Chapter XXIII
“Do you think stivers grow on my back?” asked the mother the next day. “You still don’t earn a doit! Do you have to buy tobacco for old soldiers?”
Walter had nothing to say. Recently his mother had given him a shilling to give to Holsma’s maid. Walter neglected to do this, and spent one stiver of the money on snuff for an old soldier.
The mother continued her tirade, making use of the word “prodigue,” prodigal.
“No, mother,” said Stoffel, “that isn’t it. He’s behind in everything. He doesn’t know yet how to handle money, that’s it!”
“Yes. He doesn’t know how to handle money! All the other children at his age—when they have a stiver they either save it or buy themselves something. And he—what does he do? He goes and gives it away! Boy, boy, will you never learn any sense?”
Walter was cut to the quick by the accusation of wastefulness and prodigality. In his eyes a prodigal was somebody, a man! “Prodigue, prodigue,” he murmured. He knew the word.
In one of the bedrooms hung a series of crude, highly colored pictures illustrating the story of the prodigal son. The pictures were French; and a study of the titles convinced the family that “prodigue” could mean nothing but prodigal in the worst sense, i. e., “lost.” Stoffel had maintained this proposition against one of his colleagues, till that one drew a lexicon on him.
After much argument it was decided to compromise on the “mistake” in the French Bible by allowing “prodigue” to have sometimes the meaning of “extravagant.” Those pictures had afforded Walter much food for thought.
First picture: The “lost” or prodigal son tells his father good-bye. The old gentleman wears a purple coat. Very pretty—but the prodigal himself! A mantle floated about his shoulders—it seemed to be windy in the colonnade. It was princely; and his turkish trousers were of pure gold. At his side was a bent sabre, and on his head a turban, with a stone in it—certainly onyx, or sardonox, or a pearl, or a precious stone—or whatever it might be!
The old gentleman seemed to be out of humor; but no wonder—all those loaded camels, and the slaves, and all the accessories for that long, long journey! A negro, as black as pitch, was holding a horse by the rein. Another negro was holding the stirrup, and seemed to say: “Off to the Devil; prodigal, get on!”
What boy wouldn’t have been a prodigal son? The bent sabre alone was worth the sin.
Second picture: Hm—hm. Wicked, wicked! Why, certainly; but not for Walter, who in his innocence attached no importance to the extravagant dresses of the “Juffrouwen.” It was sufficient that all were eating and drinking bountifully, and that they were in good spirits and enjoying themselves. How prettily one of the girls, in glossy silk, was leaning over the shoulder of the “lost” one! How much nicer to be lost than found!—anyway, that was the impression the feast made on Walter. The true purpose of the picture—to deter people from a life of dissoluteness—escaped Walter entirely. Perhaps he knew what it meant; but in his heart he felt that it meant something else. What attracted him most was not the food and drink, under which the table “groaned,” nor the sinful sensuality painted on the faces of the ladies. It was the freedom and unconventionality of the company that charmed him. In order to emphasize the idea of prodigality, the painter had allowed some big dogs to upset an open cask of wine.
The wine was streaming, and straying away as if it were the lost sinner. This pleased Walter immensely. None of the guests seemed to notice such a small trifle, not even the waiters. This ought to have happened just once in the Pieterse home—and even if it were only a stein of beer!
The artist says to himself, Do you suppose I didn’t foresee the seductive influence of such a picture? The next one makes it all right!
Well, maybe so.
Third picture: Magnificent. How romantic this wilderness! Oh, to sit there on that boulder and stare into the immeasurable depths of the universe—alone!
To think, think, think!
No schoolmaster, no mother, brother, or anyone to say what he must do with his heart, with his time, with his elbows, or with his breeches! That’s the way Walter saw it. The young man there didn’t even have on breeches; and he looked as if he wouldn’t have been ashamed to stretch himself out on his back, with his arms over his head, and watch with wide-open eyes the passing of the moon and stars. Walter asked himself what he would think of when he had founded such an empire of solitude.
Hm! Femke could sit on the boulder with him. Prodigal son—oh, sin divine with her! He was surprised that in the whole Bible there was only one prodigal son. Of all sins this seemed to him the most seductive.
And the desert was so—endurable. There were trees in it, which one could climb, when one really got lost, or use to build a nice little cabin—for Femke, of course.
The prodigal in the picture didn’t seem to have thought of all that. Why wasn’t the Juffrouw in green silk with him? She will come soon, Walter said to himself. Perhaps she’s not quite through with her prodigality. If she would only hurry up and come! He longs for her. But that is the only annoyance that a genuine prodigal takes with him from the profane world into that capital wilderness.
It must be remarked in passing, however, that the hogs with which that picture was equipped looked ugly. The pious artist had made them shield-bearers of sin, and had supplied their physiognomies with all kinds of horrible features. And, too, the trough looked dirty.
If it happens to me, said Walter, I’ll take sheep with me; and Femke can card the wool.
The artist ought to admit that even this third picture is inadequate to inspire a proper disgust for prodigality.
And the fourth one? No better.
The old gentleman is excessively friendly. We are again in the colonnade, where the camels have just waited so patiently. One of the slaves clasps his hands and looks toward heaven—because he’s glad, of course, that little Walter has come back.
He? The real Walter? Returned home, and friendly received in his high rank of a “has-been” and “recovered” prodigal? Oh, no!
And that fatted calf! In direct opposition to the custom that was familiar to Walter! It worried the boy. Juffrouw Pieterse never slaughtered anything. She ran a weekly account with Keesje’s father; and even a roast was a rarity.
There was no prospect of a fatted calf, whether he became a prodigal or not. But that didn’t keep the rank of a prodigal from being higher than that of a stupid boy who didn’t know how to handle money.
He was encouraged to think that he was indebted to his friendly enemy, Juffrouw Laps, for something. She always cited the Bible, and spoke continually of feeding swine. Walter wanted to answer: “That’s very nice, Juffrouw Laps, but can’t it be sheep this time?”
He knew very well that she had never had any passion for carding, and consequently was not interested in that blue muffler, which would be so becoming to Femke’s favorite sheep.
But she assured him that he was a prodigal; and that was enough.
“That’s what I’ve always said!” replied Juffrouw Pieterse. “What does he do but squander his mother’s money? If that man wants snuff, let him buy it. The king pays him. I have to work too hard for my money. Don’t I, Stoffel?”
“Yes, mother; but it’s only childishness in Walter!”
“Childishness! That’s what I call it.”
“No it isn’t!” cried the pious Laps. “He’s on the straight road to the trough of Luke 15. He will eat husks! Do you think the Master doesn’t carry out his parables? Just send him to me. The pastors are to blame for it. They don’t explain the Bible. Send him to me.”
“If I only knew how he gets such things into his head!”
“You don’t know? It’s arrogance!”
She spoke the truth.
“Arrogance, Arrogance pure and simple—just as it was in Belshazzar, or Sennacherib, or Nebuchadnezzar.”
How thankful Walter was! If at this moment he had had a letter to write—preferably to Femke—he would have boasted of being as wicked as three old kings put together.
“Arrogance!” repeated Juffrouw Laps. “Gold on top, iron in the middle, and feet of clay. The Master will overthrow him. Send him to me.”
This invitation to turn over the royal villain to her for religious instruction was repeated so often that it was necessary to give her an answer.
“But, dear Juffrouw, the boy don’t want to. He’s stubborn; and what can one do with such a child?”
Walter knew that his mother was not quite truthful; but, after his former experience with his friendly enemy, he found it desirable to keep quiet. When pressed, however, for an explanation he said:
“The man wanted snuff, and nobody would give him any; so I——”
Juffrouw Laps knew enough. Walter was as good as her prisoner: she now knew exactly how to take his fortifications, if they could be taken at all.
“If he doesn’t want to come to me, don’t compel him,” she said sweetly on leaving. “To force him won’t do any good. Let him exercise his own pleasure. I’m afraid you pick at the child too much, anyway. What an awful fuss we’ve made over a stiver!”
“That’s what I say, too,” replied the mother. “It looks as if we begrudged him the money! We could have spared another stiver, and we wouldn’t have missed it, would we, Stoffel?”
“Yes, mother, but it’s time for Walter——”
“Goodness, what a hullaballoo to raise about a few pinches of snuff! The Master will repay it seven times seventy times. Whatever ye have done to the least of my brothers——”
With this consoling passage on her lips she took her leave of the astonished family.