Chapter XXIX
For anyone in Walter’s present mood, there are only two things in the world; self, and—nothingness!
Walter looked about him. “Butter Market,” he read on a sign. He noticed that in the street socks could be bought, wagons hired, etc., etc.
But what did it all mean? Nothing. He had kissed Femke’s hand!
It is too bad that the world did not sink out of existence on that summer night.
If Walter had noticed such an occurrence, he might have asked if Femke was hurt; otherwise the phenomenon would not have disturbed him.
The reader will understand, of course, that on this eventful night the world did not go down.
Walter forgave the sun for rising. He even excused the Butter Market for being such a hot place; but it was difficult for him to convince himself that it was not all a dream.
A new feeling took possession of him. His ambitious plans of a material nature receded into the background of consciousness. His one desire now was to love Femke—and win her love. Those continents that were expecting salvation from him might wait.
He thought of Femke and her soft hand. Never had her hand felt like that. Formerly it had seemed harder and rougher; but, of course, he had just been mistaken about it. He imagined, too, that hitherto he had not marked her voice well, nor her carriage. Surely, he had never seen the true Femke till to-night—better, this morning.
But—Klaas Verlaan and his rough companions! What did all that gab about M’neer Kopperlith mean? There were other questions too; but—Femke had called him brother; and that was one thing which with him was as firm as the rock of Gibraltar.
Brooding thus, he slipped along through the streets. Weak and tired, he came to the “Dam.” Here he saw a long row of carriages. The coachmen sat in their places waiting for the princely guests, who had wanted to see a Holland sunrise. The sun was already in sight; but there were no princes and princesses to see him. A few laborers were looking on indifferently.
Yesterday Walter would have exerted himself to see a live, fullgrown king, just to find out if he looked like Macbeth, or Arthur, or Lear. To-day he was so tired that kings did not interest him.
He was just starting on, when the coachmen suddenly assumed a rigid attitude. A boy remarked that “they” were coming now. He was right: they did come; and all, except one old lady, drove away so rapidly that scarcely anyone saw them. She touched her coachman on the shoulder.
“She has forgotten something,” said the boy.
Three or four cavaliers stormed back into the palace and brought her fan. While they were gone, the boys wondered at the pimples on her face. Walter’s pictures had had nothing of that kind. How different Femke’s face was!
Walter trudged along further; and, without thinking of where he was going, he came to the meadow where Femke and her mother dried their clothes. He sat down on the grass, intending to wait for the first signs of life in Femke’s home. He was not certain that she was there; he did not know but that she might still be at Holsma’s; but there would be somebody there.
Overcome by weariness he lay down and gradually fell asleep. His cap came off, rolled down into the ditch and disappeared in the mud.
If anyone passed by, he remarked that there lay a drunken fellow. Yes, youth begins early. Possibly the fellow was sick; but then the police would take care of him. Nobody hurt him; nobody touched him. His dreams were undisturbed.
He dreamed of various things; but the principal object of his dreams was a young girl, who was standing on a platform playing ball with heavy men, as if that were nothing. Suddenly it was little Sietske Holsma.
Then in his dreams he heard a voice:
“Goodness, boy, how did you get here?”
At first the voice was far away, then nearer, and finally quite near. He had the dim impression that somebody was pulling him up to a sitting posture.
“Sietske!” he whispered, still sleeping.
“Yes, that’s my name. How did you know it?”
“Sietske——!”
“Why, certainly. Who told you? And what are you doing here. It isn’t very respectable. Are you drunk? And so young, too.”
He called Sietske’s name again.
“You may call me by my first name, if you want to; but how does it come? Did Femke tell you? It’s a real disgrace to lie here like a hog. What were you going to say?”
Walter rubbed his eyes and felt of his head. “I would like to wash myself,” he said, not yet wide awake.
“All right,” cried Mrs. Claus. “And you’re not hurt, are you? Where is your cap?”
“Wash—with cold water,” Walter said.
“Good! Come to the pump with me.” She led him through the house and across the back yard.
“You needn’t be afraid to undress here; nobody can see you. But how did you happen to call me by my first name all at once. Not that I’m offended at all.”
Walter was still too much asleep to recall what had happened to him during the past few hours; so he only said that he had a headache and must wash himself first.
Mrs. Claus, noticing that he was ashamed to undress, hung some quilts on the fence, thus converting the yard into a sort of room. It never occurred to her that her own presence might embarrass him. Walter was still not quite pleased with the outlook for a bath; but since yesterday he had been thinking of other things as strange.
He began to strip, allowing Mrs. Claus to help him, just as if he had been fifteen years younger than he was. To Mrs. Claus he was only a child.
She laid him on a bench under the spout and began to pump. At the first drops he shivered; then the water flooded his head and shoulders. He could neither see nor speak. His efforts to speak she interpreted as calls for more water.
“Yes, this will be good for you.” Her words were drowned by the splashing water.
“You didn’t hurt yourself, did you? Do you think that will be enough now? I’ve pumped till I’ve got a pain in my side. But if you think that——”
She stopped all at once, but still held on to the pump handle, as if to show her willingness to continue.
“I forgot entirely to”—she began pumping again—“wash you off with green soap. Femke always washes herself with it. It makes the skin nice and smooth.—You ought to see your back now. It shines like a looking-glass.”
Walter wanted to say something but couldn’t.
“Yes, and your forehead, too. It’s the green soap that does it. I guess your mother never washes you with green soap, does she? Then one must scour and scrub and rub. But, if you are not used to soap——”
She lifted that terrible pump handle again.
“I believe this will be about enough,” Walter blubbered. His mouth was so full of water that again Mrs. Claus did not understand him.
“Green soap is good for corns, and for rheumatism.” She was pumping away for dear life.
Walter finally succeeded in rescuing himself and the bench from that destructive stream of water. He was now able to make his cries for mercy understood; but he was not yet able to get up. Besides, the good woman had hung his clothes out of his reach, and he was ashamed. He remained sitting.
“Do you want anything else?” inquired the water nymph.
“No, no, no!” he answered quickly. She was already lifting the pump-handle again. “But——”
The simple, innocent woman did not understand; and, when he continued to sit there like a helpless lump of misery, she asked:
“Do you have a pain anywhere?”
“No, I haven’t any pains.”
“Are you tired?”
He was still tired, and said so.
“And I woke you up! I’ll tell you what, you must go to sleep and take a good nap.”
She began drying him off, as if that were a usual thing in her day’s work. Then she rolled him up in a sheet and carried him off like a sack of clothes. He could not but notice the way she laid him down. Then she covered him warmly.
“Straighten out your legs, my boy.”
Walter did as she said, and experienced an indescribable feeling of comfort. And when she punched him and patted him and tucked him in, and said: “Poor child, you can sleep good now. This is Femke’s bed, you know——” then he was more than comfortable; he was delighted.
When he awakened at about four o’clock in the afternoon he heard whispering voices. He listened, at first to find out where he was, and then to understand what was being said.
It seemed as if there were a plot further to confuse Sietske with Femke in his mind.
“Yes, Sietske; but what does he mean by lying out like that? If I were his mother——”
The answer was:
“Cousin, I don’t suppose his mother knows about it. Hermann did the same thing once. That’s the way boys are.”
Oho! Sietske was there; and Mrs. Claus was her cousin, and her name was Sietske too! And that girl—there in Mrs. Goremest’s place?
His thoughts became more and more confused; though physically he felt well.
How would it do, he thought, to tear a little piece out of the sheet, so as to be able to examine it to-morrow and make certain of himself and his adventures?
If he had been accustomed to fine bedlinen at home, he might now have taken an especial pleasure in Mrs. Claus’s extremely rough homemade linen. Hm! He had always dreamed of princesses sleeping on embroidered silk, among diamonds and pearls! He did not yet know that it is possible to conceive royal and imperial highnesses otherwise at night, and that perhaps a princess might sometimes be willing to tousle Femke’s bed.
He looked about the room. There was another small bed, where, he supposed, Femke’s mother slept. Across the room was the chimney. Here were small shelves decorated with works of art. Walter noticed the “resurrection of Lazarus.” Four chairs were in the room. One was standing by his bed, and on it his clothes were carefully arranged.
In the middle of the room stood a table; and the drawer was partly open. It was too full. Father Jansen’s woolen socks were peeping out while they waited for repairs. Walter wondered if those other objectionable articles were there too.
On the wall, at the head of his bed, hung a crucifix, with a small basin of holy water. With that she crosses herself, he thought. He stuck his hand into it: it was dry. The whole arrangement was fastened to an embroidered piece of cardboard, and, when he touched it, something fell from behind it.
It looked like a large-sized letter. Walter picked it up and looked for the address. He felt that it must be a letter from Femke to him. Then he reproached himself, and, trembling with emotion, restored the piece of paper to its place. He had held it up to the light: it was the Ophelia that he had presented her after his illness! She had treasured the picture together with the most sacred thing she possessed.
He was wide awake now; but who wouldn’t wake up on receiving a letter from Heaven?
He dressed himself and went into the other room, where he supposed Mrs. Claus and Sietske were. Not a soul was to be seen. For the first time it occurred to him that after those few words he had heard nothing more. The girl had surely visited her “cousin” and then gone away.
But Mrs. Claus herself? Perhaps she, too, had gone away. This was the case; however, she had not gone out without leaving behind her a peculiar sign of her uncouth character and lack of refinement. On a small table, before which stood an inviting chair, lay two pieces of bread and butter of her standard make. Beside them was a pot of coffee. To be sure, it was cold now; but—well, Walter acted quickly “according to his convictions.”
Other thoughts now forced themselves on his mind. The “House of Pieterse” appeared to his mind’s eye as a menacing waterspout. In the face of this danger difficult questions that had been clamoring for answer had to be forgotten.
To go home? For heaven’s sake, no!
His mother, Stoffel, his sisters—all had turned into Macbethan witches. In his imagination, even Leentje had deserted him and was asking him to beg forgiveness for his shameful behavior. He thought of the prodigal son; though he knew that no calf, fat or otherwise, would be slaughtered on his return.
Sakkerloot! I haven’t done anything wrong; I haven’t squandered anything—not a doit of my inheritance! Have I allowed the wine to run out? Not a drop!
But something must have been the matter; for—he did not dare to go home.
Have I had any pleasure? Have I enjoyed any feast with four young ladies? No! Have I allowed hounds to run around loose in the banquet-hall? Have I had any negro servant to hold my horse?
There he took his stand. And he stayed there. Of camels and girls and wine he felt that he was innocent; but himself, and his adventures of the night, he was unable further to explain.
“I wish I were a crumb of bread,” he sighed, as he stuck one into his mouth, “then I would know where I belong.”
Doubtless the first crumb of bread that was ever envied by a ruler.
Go to America?
Yes, if he only had those hundred florins that Mr. Motto had relieved him of. Of course that worthy gentleman was now living like a prince on the money. At least, Juffrouw Pieterse had said as much. But, even if he had the money, he could not go away and leave Mrs. Claus’s house to the mercy of stray thieves and robbers. In a way, hadn’t he on yesterday evening taken the field against robbers?
Besides, he had no cap. There was nothing in sight that looked like a hat. Yes—there hung a North Holland cap!