Chapter XXIV
In his efforts to reconcile the various conflicting authorities contesting for supremacy in his soul, Walter threw himself into a severe spell of blues. He was not conscious of the contrast between the world of his high-flown fancy and the earthy environment of his home-life. The sympathetic care which he should have received after his illness had not fallen to his lot.
He felt dejected.
“Femke!” he thought; and he longed for her fresh healthy face, for her pure, unselfish glance, for her friendly smile. The Fancy that had led him away to the stars in search of his misty sister had got lodged on that girl of the Amsterdam lowlands, Femke—with her unpoetical length, breadth, thickness, and weight.
“I am going to see her,” he cried. “I will! And if Mrs. Claus asks me about worms a dozen times, it’s all the same to me; I am going to see her!”
Walter reached the house and knocked. “Come in!” someone called. This was a little sudden, for it took some time to get hold of the latch. But Walter did it. Perhaps he was thinking of Missolonghi.
The Turks that he saw now were not revolting in appearance. They were unarmed and did not murder a single baby.
But—Femke was not in the party.
Mrs. Claus was at the wash-tub, while Father Jansen was quietly smoking.
“Is that you, young man? Very nice! That’s the young man who gave Femke the picture, you remember, father?”
The father nodded to him kindly and smoked away, without manifesting any special Godliness.
“Yes, Juffrouw, I wanted to——”
“Very nice of you! Won’t you have a slice of bread and butter? And how is your mother? Is she better now? She was sick, wasn’t she? That’s a good boy, father. Femke said so. Is your mother better again? It was fever, wasn’t it? or apoplexy—or what was it then?”
“Oh, no! Juffrouw.”
“You mustn’t call me Juffrouw. I am only a wash-woman. Everyone must stay in his own class, mustn’t he, father? Well, it’s all the better; I thought she had been sick. It must have been somebody else. One has so much to think of. Do you like cheese?”
The good woman prepared a slice of bread and butter, with cheese. If Trudie could have seen it, she would have fainted. In the “citizen’s class,” such and such a sub-class, according to Pennewip, is found a certain scantiness that does not obtain in the common laboring class. In the matter of eating, laborers, who do not invest their money in Geneva, are not troubled so much by “good form” as people who give their children French names.
Walter had never seen such a slice of bread. He didn’t know whether he ought to bite through the width, or the thickness. The bit of cheese gave him his cue.
He liked Mrs. Claus much better this time. And Father Jansen, too; even if he wasn’t like Walter had imagined him to be.
He had never conceived a preacher as being anything else but a very supernatural and spiritual and celestial sort of person. Father Jansen didn’t seem to be that kind of a man at all.
He visited the sheep of his fold, especially the plain people, not to make a display of beneficence—for he had nothing, but because he was happiest among simple people. He was fond of bread and butter of the Mrs. Claus variety. For the rest, he said mass, preached about sin, catechised, confirmed, absolved, and did whatever needed to be done. He performed the functions of his office, and did not think it at all strange that he should have gone into the church, while his brother in Nordbrabant succeeded to the business of his father, who was a farrier and inn-keeper.
“And what are you going to be?” he asked Walter; “for everybody in the world must be something. Wouldn’t you like to be a bookbinder? That’s a good trade.”
“I was—I was in business, M’neer; and I’m going back to business.”
“That’s good, my boy. You may get rich. Especially here in Amsterdam; for Amsterdam is a commercial city.”
Walter wanted to add: “The greatest commercial city of Europe.” But he was abashed by the—worldliness of Father Jansen’s talk. He didn’t find it disagreeable: he was merely surprised at it.
“A boy like you ought to eat a lot. You look pale. My brother can bend a horseshoe. What do you say to that? Have you ever eaten our Brabant bread? Ham isn’t bad, either. A person that doesn’t eat enough gets weak. I always eat two slices of bread and butter whenever I’m here at Mrs. Claus’s; but I’m not nearly so strong as my brother. You ought to see the Vucht fair. That’s a great time.”
Walter was more than surprised to hear such talk from a preacher: he was almost pleased. He had never received such charming messages from heaven. Of course they came from heaven, those friendly words uttered in Brabant dialect between the puffs of Father Jansen’s pipe. This man in a priest’s coat chattered away as if there were no such thing in the world as God, Grace, and Hell—especially the latter. He was as happy as a child in telling about the strength of his brother, the horseshoer. It was his business to lead the world to eternal happiness; and he liked thick slices of bread and butter with cheese.
Walter had never had religious things opened up to him so delightfully. He felt encouraged to speak:
“M’neer, I would like to know who God is!”
Father Jansen started, and looked at Walter as if he hadn’t clearly understood the question.
“Yes—that’s very praiseworthy in you. You must——”
“But, father,” cried Mrs. Claus, “the child isn’t in the church! Are you?”—to Walter.
“Yes, Juffrouw, I have been confirmed.”
“To be sure, to be sure, but——”
“On the Noordermarkt!”
“Well, you see he’s in the church all right.”
The good woman didn’t have the heart—or else she had too much heart—to tell the father that it wasn’t the right church.
“Whoever wants to get acquainted with God,” said Father Jansen, “must study diligently.”
“To be sure,” said Mrs. Claus, “the articles of faith. You ought to hear my Femke repeat them. It’s a pleasure, isn’t it, father? She’s my only child, but—she’s a girl worth having!”
“Yes, Femke is an excellent girl. I don’t have any trouble with her.”
The father spoke in a business-like manner; and he meant it that way. The spots on Femke’s soul were easily removed. He praised Femke as a cook would praise a kitchen-pot.
Father Jansen had still more praise for Femke: she had patched his drawers so nicely.
Oh, Fancy!
The mention of this fact did not touch Walter’s æsthetic feelings. With him there were other considerations. Fancy was used to seeing everything nude—fathers, humanity—so there was no difficulty here.
Walter was sixteen years old, already a little man—why must Femke patch drawers for this father!
“Yes,” said the mother. “Femke is clever at patching. If you’ve got anything else that needs mending, just send it over.”
Walter was warm. If it had been collars, socks, waistcoats, or—well, if it had to be something questionable—if it had only been trousers!
“Just send it over, and if Femke isn’t here——”
“Where is she going to be?” thought Walter.
“Then I will attend to it myself. I can do it neatly.”
Thank God! Dear, good, magnificent Mrs. Claus! Do it, do it yourself, and leave Femke where she is.
But—where was she?
Thus Walter’s thoughts; but what did he say?—the hypocrite, the budding man.
“Yes, indeed, Mrs. Claus, I had almost forgotten to ask where your daughter Femke is.”
“Femke? She’s at my niece’s, where the girl is sick. You know we’re of good family. Femke is looking after my niece’s children.”
Walter didn’t have the courage to ask where this niece lived, so he assumed a look of contentment.
After much waiting and twisting and turning on his chair, Walter finally left the house with Father Jansen. He had not yet learned how to end a visit: some people never learn it.
“Don’t you want to do me a favor?” said the good man. “Then walk on my right side. I’m deaf here”—pointing to his left ear.
“I will tell you how it happened. When I was a little boy—are you a good climber?”
“No, M’neer!”
“Well, I am! In the whole of Vucht there wasn’t a boy who could climb as well as I could. Do you know what I did once? I climbed up and slipped a flower-pot from a third-story window. And—my priest wasn’t in a good humor at all! He didn’t want to accept me till I had returned that flower-pot; and then I had to go and beg the old woman’s pardon. And she herself went to the priest to intercede for me. Then he accepted me. But I got twenty ‘confiteors’—oh, he was severe!
“But I was going to tell you why I’m deaf in the left ear.
“In one of the seminaries was a student—he’s a canonicus in the Rhine country, and will get to be a cardinal, perhaps pope, for—he was very sly! I will tell you, his name was—Rake; but, you understand, his name was really something else. This Rake was a mean rascal; but he was never punished, because he was careful. See if he doesn’t get to be a cardinal, or pope! You ought to hear him quote from the Vulgate. He could rattle away for three hours and never made a mistake.” * * *
“Are you perfectly crazy, boy, or what is the matter with you? Walking with a priest! What in the name of the Lord are you thinking about? Go in the house—quick! Jesu, what troubles I have with that child!”
With these words Juffrouw Pieterse broke off Walter’s acquaintance with Father Jansen for this time.
The way that the father and Walter had taken led them directly by Walter’s home. Juffrouw Pieterse, who was haggling with a Jew over the price of a basket of potatoes, narrowly escaped a stroke of apoplexy when she saw them together.
“With a priest!—Stoffel! Come down quick—that boy is walking with a priest!”
Tears rose in Walter’s eyes. He had found Father Jansen a good man, and was grieved that that gentleman should meet with such a reception.
It is to be hoped that those rude words were received by his left ear. In fact, this seemed to be the case, for when Walter said that he was at home now and that his mother was calling him, Father Jansen answered kindly:
“So? You live there? Then I will tell you the next time why I am so deaf in my left ear—entirely deaf, you understand!”
Thank God, Walter thought, and wiped away his tears. In his eyes his mother had committed a sin so grave that about fifty “confiteors” would be necessary for its expiation.
“Oh, yes. I was going to tell you——”
With these words Father Jansen turned around again. He continued: “The flower-pot of the old lady, Juffrouw Dungelaar, you know—it wasn’t for the flowers, you understand, nor for the pot, but only because I could climb so well. Otherwise—one mustn’t take anything away, even if it is so high up. Adieu, young man!”
After giving Juffrouw Pieterse a friendly greeting that she did not deserve, the man continued on his way.
Stoffel said that to walk with a priest was “simply preposterous.”
“As if he were crazy!” said Juffrouw Pieterse.
“Yes,” agreed Stoffel, “but it’s because he has nothing to do but loaf around. If that keeps up, he will never amount to anything.”
True, Walter was loafing around; but he was not idle. His activities brought nothing palpable to light, still he was building up the inner life in a manner of which Stoffel had no idea.
“Of course!” said the mother. “He must have work. If he were only willing to be a compositor! or an apprentice in the shoe-business. To make shoes—that he shall never do.”
“This running with priests comes only from idleness, mother. Do I run with priests? Never. Why not? Because I have to go to my school every day!”
“Yes, Stoffel, you go to your school every day.”
“Besides, there are good priests. There was Luther, for instance. He was a sort of priest. What did he do?”
“Yes, I know. He reformed the people.”
“He made them Lutherans, mother; but that’s almost the same thing. One mustn’t be narrow-minded.”
“That’s what I say, Stoffel, people ought not to be so narrow-minded. What difference does it make what a person’s religion is, just so he’s upright, and not a Roman Catholic!”
When Walter told Father Jansen that he “was in business,” and that he was “going back to business,” he spoke better than he himself knew. He did go back to business.
Through a leather-dealer, who, speaking commercially, was in close touch with shoes that came from Paris, Walter got a position with a firm whose “responsibility” was somewhat less apocryphal than that of Messrs. Motto, Business & Co. He was to begin his new apprenticeship in the offices of Messrs. Ouwetyd & Kopperlith, a firm of world-wide reputation.
However, before he was to enter upon his new duties, all sorts of things were destined to happen, with the tendency to make Walter appear as a “hero of romance,” which he wasn’t at all.