, or the freedom with which they joined in the conversation. Perhaps it was a superfluous precaution. That bearskin would have been excused for many shortcomings.
Juffrouw Pieterse asked repeatedly if he had been “respectable.” Walter said he had, but without knowing exactly what she meant. That affair with the spoon—had it been respectable? He didn’t care to have this question decided—at least by his mother. But it was nice of Sietske; and wouldn’t he have done the same?
He learned that the day was approaching when he must return to school. More than ever he felt that this source of knowledge was insufficient for him; but opposition was not to be thought of. He was dissatisfied with himself, with everything.
“I shall never amount to anything,” he sighed.
His Lady Macbeth seemed uglier to him than ever. He tore her up. And Ophelia?
Goodness! He hadn’t thought of Femke the whole day. Was it because she was only a wash-girl, while the doctor’s children were so aristocratic? Walter censured himself.
He took advantage of the first opportunity to pay his debt in that quarter. For he felt that it was a debt; and this consciousness gave him courage. Picture in hand, he passed the familiar fence this time and knocked boldly on the door. His heart was thumping terribly; but he must do it! In a moment he stood before Femke. The lady of his heart was quietly darning stockings. It is hard on the writer; but this little detail was a matter of indifference to Walter.
“Oh!” she cried, extending her hand. “Mother, this is the young gentleman we saw that time—the little boy who was so sick. And how are you now? You look pale.”
“Take a seat, little boy,” said the mother. “Yes, you do look pale. Worms, of course.”
“No, no, mother. The child has had nervous fever.”
“All right—fever, then; but it could be from worms. Give him a cup, Femke. It won’t hurt you to drink coffee; but if it were worms——”
Mrs. Claus’s worms were more in Walter’s way than the stockings.
“Where does your mother have her washing done?” she asked. “Not that I want to pump you—not at all. But if she isn’t satisfied with her wash-woman—it sometimes happens, you understand. Everybody must look out for himself; and I just thought I’d mention it. Whenever there are any ink-spots Femke takes them out with oxalic acid; and it never makes any holes—yes, it did happen once, and we had to pay for a pair of cuffs. You can ask Femke.”
The fact was, he wanted to ask Femke something else; and she knew it. The story of Aztalpa had left its marks on her mind. But she was hampered very much like Walter was at home. She couldn’t say, “Mother, speak a bit more Peruvian!” So she simply asked what the roll was that he had in his hand.
Walter was confused, but he managed to stammer that it was a present for her. Femke said she would always take good care of the picture.
“Yes,” said the mother, “and you must iron out those creases. We iron, too, little boy, and we deliver the clothes ready to put on. Nobody can complain. You can tell your mother. And your collar—it isn’t ironed nicely—and such bluing! Ask Femke. Femke, isn’t the blue in stripes?”
His collar not ironed nicely? and blued in stripes? And the infallible Pietro had laundered it! Even here, were there differences in method and conception? And in this respect, too, was the Pieterse tradition not the only one that brought happiness?
Femke was on nettles. She studied Ophelia, wondering who she was, and tried to turn the conversation. At last something occurred to her. It was necessary for her to run some errand or other, and “the young gentleman” could “accompany” her a part of the way.
“As far as I’m concerned,” said the mother.
The young couple retired, taking one of those ways which in the neighborhood of Amsterdam are simply called “the ways.” That is all they are. Whoever walks there for pleasure must take a good stock of impressions with him, in order to escape tedium.
But Walter and Femke were not lacking in this respect. Walter had so much to tell Femke that he could scarcely hope to get through; and she, too, had thought of him more than she was willing to admit, and more than he had any idea of. She began by saying that she hadn’t told her mother of her unfriendly reception by Walter’s mother and sisters, because she didn’t want her mother——
“Oh, Femke—and you thought I would come?”
“Yes.” said Femke, hesitating, but still with a readiness that delighted Walter. “Yes, of course I expected to see you again. And I had a mass said for your recovery.”
“Really?” said Walter, who hardly knew what it meant. “You did that for me?”
“Yes, and I prayed, too. I should have been sad if you had died. For I believe you are a good boy.”
“I ought to have come sooner; and I wanted to, but—Femke, I was afraid.”
He related to her how he had been near her on Sunday. The girl attributed his timidity to his diffidence toward her mother.
“My mother is a good woman. She wouldn’t hurt anybody, but—you understand. She doesn’t mix with people much. I understand the world better, because, you see, I was a nurse for three weeks. I was only substituting; I was too young to be a real nurse. It was at a relation’s of ours, where the girl was sick. You know we really come of a good family. But that makes no difference. Tell me, are you well and strong again?”
Walter told her now all about his sickness, and soon he came involuntarily to the thing that gave him most trouble, his defective knowledge.
“All the children know French; but at our school it isn’t taught. It’s impossible to be a great man without knowing French.”
Walter had difficulty in explaining to her that he meant something other than the possession of three houses, though that might not be bad.
“I should like—you understand? I should like—yes—I should like—how shall I explain?”
The sovereignty of Africa was on the end of his tongue; but he didn’t have the courage to put his dreams into words.
“You know, Femke, that we live here in Europe. Now, down there in the south, far away—I will draw it for you. We can sit down here and I will show you exactly what I mean.”
He selected some small sticks suitable for making outlines on the ground, then he and Femke sat down on a low pile of boards. He proceeded to scratch up the sand for some distance around.
“That is Europe. The earth is round; that is, it consists of two halves, like a doughnut. You see, it looks like a pair of spectacles. With that half we are not concerned. That’s America. You can put your feet on it if you want to. Here is where we live; there is England; and here is Africa. The people there are uncivilized. They can’t read, and they don’t wear many clothes. But when a traveler comes along they are very nice to him—the book says so. I’m going down there and teach all the people to read and give them clothes and see to it that there is no injustice done in the whole land. And then we will——”
“I, too?” asked Femke in amazement.
“Why, certainly! I wanted to ask you if you were willing to go with me. We will be man and wife, you understand; so when I get to be king you will be——”
“I? Queen?”
She laughed. Involuntarily she rose and trampled to pieces all the kingdoms that Walter had just laid at her feet.
“Oh, you boy! How did you get such nonsense into your head? You are still a child!”
“Will you wait then till I’m grown up? Will you let me be your friend?”
“Certainly! Only you mustn’t think of that nonsense—not that you may not go to Africa later. Why not? Many people go on journeys. Formerly there lived a carpenter near us, and he went to the Haarlem with his whole family. But—marrying!”
She laughed again. It pained Walter. The poor boy’s first proposal was turning out badly.
Suddenly Femke became serious.
“I know that you are a good boy; and I think a great deal of you.”
“And I!” cried Walter. “Femke, I have thought of you all the time—when I was sick—in my fever—I don’t know what I thought of in my fever, but I think it must have been you. And I talked to the picture I painted for you as if it were you; and that picture answered like you and looked like you. I was Kusco and Telasco, and you were Aztalpa, the daughter of the sun. Tell me, Femke, may I be your friend?”
The girl reflected a moment; and in her pure, innocent heart she felt the desire to do good. Was that seventeen-year-old girl conscious of the influence that Walter’s childish soul exerted upon her? Scarcely. But she wanted to give him a less cruel answer.
“Certainly, certainly you shall be my friend. But—but——”
She was hunting for some excuse that would not hurt him, and still let him see the difference in their ages. He had grown during his illness, to be sure, but still—she could have carried him on her arm. And he had dreamed of rescuing her from a fire!
“My friend, yes. But then you must do everything that I require.”
“Everything, everything! Tell me quick what I can do for you.”
It was painful for the girl. She didn’t know what she should require; but she was under the necessity of naming something. She had always heard that it was good for children to study hard. What if she should spur him on to do that?
“Listen, Walter. Just for fun I told my mother that you were the best in school.”
“I?” cried Walter abashed.
“Study hard and be the first in school inside the next three months,” said Femke to the conqueror of continents, unaware of the sarcasm that lay in her words. “Otherwise, you see, my mother might think I had made fun of you; and I don’t want that to happen. If you will only do that——”
“I will do it, Femke!”
“Then you must go home and begin at once.”
Thus she sent him away. As she told him “Good-bye” she noticed all at once that he was too large for her to kiss. A few hours later, when Father Jansen was calling on her mother and incidentally saw Walter’s painting, Walter suddenly became a child again. The priest had said that in Dutch Ophelia meant Flora, who was the patron-saint of roses and forget-me-nots.
“Oh, that picture is from a little boy, a very small boy. He’s about ten years old—or nine. He’s certainly not older than nine!”
“Girl, you are foolish!” cried the mother. “The boy is fifteen.”
“Yes, that may be—but I just meant that he’s still only a child.”
She stuck Ophelia away in some hidden nook, and Mrs. Claus and Father Jansen never saw that new edition of the old flower-goddess again.
“Femke, I will do it!” Walter had said.
There was really reason to believe that he would learn faster now; but Pennewip’s instruction would wear Femke’s colors. Walter knew very well that in requiring this service she had had his own welfare in view; but this showed her interest in him, and was not so bad. How would it have looked, he thought, if, after all that had gone before, he had answered: “Everything except that!”
Of course he would have greatly preferred to serve his lady on some journey full of adventure. But one cannot select for one’s self heroic deeds. In these days Hercules and St. George would have to put up with miniature dragons.
At all events, Walter took hold of his work in earnest. He studied his “Ippel,” his “Strabbe,” his “National History” and even the “Gender of Nouns,” and everything else necessary to the education of a good Netherlander. Poetry was included; and Walter’s accomplishments along this line were such that other “Herculeses” might have envied him.
He had never read the stories of tournaments. No enchantress gave him a charmed coat of mail; no Minerva put the head of Medusa on his shield—no, nothing of all that. But—Keesje, the butcher’s boy, might look sharp for his laurels!
In justice to Walter it must be said that he gave his opponent fair warning, in true knightly style.
At the end of three months Walter was actually the first in his classes. Pennewip was compelled to take notice of it.
“It is strange,” he remarked. “I might say that it is remarkable. Yes, in a way, it is unprecedented—without a parallel!”
At home the result was that a great council was held regarding Walter’s future. He didn’t want to become a compositor; and to be a sailor—that would have suited him, but his mother was opposed to it. Stoffel, too, objected on the ground that usually only young people who are worthless on land are sent to sea.
Thus Walter’s plans for conquest were slipping away from him. He was not attracted by the brilliant careers that were proposed: They left Africa out of account. He didn’t want to be a school-teacher, or a shoemaker, or a clerk, or a counter-jumper.
However, after all authorities had been heard, Stoffel came to the conclusion that Walter was peculiarly well fitted for “business.” Juffrouw Pieterse agreed with him thoroughly.