II.
Charles and John seated at a table, with their backs to the other actors. Enter Bom de Sac, the police agent, fuming and swearing.
Bom de Sac. When I was with the First regiment, and was three times wounded in two battles.... Ah! good-morning, Mr Hairdresser ... three times wounded,—it would never have happened to me to let two scoundrels escape. Never!
Fournichon. What’s your pleasure, Mr—Mr——
Bom de Sac. Bom de Sac, if you please—with the Third regiment—in four battles, five wounds.
Fournichon. Does M. Bom de Sac want his hair cut?
Bom de Sac. Many thanks, I always do that myself. I learnt that with the Fourth ... when I was six times wounded in five battles. But, sir, that is not the point at present. I was just going to say that this morning two scoundrels——
Fournichon. Scoundrels?
Bom de Sac. Scoundrels, or students, whichever you like to call them.
Fournichon. Well, and what did they do?
Bom de Sac. Just imagine, sir. I was at the baker’s, and the maid was standing on a ladder outside cleaning the window, when two good-for-nothing vagabonds came up, took up a pail of water, and threw it at the girl, and the girl fell right through the window in among the currant-buns!
Fournichon. Not killed, I hope.
Bom de Sac. No, the buns had broken her fall. But I was out of the house in a flash, and after the fellows. Sacré nom de guerre! if I could still run as I could when I was in the Fifth ... and wounded seven times in six battles ... they would never have escaped me! But they are here!
Fournichon. Have a glass?
Bom de Sac. If you please. [Drinks.] Thank you. I am told they came into this house, and if so, they’ll have to come out, sir!
Fournichon. Here! How is it possible? You are quite free to search the room if you like. These ladies are my grandmother and my cousin.
Bom de Sac (seeing them for the first time, salutes). Ah! Honneur aux dames, as we used to say in the Sixth. I hope you won’t mind, ladies.
Fournichon. You need not give yourself the trouble of speaking to them. The old lady is stone deaf, and won’t understand a word, and she watches over her granddaughter so carefully that she cannot bear to see a gentleman speak to the girl, because she cannot hear what he is saying.
“SACRE NOM DE GUERRE!”
Bom de Sac. Well, where in the thunder can they have got to? I was quite certain of finding them here.
Fournichon. And I am quite certain you will do no such thing. [Looks out of window.]
Bom de Sac. But—nom de nom!—how is it possible?
Fournichon. Just look here, Monsieur Bom de Sac, could these be the gentlemen that have just passed laughing? Both of them have white hats.
Bom de Sac (rushing to the window). Where?
Fournichon. Ah! what a pity! they have just this moment gone round the corner towards the Botermarkt.
Bom de Sac. White hats, you say? The devil!—that must be they, and they shan’t escape me this time. [Exit.] It’s not for nothing that I had ten wounds in nine battles when serving with the Eighth.
Charles. Bad luck to the fellow! he has made it warm for us!
John. If it had lasted any longer, I am sure I should have made some remarks on my own account. If some one else comes, we really must find some other place, for I really can’t sit still so long in these blessed skirts.
Charles. Shall we stand up then?
John. Why not. [Jumps on one of the chests.] Look here, I’ll bet you anything you like I can stand half-an-hour like this without moving. Don’t I look like a waxwork figure of summer?
Charles. The devil you are! [Gets on the other chest.] And I winter, to match.
Fournichon. Splendid, gentlemen, it couldn’t be finer. Just stand still like that. [A ring at the bell.]
Charles (getting down). Preserve us!—now we’re in for it.
John. No, Charles, stick to your post.
Charles. I can’t possibly stand still all that time.
Fournichon. It won’t be necessary. Just stand in any easy attitude, and you can change your position quietly from time to time, without our tiresome visitor becoming aware of it.
Charles. Well, I’ll see what I can do. [Climbs up again.]
Fournichon. Hush! he’s coming!
Enter Meijer.
Meijer. Good-day, Monsieur Fournichon. Good-day, ladies. (To Fournichon.) Why are you laughing?
Fournichon. At your taking those waxworks for ladies. Ha! ha! ha!
Meijer. Waxworks, you say! How astonishingly lifelike! It’s true, though, it would be a queer position for living beings to stand in.
Fournichon. Well done, are they not? It is an allegorical representation of winter and summer.
Meijer. Very pretty, very pretty indeed! You hair-dressers have always something curious on hand.
Fournichon. That’s to say, sir, they are not my property. They have been sent to me to look after the coiffures, and they are to go to London,—to Madame Tousseau’s museum.
Meijer. Oh, indeed!—indeed! Well, art has made great strides.
Fournichon. Great strides, sir! You’re quite right there. Just feel now—elastic as india-rubber—quite like a human being.
Meijer. Wonderful! wonderful! But I am in a hurry—can you shave me?
Fournichon. Certainly, sir, sit down! [Gives him a chair between John and Charles, but rather more towards the back of the shop. Goes on shaving him, and talking at the same time.] Your barber, sir, does not know his business. Your skin and complexion are quite spoilt.
[John changes his position.]
Meijer (starting up). Good heavens!
Fournichon. No need to be uneasy, sir; there is nothing really dangerous.
Meijer. No, that’s not what I was thinking of,—but that doll of yours—the summer one—is moving!
Fournichon. Oh! that is nothing surprising—perhaps I stepped on the floor rather heavily. You must know these figures are full of steel springs inside, and the slightest vibration makes them move. Just look now!
[Stamps on the floor. John and Charles immediately change their positions.]
Meijer. Ah! thank you for your explanation. I really never should have understood it.
[Sits down again, and Fournichon goes on shaving him till he has finished. Meijer rises.]
Meijer. Thanks. Can you give me change?
Fournichon. I’ll go and get it.
[Exit. Meijer goes to look at the waxworks.]
Meijer. They are curious, though! I have often seen waxworks before, but never so graceful, so lifelike as these. Whenever any one stamps on the floor, they move. [Stamps—John and Charles again change their attitudes.] Just look at that! how pretty! Once more! Sublime! And that’s the way they keep on! [Stamps again, and continues to do so, faster and faster—John and Charles changing their position with every stamp; but at length they begin to grow tired of it—they jump down from their pedestals, seize Meijer, and hold him fast, saying, “You rascal! this is too much of a good thing!” They strike him, and push him out at the door—losing their wigs in the struggle—after which they burst out laughing, and drop exhausted into their chairs. Enter F.]
Fournichon. Gentlemen! what have you been up to now? Such an infernal row I never heard before! You’ll wake all the babies in the neighbourhood.
Charles (laughing). Oh! the conceited blockhead!
John. The worshipper of waxwork groups!
Fournichon. Well—where is he? What have you done with him?
Charles. We have put him out at the door as quietly and deliberately as possible.
Fournichon. Well—and why?
John. Because he bored us too much. He was so delighted with the mechanism of the figures, that we might have kept on dancing till to-morrow morning if we had not put an end to the business ourselves.
Fournichon. And what about your coiffures?
Charles. Why, that’s true! What can have become of them!
Fournichon. Oh! good heavens! here they are, lying on the ground like any old rubbish! [Picks them up, along with the hat and cap.] Just look!—they are not worth a cent now!
John. Oh! just put the things away—we don’t want them any more,—and if they’re spoilt, we’ll pay for them.
Fournichon. In that case, sir, it doesn’t matter. [Lays everything on a table. The bell rings.] Hé! who’s that now?
Charles. It doesn’t matter to me who it is. Any one may come who likes—I’m not going to act in this farce any longer.
Fournichon (looks through the door). Look out, gentlemen—it’s the agent—Bom de Sac!
John and Charles (springing up). That fellow! No! that will never do! [They sit down at the table, as before, and put on their headdresses, but without seeing that they have taken the wrong ones, John putting on the grey wig and cap,—Charles, the curls and round straw hat. Bom de Sac heard speaking outside the door:]—No, sacré nom de nom! Mijnheer Meyer has lent me a hand. What are people thinking of? It was not for nothing I was wounded eleven times in ten battles, with the 9th Regiment. They are here—I’m certain of that! [Enters.]
Fournichon. Search as much as you like, sir, but remember, if you please, that, in the presence of ladies....
Bom de Sac. Of course, of course! I always said, “Honneur aux dames.” [Looks at the ladies and salutes, then takes a step backward in amazement.] Sacré nom de guerre!
Fournichon. What’s the matter?
Bom de Sac. Have I come to my age—not to speak of twelve wounds in eleven battles—to let myself be fooled like this?
Fournichon. I don’t understand you.
Bom de Sac. No, perhaps not. But I understand how it is possible for these ladies to have changed heads at a moment’s notice. Look here! [He takes off the wigs.] The young lady is getting grey, and the grandmother is going backwards to her childhood. Come with me, now, gentlemen—I arrest you both!
Fournichon. Your own fault, gentlemen. I wash my hands of the whole business.
Charles. We have a word to say to that, John.
John. Certainly.
Bom de Sac. Gentlemen, conspiracies or plots in which more than one person are concerned are forbidden by law. Will you come with me, or not?
Charles. I suppose we shall have to.
John. Do you want us to come with you as we are?
Bom de Sac. Just as you like, gentlemen. I arrest you, and that is all my share in the business. The rest does not concern me.
Charles (whispers to John, then continues aloud). Just listen, Monsieur Bom de Sac,—though we find it very unpleasant to have fallen into your hands, we are not children, and we are quite capable of understanding that there is nothing for it but to give in. But just let us change our clothes first—we’ll give you our word of honour not to go out of the door without letting you know.
Bom de Sac. Very good! We have been young, too, you see. Just go on, gentlemen. If you give me your word, that is enough. [While he goes on talking to Fournichon, John and Charles take off their costumes and tie Bom de Sac’s coattails to the table.] Yes, Mr Hairdresser, when I was with the 11th, and had been wounded thirteen times in twelve battles, then I thought to myself,—it’s quite enough, Bom de Sac, you have done quite enough for your country; you’re growing old—and a soldier may be too old. I was then brigadier, and understood that it was getting time for me to make room for another. So I came home to my old mother ... I married a young wife....
Charles. ... and received, in thirteen battles....
Bom de Sac. Ah!—are you ready, gentlemen?
John. At your service, my worthy sergeant of police! We are quite ready, and now warn you that we are about to leave. [Charles and John go out by the door at the back of the stage, arm in arm, saying, as they go.]—Bon soir.
Bom de Sac. Wait—I’m coming with you! [Tries to go, but finds himself fastened to the table.] Bad luck to them! are they going to give me the slip after all?
Fournichon. I see a good chance of it. Look here, Monsieur Bom de Sac, you have, in far too many battles received more than too many wounds to be anything like a match for these young fellows. They have been sharper than you,—so you’ll have to acknowledge yourself beaten, and e’en let them alone. By the time you get outside the door they will be far beyond your reach.
Bom de Sac. You’re right enough there, so I shall keep the whole matter to myself, and wish them a pleasant evening.
Anon.
IN THE LITTLE REPUBLIC.
It was in the smallest Republic of our Continent—Altenet—rich in mines of zinc. It lies, like a tiny wedge, between the great German empire, the small kingdom of Holland, and the still smaller one of Belgium.
Seldom has a stranger set foot here; few know the district even by name; only a single encyclopædia makes mention of it; the atlases have forgotten it,—nay, it has even been forgotten by the political world.
When the separation between Belgium and Holland took place in 1830, the representatives of the various powers could not come to any agreement over this little piece of ground. It was therefore resolved to declare it “neutral territory,” till a later Congress should find a better solution to the problem.
The old schoolmaster of the neighbouring village of Oppenaken always asserted that the learned politicians assembled at the aforesaid Congress had been too drunk to know what they were doing. If his listeners looked at him incredulously, or began to laugh, he would indignantly ask, “Don’t you believe me? Then I’ll prove it!” And then he would fetch an atlas, open it at the map of the Netherlands, and, following with his finger the boundary of our provinces of Limburg and Brabant, continue—“Just look at this line here how it goes—first to the left, then to the right—here crooked, then slanting—then again forward for a bit, then backwards—one minute straight, and then again with a great bend—isn’t it just like the line a tipsy man would take in walking?”
In the year 1866 another European Congress took place; but it seemed as though the gentlemen taking part in it had not recovered from the effects of the drinking bout attributed to them by the Oppenaken schoolmaster, for this time Altenet was forgotten—forgotten for good and all.
“TOO DRUNK TO KNOW WHAT THEY WERE DOING.”
Thus the Altenetters lived on, independent of all foreign domination. The miners continued to extract zinc from the ground, and pile it up in the great waggons which transported it to other countries; the peasant ploughed his field and reaped his grain; the wind might be heard sighing in the clumps of trees on the hill-tops, the brook rushing and murmuring between the rocks, and the lark singing high in air—and what could you want more?
The government of the little Republic was entirely in the hands of the burgomaster, Willem Drikus Bloemstein, a broad-shouldered man of portly presence, red-haired and red-bearded, fully conscious of his own importance, and loyally supported in all his works and ways by the elect of Altenet, who were associated with him as Councillors.
It was quite an earthly Paradise—a little Eden full of peace and happiness! Here was no such thing as strife or hatred, for parties had no existence, and life offered no opportunity for insult or injury on political grounds. The taxes were not high, and there was no standing army, so that no one thought it necessary to hold meetings in order to discuss the advantages and disadvantages of compulsory service. The only measure taken for the defence of the country was the weekly drill of the rural rifle corps; and though no one was forced to take his place in its ranks, yet every right-minded man of Altenet felt it his duty to place himself under the orders of General Bauer—on working days an energetic mine-superintendent.
Suddenly this happy state of things was disturbed.
A tiresome man—a German politician—had discovered the above-mentioned negligence on the part of the statesmen of Europe, and pointed out to the Government of his country that here was an opportunity for gratifying its well-known love of annexation. The high and mighty Reichstag took the hint, and resolved to proceed to a speedy settlement of the still unsolved question of the division of Altenet.
A storm of indignation swept through the whole Republic. The head of the State, honest Bloemstein, immediately summoned all the members of the Council, in order to consult as to ways and means of averting the threatened misfortune, and the summons was obeyed by every one.
They were all assembled. Klessens, the rich brewer; young Holzert, an ugly little man, whose bow-legs were a continual challenge to any poodle who had learned to jump through a hoop, but whose shrewdness and clear insight into things were praised by every one; the just-mentioned Bauer, the commander of the rifle corps; Marbaise, the landlord of the “Lump of Zinc”; and Conrads, the wealthy farmer.
“What’s got to be done?” was the question addressed by Bloemstein to the notables of Altenet.
“It seems to me we ought to write the Prussian a civil letter, telling him not to trouble his head about us,” was the opinion delivered by Klessens, after coughing and clearing his throat for some time.
“You stupid fellow!” replied Bauer, pulling in an impressive manner at his thick moustache, “do you think the insolent dog of a Prussian will care anything for a civil letter? No, my boy, you don’t know him yet; au contraire, we ought to show him we’re not afraid.”
“Why, then! there will be war!” was timidly interjected by Conrads.
“Very well then! there will be war!” The rest nodded assent.
“But that will surely be a great-to-do,—couldn’t we wait at least till the crops are in?”
“We won’t wait a moment! I shall march with the Rifles to-morrow, right along the Prussian border, and then the miserable wretches can see that we’re not afraid of them!” and Bauer banged the table with his fists.
“That’s not nearly enough,” suggested Marbaise; “the custom-house officers might forget to write to the Emperor about it, and as long as he doesn’t know it, it all goes for nothing.”
“We ought to write to him ourselves, and not civilly,—no, indeed!—but as impudently as we can; and you must sign the letter, Bloemstein, just as if you were a king yourself, and put under it ‘Wullem the First, President of the Republic of Altenet.’”
“BAUER BANGED THE TABLE WITH HIS FISTS.”
“Wullem, Wullem! why, there are so many Wullems,” was the opinion of the man addressed; “the Dutch one is called so, and the Prussian too. ‘Wullem!’—it’s so common.”
“But you have another name, haven’t you?” asked another Councillor.
“Yes, of course,—Drikus.”
“Very well, then,—Drikus the First. What do you think of that?”
“Well, well,” muttered Klessens. “‘Drikus the First, President of the Republic of Altenet’; it doesn’t sound bad, not bad at all.”
“Wouldn’t it be still better to say, ‘President of the Independent Republic’?” added the warlike Bauer.
“We might do that,” was the general verdict.
“But then we ought to be called Ministers,” suggested Conrads.
“Of course!” chorussed the rest.
“In that case, I suppose I shall be Minister of War?” asked Bauer.
“Certainly.”
“And I of Agriculture?” asked Conrads.
“Very good, too.”
“Marbaise for Finance.”
“And whom shall we have for Home Affairs?”
“It seems to me that wouldn’t be a bad thing for you, tailor,” put in Bloemstein, addressing Councillor Holzert.
“I have no objection,” replied the latter; “but I’d just like to say something too.”
“Councillor Holzert will now address the meeting.”
A sudden silence fell on the assembly; all were straining their ears to hear what thoughts had arisen in the tailor’s shrewd brain. Speaking slowly, and emphasising every word, he began,—
“We must have stamps made—big stamps, with your head on them, Bloemstein; and then we’ll send a letter, with a stamp like that on it, you understand, not to the Emperor of Prussia, but to Bismarck, because, after all, he’s the fellow that does everything; and you must write in that letter, just to rile him, that we are going to let all the priests and Jesuits he has driven out come freely into our country.”
“But only on condition that they brew no beer,” interrupted the brewer, Klessens.
The tailor made believe not to have heard this interested remark, and ended his speech with the question, “What do you think of that idea?”
“Bravo, bravo!” cried all; and “You’re a sharp lad; you’re a clever fellow,” added the chairman of the meeting, as he passed his hand complacently over the head whose portrait was shortly to be sent to the Chancellor of the German Empire.
“We haven’t done yet,” continued Holzert; “we have still to find out how we’re going to put your head on the stamps,—with a beard, with a moustache only, or without anything at all.”
“Why, you do think of everything, tailor!” observed Marbaise.
Bauer declared that there could be no two opinions on the point—“With a moustache, that’s quite military,” and, as he spoke, he twisted the ends of his own.
“But I don’t think it would look very well—a red moustache,” objected Marbaise.
“Why, what does that matter? You can’t see it in the picture,” returned Conrads. “Bismarck has a white one.”
“I don’t quite know whether you’re right,” began Holzert again; “just look at Napoleon,—I mean the great Napoleon,—he’s got nothing, no beard and no moustache, and yet he sent the Prussians to the right-about, time and again; but what do you think about it yourself, Bloemstein?”
“Well, what am I to say to you? A beard is not respectable, and I shall have mine shaved off; then we can see if the moustache alone looks well; and if that is not the case, I’ll have that taken off too.”
All thought this an excellent idea.
“Don’t get shaved here, though. You’d better have that done at Aix-la-Chapelle, and then you can get yourself taken at the same time for the stamps.”
“Among the Prussians? Never! as long as I live. I’ll never help them to earn a cent,” thundered Bloemstein.
“In Maastricht, then,” suggested another.
“All right. I’ll have it done on Monday. Has any one anything more to say to the meeting?”
They looked at each other, but no one broke the silence.
“No one’s got nothing, then?”
“Just wait a minute,” cried Conrads. “You ought to have a crown, Bloemstein.”
“A crown?—that’s expensive.”
“Nonsense; have one made of brass, and well polished up, then it will shine just as if it were gold.”
“Then we ought to have Ministers’ uniforms. I’ll make them as cheap and as quickly as possible,” said the tailor-Minister; “and then I’ll make a long cloak for you, Bloemstein.”
“If the gentlemen will allow, I’ve something more to say,” said Marbaise.
“It’s Marbaise’s turn to speak.”
“We ought to forbid all Altenet girls marrying Prussians.”
“What about my Marieke, who’s courting with the Prussian doctor?” was Bloemstein’s terrified reply. “What a set-out my daughter will make—and, above all, my wife, when I tell them that.”
“Then you must just say that our country doesn’t permit it,” and the whole assembly nodded in token of assent.
“Oh, Lord!” groaned the unlucky President; “it’s the hardest thing you could ask me to do.”
“Our country! the Republic! the Independent Republic!” cried the others, wagging their heads hither and thither, shrugging up their shoulders, and holding out their hands with all their fingers extended in air.
“BOTH WALKED ON IN SILENCE.”
Here the weighty deliberations came to an end; and thereupon the President and his Ministers slowly proceeded homewards.
Holzert escorted the newly appointed ruler to his dwelling. For a considerable time both walked on in silence. At last the tailor spoke:
“Bloemstein,” he began, “if your Marieke is not to marry the Prussian doctor, ... in that case ... I’d like to have her. I always had a liking for the girl; but I couldn’t say anything; ... but now I’m Minister of the Interior, ... that sounds fine, eh? ... that’s something.... I think perhaps it might do.”
“Why, my good fellow, I’ve nothing against you. You always were a clever chap, and you’ve shown it again with those stamps. It would be a good enough idea; ... but—Marieke! and then my wife!”
“But, after all, you’re the master. Why, you’re the king of everything in the place! You must put on a bold face, and stand firm!”
“Very well, lad, I’ll try.”
With wrathful strides, his head well thrown back, and his hand resting on the front of his ample waistcoat, Bloemstein entered his own house.
Marieke sprang to meet him, embraced him cordially, and then said, “Father, I’ve just had a letter from Heinrich, he’s coming to dinner with us to-morrow.”
“I’m very sorry, child; but this marriage with the Prussian doctor can’t come to anything. I’ve another husband for you. You’re to marry my Minister of the Interior.”
“Whom do you say I am to marry?”
“My Minister of the Interior.”
“Who’s that?”
“Mr Holzert.”
“The crooked tailor! what a joke! I didn’t know you could be so funny, father!”
“It’s no joke; it’s quite serious, Marieke!” and he recounted all that had taken place at the meeting.
Marieke, however, was not convinced. “I won’t have him!” she cried, and stamped her little foot on the ground;—“and if you say I must, I’ll never marry at all!—there! ... I’ll go and tell mother about it!”
Bloemstein did not await the arrival of his better half. Under pretext of urgent business, the ruler of all Altenet, except his own house, hastily escaped up the street, and did not return home till late in the evening.
On the following day—it was Sunday—all Altenet was clean turned upside down.
Bauer had summoned all his riflemen, as soon as high mass was over, and they assembled in full uniform at the tavern kept by the Minister of Finance.
In a vigorous and pithy speech,—which he had been thinking over all night,—he explained to his troops the danger which threatened the country.
His manly language carried his audience with him. The shout, “We’ll conquer or die!” raised by the Minister of War, was loudly echoed by every one; and in order still further to raise their courage, they all added, “Another drop all round!” which was poured out by the Minister of Finance in his shirt-sleeves, and with fingers trembling with emotion.
“And now,” yelled Bauer, “we’re going to make a military march along the Prussian frontier, and then all that canaille can see that we’re not afraid of them. Marbaise—you with the drum, your eldest boy with the accordeon, and the other with the trumpet in front,—you three are the band. Then you, Ummels, with the flag; and you, Gradus, with the bird; and then we, the people!”
However, it was a considerable time before all of them had left the tavern and taken up their positions.
They were a peculiar-looking troop, of about a hundred and twenty men; mostly broad-shouldered fellows, though not tall—a kind of build common to most miners. They wore all possible costumes, of all sorts of colours; check trousers and black coats—blue blouses, long, short, new, or half-worn;—suits of cloth, wool or linen—here and there a hero marching in sabots. The majority were armed with old-fashioned bell-mouthed blunderbusses; some, the tallest of the lot, were provided with double-barrelled fowling-pieces, which at once branded them as poachers.
“CAUSED THEM TO GO THROUGH ALL POSSIBLE MANŒUVRES.”
All, however, had the same head-covering—a green cap, with yellow braid,—and all had wooden pipes in their mouths. The flag matched the caps—white and yellowish green. The place next to the flag was occupied by the silver bird, hung round with all the gold and silver medals worn by the Altenetters in shooting competitions.
“Look out!” cried Bauer, who, in token of his exalted position was hung round with a string of small silver plates of different shapes and sizes, and who, besides, showed his superior dignity by smoking, not a pipe like the rest, but a cigar of immense length and thickness, which had cost him two cents and a half.
All placed themselves in position.
“Right-about-face, and along the cinder path to the Prussian frontier. Band, advance!”
They advanced, with drum beating and accordeon chirping. Just in full view of the German officials, who had come out to ascertain the cause of the approaching noise, Bauer called a halt. Then he caused them to go through all possible manœuvres, shoulder arms, port arms,—but not “present”—that he would never do “for those pig-dogs of Prussians.”
These evolutions did not appear to command any particular admiration on the part of the Germans; pitying smiles were seen to pass over their countenances, and when at the command “Right-about-face!” half the company turned to the left, so that the soldiers of Altenet stood facing each other, they burst into a roar of laughter, which so aroused the wrath of Klaos Drehmans (who had spent some years at Sittard), that he stepped out of the ranks, and snorted defiance at the principal custom-house clerk as follows:—
“You! do you know what you are? you’re a regular nuisance!” while another member of the Altenet militia yelled at the top of his voice, quite at a loss for a worse epithet, “Oh! thou accursed Prussian of a Prussian!”
It was truly a triumphal march when the Republican army returned from this glorious campaign; the inhabitants uttered loud cries of joy, alternating with abuse of the cowardly Prussian lot.
Bloemstein stood, proudly defiant, in the full consciousness of his presidential dignity, on the “stoop” of his house. And when the standard-bearer had waved his flag three times over his head in the President’s honour, and then tossed it on high, the President smiled very genially, and waved back a salute with his hand, blowing thick clouds of smoke the while from his long German pipe, a proceeding which elicited thundering “hurrahs” from assembled Altenet.
The only Altenetters who had not been able to witness this sublime spectacle were Bloemstein’s wife and daughter; they had walked out to meet Dr Olthausen coming from Aix-la-Chapelle, and fell in with him near the village of Vaals.
After the usual salutations, Marieke related to her betrothed all the changes which had taken place in the government of Altenet, and also her father’s resolution to marry her to the Minister of the Interior. At this part of the story the mother clenched her fists, her eyes flashed fire, and she said, threateningly, “Just let the fellow come into our house, and I’ll make him repent his Affairs of the Interior.”
To the great surprise of both ladies, Olthausen did not appear to be angry; on the contrary, he began to laugh loudly, and seemed especially diverted by the story of the postage-stamps.
“We’ll have a regular good joke out of that,” he said, still laughing; “but I won’t come to dinner with you to-day.”
“Are you afraid of Bloemstein?” asked the mother. “Because you needn’t be; I shall be at dinner too.”
“No, I’m not afraid of him—only of laughing more than I ought.”
“Never mind that; laugh at him as he deserves, and we’ll laugh too, won’t we, Marieke?”
“Nein, liebes Madamchen,” returned the doctor, “it will be better if I don’t come—we’ll have some dinner here.”
“JUST LET THE FELLOW COME INTO OUR HOUSE.”
He went with the two women into the nearest eating-house in the village and ordered dinner, also two sheets of paper and an envelope. While the ladies were dining, he wrote a letter on one sheet, slowly and carefully, with beautiful round letters, then dashed off another more hastily, and enclosed both in one envelope, which he stamped and addressed to “Herrn Oscar Olthausen, Rechtsanwalt, Berlin.” He then directed Marieke to wait till her father was about to send away the letters with the new Altenet stamps. “Then you must keep back the one addressed to Bismarck, and post this in place of it; and then I assure you that everything will come right, without you or your mother getting into any trouble with the old gentleman.”
They remained chatting for some little time longer, and then Dr Olthausen took his leave and returned to Aix-la-Chapelle.
Early on the following day Drikus the First set out for Limburg’s metropolis. Arrived there, he turned his steps towards the barber’s shop. A young shopman came to meet him, and politely relieved him of his coat and hat.
“See here, lad,” began Bloemstein, “did you ever shave a president?”
“Why, yes, sir; only yesterday the President of the Congregation of the Sacred Heart.”
“No, I don’t mean one like that; I mean a great president.”
“Oh, the one of the great club?”
“No—greater still.”
“The President of the Tribunal, then?”
“No; greater still—a president of a republic!”
“Of a republic, you say? No, I never shaved one—never in my life!”
“Do you know what he looks like?”
“Why, yes—like a gentleman.”
“Very good, my boy; I see you understand. Now, that’s the way you’ve got to shave me—for I’m one.”
“You a president of a republic? Ha! ha! ha!”
“What are you laughing at, boy?”
“Because you’re trying to make a fool of me.”
“Indeed and I’m not. I’m Drikus the First, President of the Independent Republic of Altenet.”
The lad laughed no longer; he looked round in alarm, convinced that he had a madman in the room with him.
“Shave my beard off!” commanded Bloemstein.
“Very well, Mr ... President.”
“À la bonne heure, my lad! I like that—you know how to behave.”
“SEE HERE, LAD, DID YOU EVER SHAVE A PRESIDENT?”
As speedily as possible the wish of this strange customer was gratified.
“Now just wait a bit, my boy. I must see how the moustache looks by itself,” and the ruler of the republic placed himself before the mirror.
He remained for some time lost in admiration, then began to turn the points of his moustache first up and then down.
“What do you think of it, lad? Is it good enough for a president of a republic?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hold your tongue, then, can’t you?”
“Very good, Mr ... President ... as you please.”
Suddenly honest Bloemstein turned round and fairly snorted at the poor youth. “Just shave this side off,” he blustered, pointing to the right half of his countenance.
The youthful Figaro hastened to comply, having heard that a madman must not be contradicted or he may become violent. His request having been complied with, the President rose in order to admire himself in the mirror. He covered first one and then the other half of his face with one hand, in order to convince himself which style was most becoming to the presidential dignity.
The attractions of the clean-shaven half at length prevailed, and the last remaining hair was removed.
“What have you got to get?” asked Bloemstein, when this was done.
“Ten centimes ... Mr President.”
“There are two groschen for you.”
“I have to give you two centimes change.”
“Never mind that—you may keep them. A president of a republic has nothing mean about him.”
And with a proud and stately demeanour he departed in the direction of the photographer’s. Scarcely had he left the barber’s, when the boy hastened to the police-office, to relate how he had just been shaving a fellow who must certainly have just escaped from the lunatic asylum, for he had told him quite seriously that he was the president of a republic. A policeman started immediately with the terrified barber’s boy to search the streets of Maastricht for the lunatic.
It was, however, in vain. Bloemstein had already entered the studio of a neighbouring photographer, muttering, “I shall have to explain myself differently here. It seems as though these Maastricht people had never heard of the president of a republic.”
When the photographer appeared, he accordingly delivered himself as follows: “I want my photograph taken, but it must be properly done, for I am a king.”
“Very good, sir. Shall I give you a gun, then, or do you prefer a bow?”
“A gun!—a bow! What for?”
“Why, I’ve photographed a whole number of kings, and they——”
“Ah! you know how to do it then?”
“Of course I do.”
“What kings have you taken?”
“Why, only yesterday the Gronsveld one, and a few days ago one from Neer-Itteren.”
“How—what—kings of Gronsveld and Neer-Itteren?”
“Yes, of course—those of the archery competition.”
“You confounded idiot!—did I get shaved for that? Do I look like a king of the archery competition? Why, I am king of a country—of a republic—an independent republic! Do you understand now?”
“Oh heavens!” cried the artist to himself, “the fellow is certainly touched in the upper storey, and I shall have to look out, or he’ll knock the whole shop to pieces.” He made his visitor a low bow, and said,—
“Very pleased, sir, to be honoured with your custom. May I ask your Majesty to take a seat.... How would you like your portrait, full-length, or bust only?”
“Nothing but the bust; it’s for the stamps of the country, do you understand?”
“Certainly, certainly, sir, and will you kindly look through this thing?”
“NOW YOU CAN GO AHEAD.”
“Very good, but remember that I want it to look respectable—do you hear? ... And just wait a bit—I must see if my hair is all right;” and he hastened to the looking-glass, moistened his palms, smoothed his head with them, and took his place, with a last self-satisfied look at his own image.
“Now you can go ahead.”
The photographer placed himself in front of his apparatus, and declared, a moment later, that the picture was a splendid success, notwithstanding the fact that it was impossible to pronounce on that point with any degree of certainty, since he had not the courage to go into the dark room and leave his eccentric customer alone.
“When will they be finished?” asked Bloemstein.
“Oh! as soon as your Majesty likes to have them.”
“Can I have them next week? All right then, just send them to Drikus the First, King of the Independent Republic of Altenet.”
“I’ll do so without fail, your Majesty.”
“If they turn out well, I’ll come back and bring my wife the queen, and my daughter the princess; and I’ll give you leave to hang out a fine gilt signboard with your own name on it, and after that ‘Photographer to the King of the Republic of Altenet.’”
“I’ll do my best, your Majesty.”
The photographer too, immediately after his visitor’s departure, hastened away to the temple of Justice, with the tidings that a fellow as mad as a hatter, calling himself king of a republic, had just been at his studio. Another gendarme was at once sent in pursuit.
Meanwhile the object of their solicitude had entered the church of St Servaas. It had struck him that, since his august head ought certainly to be adorned with a crown, he might here find a pattern for the same in painting or sculpture. He remained standing a long time before a picture representing the Adoration of the Magi, but none of the three crowns worn by those royal personages suited his fancy. “They haven’t got points enough,” he muttered, and searched further, but in vain, till at last he came to a statue of the Madonna, which realised his ideal. There was the crown he had always imagined—with points standing straight up all round it.
He delayed not a moment, but hastened out into the street, and entered the first coppersmith’s shop he came to.
“Can you make me a crown like Our Lady’s in St Servaas’s?” he asked.
“Oh! yes, sir. What size do you want it?”
“HIS AUGUST HEAD OUGHT CERTAINLY TO BE ADORNED WITH A CROWN.”
“As big as my head; you can take the measure now.”
“What for? You don’t want to wear it, do you?”
“Of course I do—nothing is more certain.”
“Sir, are you mad? or might you happen to be a Freemason?”
“Mad! mad! Mad yourself, fellow!”
“Just wait a bit, and I’ll show you which of us is mad!” and before the poor president could assume a defensive attitude, the smith had seized him and thrown him into the street.
This roused Bloemstein’s wrath, and his objurgations speedily collected a crowd in the street.
“There he is!” a voice cried suddenly, echoed by “Now you’ve got him!” from another quarter, as the barber’s boy and the photographer appeared on the scene, escorted by a policeman apiece. In the twinkling of an eye the two officials had mastered the furious president, and in spite of his vigorous resistance, and his protestation that, as President of Altenet, his person was inviolable, the unhappy man was lugged off to the little dark hole known to the population of Maastricht as “the larder.”
“What is your name?” was the first question asked him by the police commissioner.
“You might ask it a little more civilly,” was the reply.
The commissioner immediately complied with this request.
“Will you be so kind as to tell me whom I have the honour of speaking to?”
“That’s the proper way to speak, and now I shall answer you. I am Wullem Drikus Bloemstein, President of the Independent Republic of Altenet.”
“And where do you live?”
“Well, I should have thought you had no need to ask. At Altenet, the capital of the Republic of Altenet.”
“Thank you.”
One of the inspectors was immediately despatched to Altenet to make inquiries on the spot as to the personality of the prisoner.
“THERE HE IS!”
The officer returned the same day, with the tidings that all Altenet was one great lunatic asylum; that every human being he had met and spoken to there was even madder than the one who had been caught; everything he had seen and heard was sheer nonsense and delirium, and so he had been obliged to return as he came.
Medical aid was summoned, but all in vain; the gentlemen were unable to agree, one asserting that the patient was suffering from aberratio mentalis, while another thought things were not so bad as that.
“After all, what business is it of ours?” said one at last. “Send him back to his home, and let them settle it among themselves.”
This counsel met with unanimous approbation, and was, in fact, the most practical, and at the same time the easiest, way of disposing of the prisoner.
Bloemstein was furious; and when the gendarmes who escorted him took leave of him at the frontier, he was almost beside himself with rage. He would have liked to take them with him into his dominions, where he was undisputed lord and master; he would then have summoned the commander of the local rifles, and ordered him to shut up the Maastricht officials for a whole day in the cellar below the council-chamber. But, alas! fate was against him, he could not gratify his desire for vengeance; but being forced to relieve his feelings in some way, he did so by indignantly shouting after their retreating figures, “You Dutch cheese-heads, you!”
With hasty steps he forthwith sought his chief counsellor, the Minister for Home Affairs, the tailor Holzert. In excited language, and with wild gestures, he related the story of the outrage suffered by him at Maastricht, and asked, in conclusion, “What are we to do?”
The tailor put his hand to his head, and remained for some little time lost in thought.
“What are we to do?” repeated Bloemstein; “we can’t let a thing like that pass.”
“What are we to do?” replied Holzert, speaking slowly and solemnly. “Why, we must declare war against Holland.”
“Declare war against Holland?”
“Yes.”
“And what for?”
“For high treason.”
“You’re right, you’re right; we must send for Bauer at once.”
“No, not so fast; we must have the stamps first, with your head on them, and then the Hollanders can see whom they have to deal with.”
“You’re right again, tailor,” said Drikus I., flattered not a little by these words.
“Besides that, I haven’t finished the ministers’ suits yet, and we can do nothing without them; everything has got to be respectable.”
“Of course.”
During the next few days an unheard-of political commotion prevailed in the usually calm atmosphere of Altenet.
Every evening, when work was over, Bauer’s rifles assembled in the Minister of Finance’s public-house, in order to exchange ideas as to the coming war with Holland.
Guesses were given as to where the first battle would be fought, and calculations were made as to how soon they would be before the gates of Amsterdam, and how many thousand millions they would make the Dutch pay as war indemnity.
Bloemstein, meanwhile, wrote innumerable letters to all the powers of Europe, to give them notice of his accession. All of them were enclosed in large square envelopes, and laid out in a long row on the table.
“And when once I’ve stuck on the stamps, with my head on them, why, then, I shall be no end of a fellow, Marieke,” he repeatedly remarked to his daughter.
The portraits, however, did not arrive.
“WROTE INNUMERABLE LETTERS TO ALL THE POWERS OF EUROPE.”
After the lapse of a fortnight, Bloemstein’s ploughman—for he had no intention of going to Maastricht again himself—was sent to the photographer’s, to ask whether the portraits of the President of the Republic of Altenet were not yet ready.
“Do you really want them?—seriously?” inquired the artist.
“I suppose so, seeing as how I had to come here a-purpose.”
“Very well, I’ll send them next week.”
At the appointed time the impatiently awaited packet at last arrived at the house of Altenet’s ruler. Something else arrived as well,—the long royal mantle promised by the tailor, richly ornamented with gold fringe.
Bloemstein was quite excited with joy. Without a moment’s delay he flung the royal insignia round his shoulders, and then stood before the mirror, admiring his front and back view by turns. He was satisfied—perfectly and entirely satisfied—both with the garment and him who wore it!
“The other fellows must see that too! Thunder! how they’ll stare!”
Immediately Bloemstein’s man was sent to summon the council, and before long Marbaise, Klessens, Conrads, Bauer, and Holzert entered—all clad in their uniforms, consisting of long coats trimmed with gold lace, knee-breeches, long woollen stockings of a doubtful white, and swords dangling at their sides.
It was quite evident that Holzert had given his whole time and attention to the job, as was, moreover, irrefutably proved by an unexpected incident.
When all were gathered round the big table, loudly uttering their admiration of their ruler’s portrait, long Kwoib Hermes suddenly rushed into the room, in his red baize drawers, with the tails of a blue shirt fluttering above them, and shouted aloud—“Thou accursed tailor, where are my trousers? I must go to early mass to-morrow, and I have no trousers!”
“You shall have them to-morrow; to-morrow morning early, Kwoib,” replied the indignant tradesman.
“No, I want them to-night. You’ve promised me them all the week, and I’m going to have those trousers of mine to-night.”
“Man, don’t make such a scandalous row! Just think where you are—before the ministers of the republican council!”
“The ministers and the council and the whole republic may be stolen, for all I care! I want my trousers, and I’m not going away from here before I get them.” And therewith he took a chair, and seated himself among the ministers of the crown.
“Will you get out or not?” asked Bauer, threateningly.
“No; I’m not going before I get my trousers.”
Suddenly Bloemstein heard the steps of his wife and daughter, who were coming to see what the noise was. Fearing that they might come in for this unseemly spectacle, he thrust the intruder into the next room, with the words, “There; you’ll find some trousers in there; just put them on in the meantime.”
Not long after, Hermes appeared in a garment much too short for him, which, however, by way of compensation, was also a great deal too wide.
The assembly was now able to finish its deliberations in peace and quiet. The portraits having been unanimously approved of, No. 2 of the Agenda came up for discussion. This was, “Declaration of war against Holland on the ground of high treason.” The debate was lively and confused.
Bauer wanted to summon his men at once, surprise Maastricht the same night, take the garrison prisoners, and march farther into the country.
Conrads, on the other hand, could see no good in such incautious haste. “Let’s wait till we get the corn in; then we can bake bread for our men through the war.”
“No need of that!” shouted Bauer. “We’ll get all the bread we want from the Dutch.”
Holzert was inclined to agree with Conrads, but for other reasons. “We must ask for explanations first; that’s always the way,” he declared. “We ought to give them time to investigate the outrage committed on our president, and make their apologies. Besides that,” he added, “till we have stamps of our own we can’t declare war.”
“That’s true, that’s true!” cried several voices, “it would never do to declare war on Holland with Prussian stamps.”
“Very well, then,” raged Bauer, “but you must get them made directly, Bloemstein!”
“I’ll promise that,” replied the President.
Herewith the solemn session concluded.
A few weeks later the longed-for stamps appeared. They looked neat enough. A striking likeness of Bloemstein was surrounded by a garland of intertwined spades and pickaxes—symbols of labour—and above, in good bold letters, ALTENET.
There were blue, red, and green ones—of one, two, and three groschen respectively.
“Marieke! Marieke!” cried the delighted Bloemstein. “Come here, child; I’ve something to show you. What do you think of that?”
“Oh, quite beautiful, father!”
“Really, child?”
“And will they be sent to all the kings and emperors—all in the whole world?”
“All in the whole world.”
“To Bismarck too?”
“He’s going to get one as well; but it won’t please him, I assure you, Marieke.”
“Now you’ll need to send them off at once; may I help you to put the stamps on?”
“Surely, Marieke.”
The father and daughter sat down before the table, on which lay the long row of already written letters.
“Here’s Bismarck’s!” cried the girl suddenly.
“Put double stamps on that,” said Bloemstein.
Instead of obeying this order, Marieke contrived to slip the letter into her pocket.
“Shall I take them to the post-office now, father?”
“Yes, do, child—only mind you don’t lose any, specially the one to Bismarck.”
“You needn’t be afraid,” and she skipped out of the room to fetch her hat, and perhaps also the letter she had received from her fiancé.
It was not long before an answer came from Berlin.
Bloemstein summoned his faithful councillors at once, in order to open the official document in their midst. The ministers hastened to the council-chamber, as fast as their legs could carry them. They took up positions behind their President, and stuck their heads together, trying to see with their own eyes the answer from the German Empire.
With trembling hand Bloemstein opened the missive, and in a voice quivering with emotion, he began to read, in German:—
“Verehrter Herr Präsident.
“In reply to your letter, I have received orders from my Emperor to declare war on your Republic, and send off an army of 150,000 men to the frontier, because—
“1. You have caused postage-stamps to be made without permission from the German Government.
“2. It is known to us that you have been taking upon yourself to oppose your daughter’s marriage to our loyal subject, Dr Heinrich Olthausen.
“3. You want to force that charming and lovely girl to marry an objectionable, crooked tailor.
“We give you a week to comply with our conditions.
“Bismarck.”
There was a moment’s painful silence. There it was, in great fat round letters—“Bismarck.” There was no possible doubt about it.
“DECLARE WAR!”
“The confounded low Schwerenöther of a Prussian!” yelled Holzert at last, crimson with passion, and quivering on his little bow-legs. “Declare war, Bloemstein! declare war!” he went on. “Let them come, the low canaille! we’ll blow up the mine as soon as they get on top of it, and then there’ll be an end of them!” and suddenly turning to the Minister of War, he added, “Bauer, how many men have you?”
“HASTENED TO THE COUNCIL-CHAMBER.”
“A hundred and twenty-three, counting the band,” was the answer.
“That’s not one to a thousand,” suggested Conrads; “and besides that, we’ve got the war with Holland on our hands,—it won’t do—it won’t do! What do you think yourself, Bauer?”
“What I think? I think you’re a coward, Conrads, to talk so—a coward, do you understand? Conquer or die, that’s our cry!”
“Yes, but we can’t conquer, and dying isn’t much good. Holzert won’t get his Marieke by it if we do!”
“But in that case the Prussian pig-dog won’t have her either!” shouted Holzert, banging the table with his fists.
At this, however, Bloemstein’s paternal feelings revolted. His daughter, his pretty Marieke—dead! No, he would rather see her married to the Prussian doctor, for the Prussians were not so bad after all! Nay, they even knew how to appreciate beauty—had not Bismarck himself written that she was a “charming, lovely girl”?
Klessens also was for peace, and so was Marbaise. “Against 150,000 Prussians,” said the latter, “and a few thousand Hollanders on top of those, you, Bauer, with your hundred and twenty men——”
“A hundred and twenty-three!” interrupted the commander of the Altenet forces.
“Well, a hundred and twenty-three, if you like—but you can’t do anything with them!”
A great deal more talking and shouting took place, and at last the President determined to end the debate by putting the question to the vote.
“War!” yelled Holzert. “Peace!” “Peace!” “Peace!” muttered Conrads, Marbaise, and Klessens, in succession.
“War!” thundered Bauer; and “I’m for peace,” said the President in conclusion.
Peace was therefore resolved on by a majority of two votes.
Several months have passed. The miners are at work again; the farmer is ploughing his fields; the lark sings high in air; the Altenet postage-stamps have been destroyed; and Marieke is the happy wife of Dr Olthausen.
No answer was ever received from the rest of the kings and emperors,—it is just possible that Marieke may have forgotten to post the letters entrusted to her care.
L. H. J. Lamberts-Hurrelbrinck.
NEWSPAPER HUMOUR.
“Look here, waiter!” cried a gentleman in a restaurant, “here’s a hair in my soup!”
For all answer and excuse, the waiter removed his cap, showing a head as bare and smooth as a billiard ball.
“Yes, I see,” resumed the customer, “I see it was your last hair; that’s all right, it will never happen again!”
“So you’ve written a play, M. Vermorcken?”
“Yes, my friend, I have that honour.”
“And it is quite finished?”
“Yes—no—yes; that is to say, not the play itself, yet—but my speech, that I am to make, when I thank them for calling me out on the stage.”
FICTION AT SEA.
It is quiet now on deck. The singing forward has ceased, the watch is set, and the larboard watch, who are to come on at midnight, are below—including the tall corporal of marines, whom we heard just now singing bass. But the little monkey of a boy, who took the tenor part in “O Julia!” belongs to the starboard watch, and now has another occupation on hand.
Seated on a tub turned upside down, close to the foremast, he is reading aloud, by the light of a lantern, out of an “awfully fine” book.
The boy (his name is Jozef) can read “real first-rate”; and from each of the listeners seated round him he is to receive the sum of two cents.
The book which he now has before him, and which is covered with oil-stains, because he has to hold it so close to the lantern,—the book which is so “awfully fine,” is entitled “Count Matatskai; or, The Bandit with the Grey Beard: A Story from the Mountains.”
Count Matatskai is a youthful nobleman who has fallen in love with a mountain maiden, the beautiful but fierce Krimhelia, daughter of a chamois-hunter. After various meetings on the rocks by moonlight, with a faithful old servitor incognito in the background, Krimhelia makes up her mind to accept the Count’s love, and fly with him to a distant country, where counts and the daughters of chamois-hunters stand precisely on the same social footing. But now a difficulty occurs, and it is this: Krimhelia has sworn an oath to avenge the death of her father, who has been killed in a fight with the band commanded by the Grey-Bearded Brigand.
This is the point Jozef has reached in the story. Several of his audience have already dropped asleep; but the reader does not notice it—he is too much absorbed in his narrative,—and continues, in his “first-rate” manner, which—heard at a distance—reminds one of nothing so much as of the soft but continuous murmur of a babbling brook—commas and other stops being, in this method, so entirely left in the background, or else occurring in such remarkable places, that a reporter would have been forced to reproduce his text somewhat as follows:—
“Krimhelia looked the Count straight in the face.
“Look at me Count said she do you see this glittering dagger as sure as the moon, hangs yonder in heaven and illuminates my pale features so surely will I thrust this, dagger into the heart of the Bandit, with the Grey Beard first and before I throw myself as your consort into your arms but why so pale Count and why do you tremble so?”
Now Jozef is interrupted by the master-tailor, a thin, little man, of whom it is commonly said on board that he knows a thing or two more than most people.
“Now, I know,” says he, in his piping voice.
“What d’ye know?” asks the boatswain, who has little or no opinion of the master-tailor.
“As how the gentleman—the Count, I mean—and the other,—the Bandit with the Grey Beard,—that both of them are one and the same man.”
“Well, you calico-spoiler—you know that, do you? Well—I know that too, and all of us know it right enough; but you needn’t take another man’s share in the reading for all that. Go ahead, boy!”
The master-tailor is looked at with contempt from various quarters, and Jozef pursues his reading with a chapter describing how Count Matatskai comes home in a bad temper.
“The Count threw himself down on a couch adorned with costly velvet, relieve me of my riding-boots—thus he spoke to the grey-headed old servant Gabario who, brought him a silver goblet with sparkling wine saying, that this was his favourite wine from the great vineyard south of the castle but, the Count made a gesture of refusal with his left hand and said me liketh no wine Gabario avaunt and saddle—my horse!”
This was the end of the chapter, and Jozef took breath.
“It’s a capital thing,” said the boatswain, “when a man can have the things for the ordering in that way. What comes next, Jozef?”
The boatswain is beginning to feel sleepy, and would therefore like Jozef to tell him the end at once; but this Jozef is by no means inclined to do,—he goes ahead valiantly, and by degrees, though he does not observe it, his whole audience drops asleep. At last, when he has reached the closing scene, there is no one to listen to it but the master-tailor, who can scarcely keep his small grey eyes open.
“Just hear this, now!” says Jozef, who—though he has read the book through twice before—is as enthusiastic over this passage as the first time. “Now you must listen! Now the Count is sitting up alone in the rocks, in a ... cavern, they call it, ... and now he is the Bandit with the Grey Beard; and the other robbers are sitting in the back of the cavern round a great big fire, and some of them are lying asleep, and the others are roasting great pieces of meat at the fire, and they’re drinking wine with it ... out of gold cups that they’ve stolen.... But the Bandit with the Grey Beard— ... he’s sitting all by himself, you see,—and now Krimhelia comes in—you know—the young lady he thinks so much of.”
And Jozef resumes his reading—how Krimhelia approaches, cautiously, with the glittering dagger; how the Grey-Bearded Bandit, looking up, suddenly sees her standing behind him; how Krimhelia seizes him by the beard and drives the dagger into his heart; and how, at the same moment, the long grey beard comes off in her hand, and she looks with horror on the “pallid dying countenance” of Count Matatskai.
Now follows a dialogue between the dying bandit chief and the “almost fainting” Krimhelia, who is “filled with consternation”; in the course of which the tailor finally closes his eyes unobserved.
Now comes the closing scene; the other robbers come out from behind the fire, Krimhelia takes to flight, and climbs to the top of a steep dark rock on the edge of a “yawning abyss.”
As Jozef reads, he bends over his book, leans his head on his hands, and sees the whole thing taking place before his eyes. He sees Krimhelia standing on the top of the rock. The day is breaking in the east. The robbers are pursuing her, and begin to climb the rock....
Jozef reads on,—at a passionately accelerated pace, and with the most singular stops imaginable:—
“There she stood proudly—like a queen with her long, loose hair and her shining white face standing out sharply against the red sunrise-tinted sky with horror—she saw in the unfathomable depth at her feet the bandits approaching. Already the foremost was stretching out his hand to seize her and she saw, the morning-light falling on his horrible features when suddenly, her ear was struck by a sound of men’s voices singing beneath her in the valley she listens, it is the morning song of her brothers, she lifts her hands skywards and looks up to the paling moon and the stars ‘Ic-come’! she cries” (all in one word) “... and with a HOARSE shriek she flings herself down into the abyss at the same moment the Bandit Chief drew his last breath and the Count Matatskai was no more THE END.”
“That’s all!” said Jozef. “That’s fine, ain’t it? ... Oh! lor! ... they’re all asleep.”
Jozef cannot at once get over a slight feeling of indignation against an audience, capable of dropping-off “in the middle of a bit like that,”—but as it is not an isolated experience on his part, he soon makes up his mind to pay no further attention to it. He takes the lantern away, goes forward, and lies down on the deck with the oil-stained book under his head—looking up at the moon right above him, and beginning to see, in the air, all sorts of figures, which gradually acquire a likeness to Count Matatskai and the “young lady he thinks so much of.”
A. Werumeus Buning.
NEWSPAPER HUMOUR.
From Sad Experience.
She—“Do tell me, how do you know the age of a horse you want to buy?”
He—“Nothing easier; you just double the age the dealer gives him.”
Professor (at a clinical lecture)—“This patient has been suffering from a disease of the hip-joint, so that he still walks lame to an appreciable extent. What would you, sir” (to one of the students), “do in such a case?”
Student—“I think, in that case, I should walk lame too, sir.”
Natural History.
Master—“The development and improvement of race has not only shown itself among mankind, but may clearly be observed among the lower animals. Who can give me an example of this?”
FROM SAD EXPERIENCE.
Janneke Snobs—“I, sir.”
M.—“In what sort of animals?”
J. S.—“Among asses, sir.”
M.—“How so?”
J. S.—“Why, in Balaam’s time, asses were only just beginning to speak, and yesterday I heard M. Snugger say that there are plenty of asses sitting in the Chamber of Deputies.”
History.
Master—“In what battle was Gustav Adolf killed?”
Janneke Snobs—“In his last battle, I believe, sir.”
Precautions.
Many centuries ago, the gallows stood on the banks of the Scheldt; and once, when two thieves were to be hanged, the rope broke, as the first was being turned off, and let him into the water. He swam across the river, and escaped.
“Look out!” said the second to the executioner, “see that the rope does not break with me—for I can’t swim!”
A gentleman was buying a newspaper at a kiosk, and wanted change for a frank. “I have no change,” said the saleswoman; “you can pay me to-morrow.”
“But supposing I am dead by to-morrow?”
“Oh, that can’t be any great loss,” she replied, innocently.
A servant girl, writing home to her parents, said, “I am sorry I have no money to buy a stamp for this letter; I will put two on the next.”
Uilenspiegel.
“A GENTLEMAN WAS BUYING A PAPER AT A KIOSK.”
In Court.
Judge—“Is this your signature?”
Witness—“I don’t know.”
Judge—“Look at it carefully.”
Witness—“I can’t say for certain.”
Judge (impatiently)—“Come, make haste, just write your name.”
Witness—“I’m no scholar, sir; I can’t write.”
Economy.
Father—“I should never have thought that studying would have cost so much money.”
Student-Son—“Yes; and if you only knew how little I have studied!”
Van Honsbœren, junior, one evening sat gazing at his father, when the latter had fallen asleep sitting by the stove.
“Father,” cried the little fellow, suddenly, “you look just like a lion!”
“A lion!” exclaimed Van Honsbœren, waking up, “why, you’ve never seen any lions.”
“Oh yes, father! on the beach at Blankenberghe.”
“You stupid boy, those were not lions, they were donkeys.”
“Well, those are what I mean!”
Snugger—“M. le Juge, I have been fined for letting my dog go about without a muzzle, and he certainly had one on.”
Judge—“The agent de police says your dog had no muzzle on.”
Snugger—“Indeed, he had one on, sir.”
Gendarme—“Yes, but he was not wearing it on his head.”
Snugger—“The regulations do not specify where a dog is to wear his muzzle—and so, to let the beast get his breath, I tied the muzzle to his tail.”
Judge—“Five francs fine. Next case!”
Snobs has bought a steam-engine, and was showing it to his friend Snugger yesterday.
“How many horse-power is that machine?” asked Snugger.
“Horse-power!” exclaimed Snobs, “don’t you see it goes by steam?”
Nothing is more uncomfortable for a woman who has to keep a secret than to find no one who is curious about it.
The human being who can pass a hoarding marked “Wet Paint,” without putting his finger on it to feel if the paint really is wet, possesses strength of will and self-control enough to rule a kingdom.
A lady having run against the freshly painted rail of a bridge, and carried off a considerable quantity of the paint on her dress, the bridge-keeper said to her consolingly,—
“Never mind, ma’am, they’re going to paint it again to-morrow, any way!”
FARMER GERRIT’S VISIT TO AMSTERDAM.
Gerrit Meeuwsen and his son Gijs, living in the depths of the country, in the Betuwe district (the old Batavian Island, between the Rhine and the Waal), have made up their minds—after long deliberation—for an expedition by rail to the Amsterdam kermis. As they have never left home before, preparations are made which suggest an Arctic voyage, and they take a solemn farewell of their friends and relations. The railway station is safely reached, after a drive of many miles; and Gerrit severs the last link, so to speak, by sending back Jan—the farm-man—with the trap.
“G’morning,” said father and son, at once.
“Good-morning, friends,” replied the station clerk, who was seated at a table doing sums.
Meeuwsen took off his great woollen gloves, hauled out his double-cased watch, and said, “Might it be about time for the railway to come?”
“Don’t know,” answered Gijs, who thought that his father was asking the question of him.
The clerk, a good-natured fellow, understanding that the question was addressed to him, replied, “Oh! I suppose you mean the train. Yes, that will be coming by very soon,—perhaps in thirteen, or fourteen, or fifteen minutes. Where do you want to go?”
“To Amsterdam,” replied Meeuwsen.
“Amsterdam—third-class?” asked the clerk.
“Third-class, what’s that?” returned Gerrit.
“Three classes, you know, my good friend,” the clerk explained; “first, second, and third. The first is the dearest, the second middling, and the third the cheapest.”
“Then the third won’t do for us, nor the second neither,” said Gerrit. “I always sit in the first seat at church in our village, for I be churchwarden.”[[16]]
“First-class?” asked the clerk, in surprise, “but—do you know——”
“Never you mind; I want first-class, do you hear?” said Gerrit.
“Well, it’s all the same to me,” said the clerk, rising. He went to the place where he kept the tickets, stamped two, and received the rich Betuwers money.
“Gracious! there’s the train!” cried the clerk, whose calculation of fifteen minutes had been rather too liberal. “Will you come out, please?”
Gerrit and Gijs, the latter carrying the carpet-bag, rushed out on to the platform, followed by the clerk. The approaching train seemed to the travellers to grow longer the more they looked at it, and, when it stopped, both father and son involuntarily took a step backwards.
Neither Gerrit nor Gijs knew exactly what happened to them next; but when they got back all their senses,—for the wind was blowing freshly in their faces,—they saw themselves in a carriage containing, besides themselves, two other passengers, and which allowed free passage to the wind on all sides.
“Bad weather for the money,” grumbled Gerrit.
“Why! come and sit over here,” cried one of their fellow-travellers, apparently a Jew, who was sitting on the opposite side of the carriage, with his back to the engine. “Sit here, on the first seat; you will be frozen to death over there.”
Gerrit looked at his son, and then both stumbled along the shaking carriage to the other end, and occupied the end seats.
“That’s a difference!” said Gijs, whose skin felt like that of a plucked chicken.
“Well, this does shake!” said Meeuwsen. “No!—that third-class is enough to kill one!”
Nathan, who was reading a book, which, as Gerrit could see, seemed to begin at the end and go backwards, did not speak again. The second travelling-companion had turned up the collar of his thick overcoat and was snoring; and our two gentlemen from Betuwe, having nothing to say to each other, were silent, and thought—what, no one ever will know.
After a few minutes’ run, a conductor appeared—whence, neither Gerrit nor Gijs could understand—and asked them, “Where for, gentlemen?”
“Gentlemen!” exclaimed Gerrit, with fine scorn, “that won’t go down with us!”
“Farmers, then!” said the conductor, “where for?”
Meeuwsen thought the fellow had no manners, and said, “I and my son for Amsterdam.”
“Show your tickets, please,” said the conductor.
Meeuwsen began to search for them.... “I’d put them away so carefully,” he remarked, while turning out all his pockets.
“Well, never mind,” resumed the conductor (he was very cold, and wanted to get back to his warm corner in the closed compartment), “you can show me them presently.”
“Very good,” replied Gerrit, who began to think the man was not so bad after all.
The conductor disappeared again, in the same mysterious fashion, and Gerrit suddenly remembered that he had put away the tickets inside his watch-case.
At every station, when the whistle of the engine was heard, Gijs was seized with consternation, thinking that a child or some other living creature had been run over. Every time the train stopped, the sons of Batavia prepared to alight, and each time they were politely stopped by Nathan, who told them they might just make their minds easy, for they had not got there yet. Gijs thereupon came to the conclusion that the journey would not be over so soon as the schoolmaster had led them to suppose.
At length, after they had left the last of the intermediate stations behind, the mysterious conductor appeared once more, and asked for the tickets; and Gerrit, who had kept them carefully in his hand, under his woollen glove, produced them, and gave them up.
“First-class!” said the conductor. “Why, man, you’ve certainly had the best for your money!”
“Hi?” said Meeuwsen, who could not understand what the fellow meant.
“Stupid bumpkins!” muttered the conductor in an undertone, happily inaudible to the Meeuwsens, and left the carriage with a loud “Amsterdam, gentlemen!” The train now stopped for good. Every one got out, and there was such a row that Gerrit and his son could not understand what was going on, and stood staring about them quite dazed.
People, carriages, cabs, omnibuses, trunks, drivers with brandished whips, crying, “This way, sir!—Hotel this!—Hotel that!—just off!” There was such a swarming and confusion that our travellers only regained their full consciousness when they found themselves sitting in an omnibus, packed, knee to knee, like herrings in a barrel,—and, probably, dreaming—at least, so they thought.
“Where to, sir?” asked the conductor of the omnibus, in a green coat trimmed with silver lace, of the person sitting next the door.
“The Dam,” was the answer. “Botermarkt,” said another passenger. “Rokin, No. 11,” said another; and another followed with “The Mint.”
“Sir?” said the inquisitive man, addressing Gijs.
“I?” asked Gijs, staring wildly; “to the Fair, isn’t it, father?”
All the passengers laughed, except three or four who were in a hurry to get to the Exchange.
“Be’st mad, I think, boy,” said Gerrit, grinning. “No, mate,” he went on, addressing the conductor, “to a lodging.”
“Which hotel?” was then the question. “First, second, third, fourth, fifth class? Rondeel, Doelen, Munt—or do you want to go to the Nes?”[[17]]
Whether Gerrit was thinking of the third-class carriage in which he had been sitting with Gijs, and contrasting it with the imaginary first-class where he found a place by the side of Nathan, we do not know; but it is certain that he shivered at the idea of a fifth-class, and had his answer ready at once—
“First-class, man! First-class!”
“Vieux Doelen!” cried the conductor, with a smile and a furtive wink at the passenger next the door.
The omnibus stopped, and Gerrit and Gijs were beckoned to come out. How they ever got through the double row of knees is quite incomprehensible; and twice did the heels of Gijs’ heavy boots come unpleasantly in contact with corns, whose proprietors, therefore, unkindly addressed him as “Clumsy lout!” and “Dumb ass!”
“How much is it?” asked Gerrit.
The conductor gave a look round, and then said, under his breath—
“Only ten stivers[[18]] each, sir. I can’t ask you for more.”
Meeuwsen gave him a florin, whereupon he asked whether the gentleman couldn’t spare him a trifle for himself!
This question was answered by the good-natured farmer thrusting a kwartje[[19]] into his hand; and the unscrupulous rascal drove away, laughing in his sleeve.
Gerrit, and Gijs with the carpet-bag on his back, stared for a long time at the fine house, with the gilt letters on the front; and at length ventured to go up the steps, though they could not make up their minds to venture in.
“What do you want?” politely asked a handsome young gentleman, in a snow-white waistcoat and a beautiful black jacket, who came out of the broad hall and walked up to them.
“Lodgings,” answered Gerrit.
“For yourself?” asked the young gentleman, who, seen at close quarters, seemed older than his jacket would have led one to suppose.
“I and my son Gijs,” said Gerrit.
“You?” again asked the young gentleman.
“Is that so hard to understand?” asked the farmer. “Are there no lodgings here? Can we get them, or can’t we?”
The young gentleman walked away, and stopped to speak to another young gentleman like unto himself, who met him in the corridor. Soon after two more arrived, one of them with a napkin over his arm, and all the four began to laugh immoderately; so that Gerrit began to be tired of waiting, and, approaching the group, said, with some violence, “Now, what is it to be? Are we to get rooms, or are we not?” The young gentlemen continued to giggle, but suddenly stopped, and scattered with surprising rapidity, for a dignified elderly person entered the vestibule, and asked what was the matter here. Whereupon Gerrit expounded to him that he had asked, in a straightforward and downright way, for lodgings; that he did not know what the young gentlemen were up to; that he had come with his son to attend the fair; that he had no mind to be what-you-may-call-ummed and made a fool of by those young gentlemen; and that he asked, once more, Could he, or could he not?
The respectable gentleman took a good look at Gerrit and Gijs—the latter was still outside the door with the carpet-bag—for some moments; but the open honest face, and generally prosperous appearance of the farmer, reassured him as to the probability of their being good customers. He then laid his forefinger against his nose, and called out to one of the young gentlemen,—
“No. 71 and 72, Karel. Allons!”
Karel came. Gerrit beckoned Gijs to come in. Gijs also came.
“Take the gentleman’s luggage,” said the proprietor of the hotel to Karel, pointing to the carpet-bag, which Gijs still carried over his shoulder.
“Oh, no! thank you,” said Gijs, as the young gentleman Karel went about to relieve him of his load. Karel, however, did not leave go. The proprietor was present; and, in spite of Gijs’ asseverations that he was far too kind, he seized the bag and flew up the broad staircase like a jumping rabbit.
“If you will follow, gentlemen,” said the proprietor, “the garçon will show you your rooms.” Gerrit, putting up, for the sake of peace, with the title of gentleman, followed the flying garçon, and Gijs followed his father.
“Where are we going to?” cried the stout farmer, to whom climbing of stairs was an unaccustomed exercise.
“To No. 71 and 72,” said the garçon.
“I don’t care what number it is—number thousand, if you like—but I didn’t come here to climb up a tower!”
“We shall be there directly,” said Karel, still flying on ahead.
“Go on, then!” said Gerrit, taking courage; and on they went again, up stairs and more stairs—there was no end to it.
“Are we not there yet?” sighed Meeuwsen, when Gijs had counted the forty-fifth flight of steps, and they had come to an arched doorway.
“This way round!” cried Karel, and flew on, still higher.
“No! that’s too much; I give it up!” cried Gerrit, holding fast to the banisters. “It’s enough to drive a man crazy! I’ll go no farther.”
“Only a few more,” said Karel persuasively. At last, when Gijs had counted sixty-three, the two, panting and gasping, reached their goal—Nos. 71 and 72.
“Ici,” said Karel, throwing open both doors almost at the same moment.
“Ici or no ici” muttered the farmer, “what I say is that no decent man can be expected to do it!”
“This is your room,” said Karel, pointing to No. 72, as he saw that Gijs was about to follow his father into No. 71.
“I?” ejaculated Gijs.
“S’il vous plaît” said the waiter, and flinging the carpet-bag into No. 71, he left the rooms, stood still in the passage between the two apartments, and looking at father and son by turns, went on, “Any more orders? Will the gentlemen dine at the table d’hôte, at half-past four?”
Gijs understood not a single word of this; and Gerrit, who likewise did not grasp the subtleties of the situation, answered shortly, “No,” being mortally afraid of having to do any more climbing.
Karel having had enough of this exalted society, uttered no further questions or remarks, slammed both doors, reached the ground floor by sliding down the banisters, and left the father and son, each in his own room, to their respective meditations.
The well-furnished rooms were only divided from one another by a thin wooden partition, and their windows afforded a delightful view, to wit, a red-tiled roof, from which arose a tall black chimney.
Gijs looked round, like a cat in a strange warehouse, and did not think Amsterdam so very beautiful after all.
“Boy! where are you?” shouted Gerrit. “What are we to do now? Just come here!”
“Can I do that, father?” roared Gijs, in a voice that could easily have been heard in the street.
“Of course!” cried Gerrit.
Gijs went on tiptoe to his door, and, speeding as though death were at his heels, out of No. 72 and into No. 71.
“Look here, boy!” said Gerrit, when his son was safely inside, “here we sit, and I’m so hungry that I can’t see straight.”
“So am I,” asseverated Gijs.
“Then you ought to call,” said his father, “and we might order something.”
Gijs muttered something about “so strange,” and “if father were to do it himself,”—but, like a dutiful son, he went to the stairs, and shouted—very much as he was accustomed at home to call the calves to their food—“Huup! huup! huup!”
No one came. At last a door opened, and an old gentleman in hat and greatcoat came out, and passed Gijs.
“Oh!” said Gijs, his shyness giving way before his own hunger and his father’s orders, “would you be so kind as to order something to eat for us!”
“Pull the bell, you young donkey!” was the polite reply. The donkey departed without a word, and, after some searching, Father Meeuwsen found a rope hanging in No. 71, at which he pulled,—and lo! they heard a bell ring. A minute later Karel was again standing before them.
“You must bring us something to eat,” said the farmer, who now began to understand that the young man was a waiter.
“Déjeuner à la fourchette?” asked Karel.
“Don’t know those things,” replied Gerrit. “I’ve never eaten desernages, nor forzettes either. Just bring us something, my lad,—I don’t much care what, so long as we can get something inside us.”
Flop went the door again; and five minutes later there arrived at No. 71 some strange substances of whose nature Gerrit and Gijs had not the remotest idea. They began, however, to try and to taste, and though they could scarcely get the things down their throats, they were messed up so queerly with sweet stuff and spice, they managed to satisfy their appetites somehow.
“I’ve had enough,” said Gerrit at last.
“So have I,” sighed Gijs, and they rose from table,—to go to the kermis.
We will not relate in detail how Gerrit and Gijs climbed downstairs again, went out at the front door, and announced that they would come back again in the evening; how they were besieged by beggars, shoeblacks, and Jews selling lottery tickets,—nearly all of whom the good-natured farmer succeeded in satisfying; how they were directed from one part of the town to another, and back again, in order to reach the fair; how and when they got there they found booths, just like those in their own village, but much bigger and finer ones. We will not record how much Gerrit paid for the monster cake which he wished to take home to Griet, and which bore the inscription, in sugar letters, “A Fairing for You;” how Gijs was cheated in the purchase of a cup and saucer for Mijntje; how they, furthermore, bought ginger-bread, almonds, and who knows what besides, so that their pockets stood out like hard lumps, and they were nearly fainting under the weight of them. They visited the circus, but were not edified; and when, finally, the great trick rider “Meseu Blanus,” after two sudden changes of costume, appeared in flesh-coloured tights, and walked about blowing a trumpet, Gerrit could stand it no longer, and seizing his son by the arm, he shouted, “That beats all! so it does! come, boy, come! come!” and hurried him out. When they had struggled out into the crowd again, Gerrit said that they had had their fill of that sort of thing, and more; and Gijs remarked that it was low. They did not attempt to see any of the other shows, and Gerrit unmercifully dragged Gijs past “The Mirror of Mystery,” where, as the man at the door said, “The girl can see her lover, and the young man his girl,—all for a dubbeltje! Great American Magic Mirror of Mystery!” Gijs would have liked a peep at his Mijntje, but Gerrit was firm.
Having partaken, by way of refreshment, of hot wafers and punch,—a repast which Gijs liked well enough, but his father considered “sweet, but nothing to stay your stomach on,”—they at last, after many wanderings, found their way back to the hotel. The nimble rabbit, Mr Karel, was again to the fore. In the twinkling of an eye he had lit a candle, and flew up the stairs, requesting the wearied rustics, unaccustomed to the hard walking of the streets, to follow him, s’il vous plaît.
Gerrit and Gijs followed—yes! and in time they reached the top, but felt just as if a thousand smiths were hammering away in their bones.
“Do the gentlemen wish souper?” asked Karel, who by this time had lit candles in each of the two rooms.
“Eat soup now!” said Gerrit, “get away with you! I’m fair filled up with those wafer-cakes!”
“Put boots outside door—when d’you-want-to-be-called?” asked Karel.
“I’m going away to-morrow morning by the first train,” said Gerrit.
“Then you’ll want a vigilante?”
“Go to the ... woodpile!” cried Gerrit, “with all your foreign talk.”
“Good-night, gentlemen!” said Karel.
The doors were shut, and the gentlemen were left alone. Now began a conversation between the two—carried on in genuine rustic growls, and yet as softly as if they were afraid of waking “Mother my wife.” A few minutes later Gijs retired, with a new blue wadded night-cap, and a “good-night, dad,” to No. 72.
Gerrit had at once blown out the wax candles in No. 71. “That’s just sinful waste,” he said; and Gijs, on entering No. 72, followed his father’s example.
They were not long in undressing by moonlight. Gijs put on the night-cap, and stepped into the soft bed. What a thing that was!—soft as pap!... Never knew such a thing before.... He lay listening.... Every moment he heard something ... some one walking about ... groping among the furniture ... at last speaking. At last, he could stand it no longer—he sat up and stared uneasily about. He thought he could plainly ... hear ... something ... at ... the ... door. Seemed as if ... you ... could ... see ... the ... handle ... turning.... The perspiration broke out all over him ... still he saw it ... plainly ... and, when the door was really opened, he uttered a yell, but slowly recovered himself on seeing that it was his father.
“Can’t rest on that thing,” said Gerrit, as he came in, meaning the bed, which he found much too soft. “No, Gijs, I’ll just come and lie here on the boards.”
“I’ll do that too,” said Gijs, stepping out of bed, and then he lay down on the floor beside his father—each with a pea-jacket rolled up for a pillow—“good-night! pleasant dreams.”
Whether the dreams were, in point of fact, pleasant may be doubted, for they formed a first-class raree-show, composed of bare legs and wafer-cakes, guns and horses, omnibuses, and the climbing of towers, in wild confusion. Certain it is, however, that the Meeuwsens, father and son, when they awoke, stared at one another as if they had been bewitched, and had to think a long time before they could remember where on earth they were.
Well, how did they get home again from the fair?—Gerrit to his Griet, and Gijs to his Mijn.
Very well indeed. Physically they were in sad case, but spiritually all right—which does not always happen on like occasions. The bill which Karel handed to Gerrit before his departure was alike illegible to him and to Gijs. Perhaps no one but the hotel-proprietor and the head-waiter could ever have deciphered it—only the total was clear: 16f. 80—accurately reckoned. Gerrit thought, but said nothing; paid; started, when he was told that a tip was expected of him, over and above the bill, but paid it; and left the Verdoel by the first omnibus, and Amsterdam by the first train.
“That’s over!” said Gerrit, sitting safe and sound once more beside his Griet in the kitchen. “Once is well enough—but never again! And I had everything first-class!”
This was true enough: for on the return journey he had managed to get into the right compartment of the train—though, to say the truth, he found it much less comfortable than the other.
And Gijs? Gijs was as blythe as a foal in the meadow, when he found himself at home again. When he told Mijn about the circus, and the young ladies in gilt caps who had sold him wafers, and tried to flirt with him, she turned as red as fire, and said it was scandalous; but the cup and saucer, which, contrary to all expectation, had reached home uninjured, were duly admired by her. And when Gerrit, one fine evening, had some of the neighbours in to help in the pig-killing, and entertained them in the kitchen when work was over, the monster cake was tasted, and Gerrit profited by the opportunity to relate all his adventures. Then said Brother-in-Law Kresel, that such a thing hadn’t happened within the memory of man!—and Baas Janssen, that morality was getting into a frightful state!—and the old Teunis farmer concluded, “What does a man want on the ice in his clogs?”
J. J. Cremer.
NO SWORD!
Old Colonel H—— was standing, during one of the summer months, before the open window, puffing the smoke of his Havannah into the air, with the feeling of satisfaction produced by a fine day, while his eyes followed the movements of a young officer, whose elastic figure had already, at some distance, attracted his superior’s attention.
Suddenly his face darkened. No one so soon feels his toes trodden on as an old military man.
What was that? Were his eyes dazzled by the sunlight? Or could anything of the sort possibly happen under the eye of the strict commanding officer of the regiment? Had discipline really died out among the younger generation of the army?
No, it was no optical deception. He could see it now, plainly—the lieutenant, passing there, on the other side of the street, with a letter in his hand, had no sword on! And it was not nearly four P.M.!
“Lieutenant!” cried the fire-eater, in a momentary ebullition of indignation, from the open window; “if I may ask you—one moment!”
The man addressed immediately turned with a military salute, and hastened to the Colonel’s rooms, without the slightest presentiment of the storm about to burst over his head.
He rang the bell, and the Colonel’s servant opened the door.
Passing through the hall, he gave a hasty glance at his uniform to see whether it was all right—and then he discovered his misfortune. Horrible! He had, in his haste to post a letter, forgotten to buckle on his sword!
For one moment he hesitated; he was really frightened, and saw, looming up in space, all the evil consequences of his mistake, in the form of all possible reports, with “arrest” at the end of them.
The Colonel would send a note to the commander of division, who would endorse and put it into the hands of the captain—and then the fat would be in the fire with a vengeance! All this passed like a flash of lightning through the unhappy man’s head, and he looked helplessly round, as though hoping that some good genius would inspire him with a way of escape in this sore need. What was he to do? He could not keep the cantankerous Colonel waiting,—there was nothing for it except to march valiantly forward into the lion’s den. But luck never forsakes a lieutenant!
What is that glittering over there in the umbrella-stand?
The Colonel’s sword!... He pulls out his purse,—thrusts, with an eloquent gesture, a guilder into the hand of the Colonel’s man, and buckles on the sword—all in less time than it takes to tell it.
A moment later he stands—in correct military attitude, his left hand held so as to hide the dragon on his sword-hilt from the eagle eye of his chief—before the old gentleman, who, meanwhile, has been stalking up and down the room, fretting and fuming.
“Sir! I must call your attention to——”
A long pause.
The Colonel’s glance travels from the sword to the young officer’s blushing face, and back again to the glittering weapon.
Then he shakes his head in utter amazement, but recovers himself speedily, and continues in a low tone:
“What battalion do you belong to?”
“The second, Colonel.”
“Just so. I only wanted to ask you if—if—Major Ij ... has returned from his leave?”
“He is not coming back till to-morrow, sir, if I have understood rightly.”
“IN CORRECT MILITARY ATTITUDE.”
“Ah!—thank you—it had escaped me—thanks.”
The lieutenant saluted respectfully, left the room with the greatest air of self-confidence, hastened down the stairs, unbuckled the Colonel’s sword—put it away noiselessly among the sticks and umbrellas, after which he hurried away, keeping as close as he could to the wall till he was out of sight.
As for the Colonel, he simply could not believe his eyes! Then something occurred to him. He called his man.
“Did you let the lieutenant in?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was he wearing a sword when he came in?”
“Yes, sir,” answered he, with imperturbable calm.
The Colonel smote his forehead with his open hand.
The lieutenant’s guilder was well invested.
“Humoristisch Album.”