The humour of Holland

by Unknown

INTRODUCTION.

There appears to be an idea abroad to the effect that the “Humour of Holland” could be most satisfactorily dealt with in a chapter resembling the famous one “Of Snakes in Ireland.” As the average English reader, in the most favourable instances, knows little more of Dutch literature than a name or two (Rembrandt has introduced us to “the poet Vondel,” and if Southey were not so little read in these days Bilderdijk and Cats would not be so unfamiliar), the subject offers a free field to the constructive imagination. Yet even so, one would think it must be obvious that the nation which has produced a Teniers, a Jan Steen, and—in some of his moods—a Rembrandt, could not be entirely destitute of humour. The estimate of its quality may be a question of taste; but—though many people practically do adopt this form of logic—we cannot make the fact of our not finding it to our liking a ground for denying its existence.

Of course, before determining what the humour of a nation is like, we need to know what is that nation’s intellectual bent as a whole, and what forces have been at work to determine its character. On this point we may quote a paragraph or two from a Dutch writer, J. H. Hooijer, whom we shall meet again in the course of these pages. He is describing a village in North Holland, in the heart of the fat meadow-lands, famous for the production of Dutch cheeses.

“The same village which you find so depressing this November day,—so damp, so clammy, so dripping with water,—makes a very different impression when Spring, with full hands, has showered her blossom-snow over the orchards, or in the autumn, when the trees are hanging full of golden pears or rosy apples. Greener meadow-land is nowhere on earth, unless it be in the Emerald Isle itself. The rich green pastures have velvety lights in the sunshine, and the splendid cattle—their dappled skins smooth and shining as silk—show out to advantage against it—colour on colour. At such times there is a glow of colour in the whole landscape, which, strange as it may sound, reminds one of the South,—a glow one might almost think was stolen from the palettes of the Old Masters. Every breath you draw is perfumed with new milk and flowers, mingled with the salt smell of the sea. There is a fulness of outward life—a bubbling up and overflowing of vital juices,—for which they had an eye and a heart, those great old realists. The man who despises a rich clover pasture, speckled here and there with white-fleeced sheep; who cannot spare a look for the magnificent horned cattle that stand staring at you, with dreamy, half-sad gaze, over the fence, while Geertje’s black eyes flash at you from behind the milking-pail,—well, he need not come to North Holland. Intellects of this sort, exclusively devoted to the contemplation of the sublime, will find everything ugly in these parts. To such an one our Old Masters have nothing to say; for him, Paul Potter’s art is a mere waste of time, and many a racy bit of Vondel trivial nonsense. Happily the cheery sun is of another mind, and his smile falls well-pleased on the endless emerald plain. He nurses it, feeds it, warms it,—he sweetens the blades of grass for the palate of the pampered cow. And sometimes, just before setting, he draws along the horizon, with purple finger, broad streaks of crimson fire, and then the dykes flame out like ruby bands winding over the green velvet robe of the earth, and you wish for the power of wielding the brush, so as to throw on canvas what one might almost call these brutal effects of colour.”

Here we have a fertile country, with the means of existence in plenty, but not one where it is easy to live without hard work. These rich meadow-lands have been wrung from the sea by the painful toil of centuries, and are only held by the tenure of constant vigilance. But the struggle for existence is not hard enough to exhaust the vital energies, and produce a stunted careworn race. There is abundance of rough but wholesome food, such as results in strong limbs and clear skins; there is leisure for dancing and play—rough horse-play though it may be—when work is done; that there is a recognised place in life for mere beauty and luxury, is shown in the gold head-ornaments of the women. There are no mountains to suggest the sense of remoteness and mystery; and the grey North Sea, with its sands and mud-flats, is rather a fact to be accepted, a foe to be struggled with, in a grim matter-of-course way from day to day, than the weird terror that the ocean is to more imaginative peoples. But within the narrow and well-ordered bounds of farm and homestead, there is a richness of colour to fire the painter’s eye; the skies and sunsets are the glorious ones that flame over fen and marshland, and winter brings the joy of glittering ice and ringing skates. Life is and has been less bare and hard than of old in Scotland; but on the whole, the history of the two nations is somewhat similar, and they have many points of character in common.

Both learned thrift, endurance, and foresight in a hard school; both early acquired the inconvenient habit of thinking for themselves and dispensing with any mental spectacles save those of their own choosing; and both displayed a bull-dog tenacity in holding by their hardly won rights. But after the Reformation a marked difference becomes evident. Scotland only emerged from the troubles of that epoch to encounter the religious persecution of the Stuarts. The seventeenth century was fruitful of heroism; it tried the national character as by fire, and developed its sterner and deeper elements; it was not unfavourable even to tenderness, of a rugged and undemonstrative character, but the lighter side of life was left, for the time being, entirely in abeyance. In the quieter time which succeeded the Union, reaction soon became stagnation. The fiery earnestness,—call it fanaticism, if you like,—which had been so tremendous a force in action and endurance, now became a sour harsh bigotry, lying like a leaden weight on men’s lives. It is one thing to be in such deadly earnest over an urgent crisis, that you have no time or inclination to admire a picture or laugh at a joke; it is another to forbid such enjoyment to other people, because it is inconsistent with the attitude of mind proper to the crisis that is over and past. We all have les défauts de nos qualités; and the mistakes of reformers include a tendency to regard the conclusions at which they have arrived as final, and an imperfect estimate of the relative value of means and ends—in other words, the inability to see when a truth (that is to say, any particular statement of a truth) has done its work. This general state of flatness and dulness could only be ended by a volcanic outburst,—and such a one came in with Burns.

To return to Holland. The shaking off of the Spanish yoke was followed by a period of peace and prosperity. Dutch ships had for some time past been bringing home the wealth of the Indies. Dutch admirals were finding their way into unknown seas. Colonies sprang up in the Spice Islands, and the money gained by trade turned the swamps reclaimed from the sea into flower-gardens, or covered them with stately buildings. Wealthy burghers, even of the strictest Calvinist persuasion, did not appear to find their Protestant principles an obstacle to the encouragement of painters and poets. Roemer Visscher and his daughters, though members of the defeated and unpopular church, kept open house at Amsterdam for all who loved art and letters, and assembled round them the best wits of the time. Gerbrand Bredero, painter and poet both, belonged to a respectable burgher family, who—though grieved by the excesses of his riotous youth, and sorely troubled by his contemplated marriage with Alida Jansdoter, the pretty but characterless widow who kept the Toren van Monnickendam tavern—do not appear to have mourned over his choice of a vocation, or regarded his plays as anything to disapprove of. Joost van den Vondel, the tragic poet (in whose genius some have found an excuse for belittling that of our own Milton), was a deeply religious man; and though he seems to have suffered from the aspersions of the religious, it was not so much on account of his poems, as because he was a Baptist, and they Reformed Calvinists. No doubt there was religious bigotry in Holland, but there were also elements of healthy life which kept it in check. And there was a time when thought became dull and stagnant,—when the dead-weight of the commonplace, backed by the double sanction of social and religious orthodoxy, forced all individuality into its own prepared mould,—when the Dominie looked with suspicion on every independent expression of opinion, and the “Pious” kept a watchful eye on the Dominie,—but that time was not yet. Betje Wolff, who suffered in her youth from Cornelia Slimpslamp and Brother Benjamin,—and never forgot it,—came in for part of it; but the worst was not till after she and her friend Aagje had been laid to rest side by side. That was the darkness just before the dawn; for surely there never was such a world of dead forms and petty conventions, such a stifling atmosphere of cant and artificiality, as that in which Multatuli spent his childhood.

The humour of the Netherlands has, in common with that of Scotland, a certain canniness and practical shrewdness, characteristic of men and nations who have bought their experience at first hand and a heavy price. But, whether for want of that touch of Celtic fire which in Scotland has leavened the solid Teuton into a thing quite unique in the world, or what else, there is a notable lack of that dryness and terseness—that expressing more than the whole by means of less than the half—which comes out in the best Scotch anecdotes and sayings. It would be an insult to a listener of average intelligence, to explain, for example, “It’s a puir shaw for Kirkintilloch.” We are not sure that—supposing that the exact equivalent to this joke existed in Dutch—the Netherlander would feel the insult deeply; we rather think he would enjoy the story the better for a half page or so of comments in addition to the full explanation. Of this nature are many jocular poems by the revered Father Cats, and the “Zinne-poppen” of Roemer Visscher and his daughter Anna.

The Netherlander likes his fun pretty obvious, and not too concentrated. And the main characteristic of the said fun is its breadth,—or rather what the Germans call Breite, for the English word by no means conveys exactly the same idea. “Long-windedness” alone does not express it; Coleridge’s “nimiety or too-muchness” (which he calls a characteristic fault in the German literary temperament) is much nearer the mark. It is long-windedness combined with infinite multiplicity of detail,—a gossipy, good-humoured, complacent triviality, which is the essence of boredom. Voss’s “Luise” (which poem we doubt whether any British person now living has read through) is a shining example of the quality. Nothing is left to the reader’s imagination—everything, and the reason for everything, is described and explained at full length, till the best ideas are swamped in floods of formless verbiage. In Holland, this kind of writing flourished most extensively in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and Father Cats, already referred to, exhibits it in an excessive degree. He also shows an overpowering desire to be improving,—another point common to the Scot and the Batavian,—and the two things together made him, for two centuries, out and out the most popular writer in Holland.

As to “broad” farce, in the other sense of the word, Dutch literature possesses a good deal of it, of such extreme latitude, indeed, as to be for the most part entirely unavailable for this volume. Besides, it is not amusing. The Sotternieën, or farces, of the Middle Ages, were of an extremely rough and ready type, to say no more, though Dr Jan Ten Brink accords them the praise of “accurate observation of Flemish low life, and a real comic gift.” They mostly turn on matrimonial difficulties, in which a foolish husband gets the worst of it. More or less of the same kind, though of a somewhat higher type, were the farces (Kluchten) of what we may call the Dutch Renaissance (c. 1550–1650). They mostly turn on rough or even disgusting practical jokes; they are written in clumsy, lumbering verse, which has the effect of encouraging and intensifying the author’s natural diffuseness; in short, whatever laugh-provoking power they may once have had, most of them are now quite intolerably dull. The best known are those of Coster, Vos, Jan Starter, Hooft, Huygens (who made one excursion in this direction—Trijntje Cornelis), and, above all, Gerbrand Bredero, whose genius had not yet reached its highest point, when his short and stormy life came to an end.

Gerbrand Adriaenszen Bredero was born at Amsterdam in 1585. His father was a wealthy tradesman, at first a shoemaker, and afterwards farmer of the taxes on wines and spirits. Adriaen Bredero was a generous patron of art, and intended his son to become a painter; but the latter, though he studied for a time, and appears to have shown some degree of talent, preferred to devote himself to literature. He became a member of the chamber, In Liefde Bloeiende,[^[1]] and soon formed the acquaintance of Spieghel, the didactic poet, and the genial Roemer Visscher, the scholarly author of the “Zinne-poppen” and “Brabbeling.” An unhappy love for Roemer’s younger daughter, Tesselschade, probably wrecked his life, the greater part of which was spent in noisy dissipation, alternating with intervals of deep depression. His work was both lyric and dramatic; his principal plays are the tragicomedies of “Roderick and Alphonsus” (1611), “Griane” (1612), and “The Dumb Knight” (1618), to which may be added the unfinished play “Het daghet uyt den Oosten,” the farces of the “Cow” (1612), the “Miller” and “Symen sonder Soeticheyt” (1613), and the regular comedies of “The Moor” (1615), and “The Spanish Brabanter” (1618). The last-named, his masterpiece, was intended to satirise (under the name of Jerolimo) the Chevalier Theodor Rodenburgh, his rival in literature and in a second unhappy love affair. From this bitter disappointment Bredero never recovered. He died at the age of thirty-three, after a lingering illness, tended with devoted care by his mother, and comforted by the friendship of the gentle and earnesthearted Vondel, whose religion was of a type to find easier access to the stormy soul than the gloomy Calvinism of Bredero’s relations. For further particulars of the poet’s life the reader is referred to the works of Dr Jan Ten Brink, among others an interesting historical novel (founded on contemporary documents) entitled “De Bredero’s,” which has appeared in “Elsevier’s Geïllustreerd Maandschrift” for 1891 and 1892. Bredero’s farces are rough, and even coarse—a defect from which his more elevated work, such as the “Spanish Brabanter,” is not free; but this is a fault common to the comic literature of all countries at that epoch. He was no scholar, and though acquainted with French, did not know Latin, a circumstance for which his writing is probably none the worse. His comedy, “Het Moortje” (“The Little Moor”), is an adaptation of a French version of Terence’s “Eunuchus,” and far inferior to the “Spanish Brabanter,” which, though not absolutely original (the plot is to a great extent taken from the Spanish novel “Lazarillo de Tormes”), is as much so as most of Shakespeare’s, and full of life and vigour. It is perhaps somewhat verbose, and the irregular kind of ballad-metre in which it is written lends itself to indefinite longueurs; but the character-painting is excellent. Indeed, Bredero’s chief merit is the strong human sympathy shown in his broad, vivid pictures of popular life. He gives us the life of the street in Amsterdam as he knew it—the beggars, the scolding wives, the money-lender, the poor gentleman with his frayed velvet doublet and rapier showing through its worn sheath, the gossiping sexton, the boys playing at marbles. It is evident that Bredero was on the right track, and, had he lived, might have produced even better work than this play,—perhaps founded a new dramatic school, which might have repeated in Holland the triumphs of our Elizabethan writers. Dr Ten Brink compares him in his riotous enjoyment of life and noisy excesses to Greene, Marlowe, and Massinger. It is difficult to extract any single scene from the “Spaansche Brabander,” far and away his best work; and, as, in fact, almost any attempt at translation could reproduce only the faults of the original, it seemed better to avoid courting inevitable failure.

English influence made itself felt in Holland during the seventeenth century in more ways than one. Huygens, who repeatedly visited England, and knew Donne, shows traces of the “Caroline” manner in his poems and epigrams. Intercourse between the two countries was frequent, and the connection, of course, became closer still with their temporary union under one sovereign. During the eighteenth century, Dutch literature appeared to be on the wane. Foreign works—English and French—were admired and read, and educated persons took a certain pride in neglecting their native language as a barbarous and uncultivated tongue. It was in a passionate impulse of patriotism that Mevrouw Betje Wolff and Mejuffrouw Aagje Deken determined to enter into competition with the universally popular Richardson, and prove to the reading public of Holland that a Dutch novel, showing Dutch characters amid the everyday surroundings of Amsterdam, Utrecht, or the Hague, might be quite as interesting as any foreign importation. The result was the publication, in 1782, of the “History of Mejuffrouw Sara Burgerhart,” which ran into a third edition in 1786.

Elizabeth Wolff and Agatha Deken were two friends, affectionately spoken of by their compatriots as Betje and Aagje, who lived and wrote together, and collaborated so harmoniously that it is impossible to distinguish their respective shares in the works jointly issued by them. Elizabeth Bekker, born at Flushing, July 24, 1738, is described as “a little delicate woman, with penetrating dark eyes, twinkling with humorous mischief.” Her lively spirit maintained a hard struggle against the harsh old-fashioned Calvinism of her Zeeland home, as represented by her elder brother Laurens. It was probably to escape from this that, at twenty, she married a “dominie” of fifty-two—the Predikant Adriaen Wolff. In the quiet of the country parsonage she lived, happily enough, from 1759 to 1777, devoted to her elderly husband, and with abundant leisure for literature. During this period she wrote chiefly in verse, and published several collections of poems; but, when left a widow in 1777, she invited her friend Agatha Deken to live with her. Agatha, three years younger than her friend, was an orphan, brought up in the Amsterdam “Weeshuis,” who had been living as companion with an invalid lady named Maria Bosch, also given to poetry. The two friends first essayed themselves in prose, by publishing “Letters on Various Subjects,” in 1780, after which they gradually developed the idea of a novel in letters, after the manner of Richardson. “The History of Mejuffrouw Sara Burgerhart,” in spite of its somewhat repellent epistolary form, remains capital reading to the present day. The book is not so very long-winded, considering the epoch at which it was written; the characters are clearly conceived and sympathetically drawn; and there is a delicate humour which might almost be compared with Jane Austen’s, but has a distinct flavour of its own. The portraiture of Sara’s aunt, Mejuffrouw Hofland, and the designing parasites who make her their prey—Cornelia Slimpslamp, and Brother Benjamin, the butcher’s man turned preacher—reminds us of Betje Bekker’s bitterness against the fanatical precisians (called by themselves “vromen,” or pious, and by others “fijnen,” or subtle) who had darkened her youth. “Sara Burgerhart,” published in 1782, was followed by a longer work, “Historie van den Heer Willem Leevend,” which in some respects surpasses it. In 1788 the friends left Holland, in consequence of political changes, and settled at Trevoux in Burgundy, where they remained till 1795, writing “Letters of Abraham Blankaart,” and their third novel, “Cornelia Wildschut.” Betje was robbed of her small property by a rascally man of business; and, at the time of the Terror, narrowly escaped the guillotine, being looked on as an aristocrat by the republicans of Trevoux. They returned to Holland in 1795, settled at the Hague, and set themselves to translating for a bare living. Their last years were spent amid great financial difficulties and privations, borne with their usual cheerfulness, and one cherished wish was granted them at last,—Betje died November 5, 1804, and Aagje only survived her nine days.

It is a pity that these books are not of a kind to show to advantage in extracts. To be appreciated, they must be taken in bulk, as the character-drawing, which is their chief attraction, only comes out indirectly, and point by point, in the course of the letters. Which of the two collaborators should be credited with the quiet humour—of the type recognised as peculiarly feminine—which flashes through them, is a disputed point, but it is usually attributed to Betje Wolff. Internal evidence, and especially the history of her early life, seem to point to her as having originated the character of Sara herself, the bright, lovable, merry-hearted girl, so willing to submit to loving guidance, but impatient of the gloomy restraint of Aunt Susanna’s house, which called out all that was worst in her nature. Agatha Deken, we are told, was a large, fair person, of calm aspect and portly presence—somewhat prosaic and matter-of-fact—yet the description does not exclude the possibility of a certain “pawkiness,”—and probably there is no hard and fast distinction to be drawn between the two, as regards the humorous element. And, however that may be, “Sara Burgerhart” is a charming book, and deserves to be much more widely known than it is. Lovers of “Evelina” would delight in its old-time quaintness, and even those without an especial parti-pris for the eighteenth century could not fail to appreciate the delicately finished pictures of Dutch life. Some points in this latter suggest the question whether many things which we have been accustomed to consider as purely American manners did not originate in the Dutch ancestry of the New-Yorkers. The comings and goings of the young ladies at the Amsterdam boarding-house, under the friendly (but to contemporary English notions very inadequate) supervision of the Widow Spilgoed, née Buigzaam, is one of those. Others suggest themselves to an attentive reader of the book. But this is only in passing. Decidedly, an English version of “Sara” with a loving and appreciative introduction by a capable hand, would be an addition to the pleasures of life.

It is no part of the plan of this brief sketch—which aims throughout at being suggestive rather than exhaustive—to furnish a comprehensive introduction to Dutch literature, or even to that part of it to which these pages are exclusively devoted. There is one point, however, which we must not overlook. This is not the place—and perhaps, indeed, the time has not fully come—to discuss the position which Multatuli holds, or ought to hold, in his country’s literature; but it cannot fail to strike any reader of this volume, that a large—perhaps disproportionately large—number of pages is assigned to the work of a writer cast in as un-Dutch, or even anti-Dutch, a mould as it is possible to imagine. In fact, Multatuli stands as much alone among the Dutch, as Heine does among the Germans; and, by the same token, we might add, he is their only real humorist, in the highest sense. This apartness is not to be accounted for in Douwes Dekker’s case, by difference of race; but then, he was partly the product of reaction, and there were, after all, strong race-affinities in the deeper parts of his character. He had every quality calculated to jar upon the feelings of the Amsterdam petits bourgeois of his day: he had other ideals than theirs; he would not be content to make money and abstain from shocking the neighbours; he was nervous and imaginative in a stolid and prosaic generation—lavishly extravagant in a prudent, not to say parsimonious, one; but his passionate love of freedom, his intolerance of shams, his resolute refusal to utter the shibboleths of the age or bow before the idols of the market-place, proved him of one blood with William of Orange and Marnix de Sainte-Aldegonde. And, had he been as altogether isolated as he seems at first sight, he could hardly have become the force in national life that he now is. His “Max Havelaar” was like a volcanic outburst breaking up the crust of convention which had been slowly stiffening over Holland; but it gave voice to a cry which had been stifled in thousands of hearts. He spoke, and the younger generation answered him as one man. To-day, in Holland, Multatuli is a name to conjure with—a synonym for life, thought, progress, revolt against convention—for everything that may be called modernity.

He was a crude, formless, unmethodical writer. “Max Havelaar” is one of the most exasperatingly inartistic books ever written, and it must always remain matter for regret that he never seriously took in hand to complete and give artistic unity to the brilliant fragments that form the unfinished history of “Woutertje Pieterse.” But there is life and red blood in everything he wrote—and that counts for far more than dead correctness of form,—though, of course, the perfect form enshrining the vitality gives it a chance to last longer.

There is something in “Wouter” that reminds one curiously of the “Story of an African Farm.” Not that we would infer that the latter was suggested by the former—it may well be that its author was, at the time, quite unaware of Multatuli’s existence; and the agonies of isolated childhood are the same all the world over. But there are certain points of resemblance which make us think that a similar environment—the compound of dead Calvinism, Dutch pseudo-propriety, and crass ignorance—produced similar results. Though, perhaps it was natural that poor Wouter, dreaming on the bridge by the saw-mill at Amsterdam, should have less lofty visions than Waldo, dreaming on the open veldt under the stars.

Wouter began his career in the story with a crime. He wanted very much to read a book in the circulating library, but he had not the necessary twopence. His mother thought little boys had no use for pocket-money. Besides, circulating libraries did not enter into Juffrouw Pieterse’s calculations from any point of view. But it was so deadly dull at home, where there were no interesting books left unread—and no one was supposed to want to read at all, except Stoffel, the elder brother, who was a pupil-teacher, and preparing for an examination,—and he did long, with an unspeakable longing, for the “History of Glorioso the Brigand.” So he sold his Bible, with the paraphrases at the end, to a book-stall man on the Old Bridge (this particular is never forgotten in subsequent references to the misdemeanour, as though it had been an aggravation thereof), trusting to the fact that the volume was not likely to be inquired after on a week-day, to escape scot-free till Sunday. Which he did; but with Sunday came discovery and swift retribution. But Wouter did not mind that,—he had had his “Glorioso,” and was willing to pay the price. That was not all, however;—this piece of juvenile depravity had far-reaching consequences; but what they were will be discovered from the extracts given in the text.

There is infinite humour, as well as infinite pathos, in the description of the poor, starved child-soul, to which even a trashy sensational novel could give some sort of outlook into the ideal—for that was what Wouter’s (after all very innocent) glorification of crime practically amounted to. No better proof of the hold which Multatuli has over the hearts of his countrymen could be given than the fact that many of his characters have passed into proverbs. Juffrouw Laps, Dominie Pennewip, the Hallemans,—“who were so very particularly respectable,”—and others, are constantly to be met with in current literature.

And yet, curiously enough, his views are almost entirely negative. He is a preacher of revolt—a revolt often blind, illogical, inconsistent with itself, and which, from our point of view, seems curiously out of date—so that one is apt to forget he has only been dead six years,—and he is seldom, if ever, a teacher of anything else. It proves how greatly the revolt was needed, and what was the power of that Dagon of convention against which he directed his blows.

One word about the drama[^[2]] from which an extract has been given. It was one of his earliest works, being written at Padang (Sumatra) in 1843, when he was little more than a youth; and he himself in later years, was sarcastic enough at the expense of its “lachrymose sentiment” and emotional idealism. Perhaps it does err by excess in this direction, especially in Holm’s interminable monologues,—perhaps, also, the comic scenes force the note a little, and are not free from the trick of catch-words,—but the play, as a whole, is a capital one, and was, we believe, very successful on the stage. He wrote another serious drama, in verse, the “Vorstenschool,” which has never been acted, but perhaps for political rather than dramatic reasons. It seems a pity that he did not make more sustained efforts in this style of writing, which would have chastened the formlessness above alluded to as marring his work; but he seems to have been too impatient in getting his thoughts on paper to submit to the necessary restraints.

It will be noticed that this selection includes specimens from both Dutch and Belgian writers. The fact is that Belgium, from a literary point of view, scarcely exists. The written language is the same for both countries, the differences being mainly local and dialectical. After Brabant and Flanders had ceased to be Spanish provinces, and prior to the Revolution of 1830, the two portions were respectively known as Noord and Zuid Nederland. After 1830, the national language was, for a time, entirely discredited, and Belgium threatened to become a mere imitation of France, if not actually an appendage to that country. Of late years a reaction has set in. A knowledge of Flemish is required by law of all Government officials, except in those districts exclusively inhabited by the Walloons, who are supposed to speak French, though in fact, they discourse in a tongue which no mortal but themselves can understand.

There is an increasing number of Flemish papers,—the comic ones especially doing valiant service on the national side. In 1883 a law was passed rendering the teaching of Flemish (or “Netherlands,” as both Dutch and Belgians prefer to call it) obligatory in all intermediate schools. At Ghent University, moreover, all lectures are now delivered in that language, as well as some of the courses at the Universities of Brussels and Louvain. Straws show which way the wind blows; and, though a trifle, it is a significant one, that the streets of Antwerp are now labelled in Flemish, as well as French, and that public notices, advertisements, &c., when not bi-lingual, are usually Flemish.

The time of this linguistic reaction has also been one of revival in the national literature. Maeterlinck, it is true, writes in French; and a small coterie of less-known writers, calling themselves La Jeune Belgique, have chosen that language as the vehicle of their inspirations; but these do not represent the main current of the national life. For a long time, Conscience stood almost alone as a Flemish writer, and he was only known to the outer world through the medium of French translations. Now we have, of poets, Pol de Mont, De la Montagne, Hilda Ram, and Hélene Swarth, who, had she written in a more widely known language, would be recognised as one of the world’s greatest lyrists;—of prose-writers, Stijns, Virginie Loveling, Segers, Smits, Van Cuyck, Anton Moortgat, Emile Seipgens, and many others. Not all of them are available for our present purpose,—but some, as will be seen, have been selected from.

In conclusion, I would express my indebtedness for valuable information kindly given by Mr Frans Van Cuyck, of the Public Library, Antwerp, and author of “Twee Huwelijken,” “Sinoren,” and other works.

A. WERNER.

THE HUMOUR OF HOLLAND.

THE KING’S DREAM.

“I STROLLED THOUGHTFULLY ALONG THE BEACH.”

King Bilbonzo. It is well. We ourself now desire to make an important communication to you.

Palaemon (Prime Minister and Chancellor of the Kingdom). We are all attention.

King Bilbonzo. It pleased us to have a very strange dream last night.

Courtiers. Aha!

King Bilbonzo. I dreamed, gentlemen, that I was on an island in the midst of the ocean. My royal palace, surrounded by luxuriant gardens, stood in the centre of the island. My whole retinue was assembled there,—they were all laughing, dancing, and feasting. On all sides, smiling faces, rustling silks, and waves of sweet dance-music. Meanwhile, I strolled thoughtfully along the beach, reflected on the bounties of nature, and picked up shells.

Courtiers. Ah!

King Bilbonzo. But suddenly the ground trembled under my feet. I looked up, and perceived that the whole island was moving under me. It heaved, rocked this way and that, rose and fell on the water, and, finally, shot swiftly over the surface of the foaming sea. The beautiful island, my lords and gentlemen, was a living, terrible sea-monster!

Courtiers (in horror). Ah!

King Bilbonzo. My courtiers clung to me in terror. My head swam. Suddenly the monster dived, and the sea at once destroyed the palace and gardens. I myself, with a few faithful ones—you, my lords, among the number—remained bobbing up and down, holding to an empty cask. But the monster came once more to the surface, lifted a huge dripping mouth out of the water, and swallowed us all.

Courtiers. B-r-r-r!—most horrible!

King Bilbonzo. However, after a short interval of oppressive darkness, it cast us out again uninjured—and I found myself in my bed!

Courtiers (drawing a long breath of relief). Eh!

King Bilbonzo. What is your opinion, my lords? Is this a prophetic vision?

Palaemon. It is a fact that the prophet Jonah, some time since, had the honour of experiencing something very like what your Majesty has just dreamed.

King Bilbonzo. Does any of you think himself in a position to explain this dream to me? [All shake their heads.]

Palaemon. Sire, I have been told that there is, at this moment, a Spanish magician staying in our capital. Perhaps he might be able to comply with your wish. I have already given orders to have this person searched for—probably he has already reached the palace....

King Bilbonzo. Why! this is exceedingly interesting! Be so good as to bring the man into our presence at once.

[Exit Palaemon.

Enter Palaemon, and Don Torribio, a Spanish magician.

Palaemon. Here is the man.

King Bilbonzo. Come nearer, my friend.

Don Torribio. Who told you that I am your friend? Are you in the thought-reading business too?

Homaris (3^rd Minister). This is an unmannerly customer.

Palaemon. Do you know you are speaking to the King?

Don Torribio. Why, yes,—I thought so. I presume no one else would wear such a head-gear.

King Bilbonzo. Silence, my lords!—this is evidently an eccentric man. Let him alone. Magicians, fools, and poets have ever been allowed a certain familiarity with princes.

Don Torribio. You forget to add fleas, my prince.

Ministers. Hush!—shame!—shame!

King Bilbonzo. Decency! decency!

Don Torribio. I assure you they are very decent well-behaved little beasts, O King. They have never bitten you in your absence! They are the most honest of your subjects. They have never taken anything from you without informing you of the fact. There are not many like that. And they are not at present suffering from hunger. Not many like that either.

King Bilbonzo. Silence, now! Do you know wherefore you have been summoned hither?

Don Torribio. Certainly. We are going to act a little play together. You are Nebuchadnezzar, and I am Daniel.

King Bilbonzo (to Palaemon). I see your Excellency has already enlightened him.

Palaemon. Certainly not, your Majesty.

King Bilbonzo. Ah! this is indeed surprising. Listen then, and I will tell you my dream.

Don Torribio. No, no—you need not let me off any of my part. I mean to play Daniel entire—but I am not going to let you off the grass-eating, either! Do you listen to me, and I will interpret the dream.

King Bilbonzo. Well—this is astonishing!

Ministers. Think of that, now!

Homaris. All pre-concerted!

Don Torribio. Gathering shells is an innocent and even laudable employment,—but it should be carried on on a safe shore, and not within reach of hungry sea-monsters.

Every man—and more especially a king—ought to know what his house is built on.

If your house happens to stand—not on a rock foundation, but on the back of a sleeping whale, you must not dance too vigorously, or you will probably wake the brute.

It is safer to swim about in the sea on the back of a shark, than to be king of a famished people.

The conclusion of your dream I will interpret to you after the grass-eating. Now it is your turn.

King Bilbonzo. This is really going too far! Our toleration has reached its limits. Can you be wanting to sow discord between Us and our beloved people? Out of our sight, impious liar!—this very moment!

Hyacinthe (the Poet-Laureate—seated next to the King). Majesty!—look out for your crown!

King Bilbonzo. Oh!—thanks! [Sets his crown straight.]

Don Torribio. Omen accipio. How do you wish me to disappear, O King?

Palaemon (to a footman). Fetch the lictors to remove this person.

King Bilbonzo. My lords, you will agree with me that a man like this is very dangerous to the State.

Homaris. I had feared as much, Sire! He is a clever quack, and what he sells is poison for the people.

Lepidus. But his knowledge was something wonderful.

Homaris. Tricks!—most likely there’s bribery at the bottom of it.

Hyacinthe. Or else atheistic magic.

King Bilbonzo. In any case, my Lord Palaemon, you ought to have taken measures somewhat earlier to prevent his doing harm.

Palaemon. He shall be thrown into chains at once.

Amenias (4^th Minister). It is really a case for capital punishment.

King Bilbonzo. No—our delight is to show mercy. When the judges have condemned him to death, we will commute the sentence into penal servitude for life.

A Footman. Your Excellency!—the lictors.

[Torribio has suddenly vanished during the previous conversation.]

Palaemon. Let this man be strictly confined.

A Footman. What man, your Excellency?

Palaemon. Here—what! Where is he?

Ministers. What! Where is he? Gone?

King Bilbonzo. This is unspeakably insolent!

Amenias. He was standing here when I last saw him.

Palaemon. He was standing here.

[They search all over the room.]

King Bilbonzo (to Amenias). What is that on the floor?

Amenias (picking it up). A tuft of grass, Sire!

King Bilbonzo. This is infamous ribaldry.

Lepidus. It is very mysterious.

Homaris. Jugglers’ tricks! We have all been made fools of.

Footman (opening a door). Breakfast is served, your Majesty!

King Bilbonzo. Come, my lords,—search no further! It is not worth while. Follow me! [He retires with dignity.]

Hyacinthe (follows, improvising)—

Shall hate and envy dim its lustre—

The crown on royal brows that glows—

And rob the People of their father,

And lead both parties by the nose?

La, la, la, la—no, never! no, never!

La, la, la!

[Exeunt omnes, following one another in a solemn procession.

Frederick Van Eeden.

(From the Comedy of “Don Torribio.”)

THE DOMINIE.[^[3]]

“It is a very serious matter,” said Gerrit Rond, the burgomaster, to Kobus.

“Very serious, indeed,” replied Kobus, the veldwachter.[^[4]]

“It is a disgrace to the whole parish!” continued the burgomaster.

“An everlasting disgrace!” repeated the veldwachter.

Then followed an ominous silence, in the course of which the burgomaster, with gloomy countenance and wildly rolling eye, attentively followed the movements of a fly which was leisurely walking about the stately expanse of his waistcoat; while the veldwachter kept a watchful eye on his superior’s features, that he might not fail to mould his own accordingly. In the meantime, he knit his brows, and provided himself with a half-expectant, half-threatening expression.

“IT IS A DISGRACE TO THE WHOLE PARISH!”

At length the reverend head of Gerrit, the burgomaster, solemnly rose upright, and his reflection opposite did the same.

“Kobus,” said Gerrit, “it must be seen to.”

And Kobus replied: “It shall be seen to, if your worship pleases.”

“Very good, Kobus; and I do please—of that I assure you....”

“I think I’ve got something,” said Gerrit, with an astute smile, and rubbed his nose with a civic forefinger, in a satisfied way.

“Ha!” cried Kobus, triumphantly.

“Yes, surely, ... surely, ...” said Gerrit, as though thinking aloud,—still, astute, smiling, and rubbing his nose, ... “But let us at least go over the whole thing once more—at least the main point.”

“Shall I tell your worship once more, exactly?” asked Kobus, with a self-satisfied laugh.

“Well, yes, it will be just as well. I can then weigh the importance of the whole matter so much better. Just go on,” said the burgomaster, with the lofty attitude of one who is quite sure of himself, and can afford to wait for anything, seeing that his resolution is already taken.

“I will therefore tell your worship, once more,” began Kobus, “that on Saturday week—a fortnight ago to-morrow—Jan o’ the Wood came running into my house with a face—with a face....”

“Like Balthasar Gerard’s,”[^[5]] the burgomaster helped him out, with a certain gloomy majesty befitting the dignity of his position and his historical knowledge.

“That would be just about it,” said Kobus, with deep respect, and then went on. “He rushed into my house with a face like—h’m, h’m—it’s sinful to think of—what a face the man had! And first he dropped down on a chair, and couldn’t speak a word—not a letter—your worship! My wife gave him a glass of water, and she said, says she, ‘Come, Jan, just drink a little, and then you’ll come to yourself again, and then you can tell us what’s the matter.’ That’s what she said, your worship,—for them women-folk are always so curious, and she was just on fire, I tell you. Jan soon got his breath, and then it came out—how, that night—last Saturday week, a fortnight ago to-morrow—two baskets full of pears had been taken away from his trees—two whole baskets, your worship!”

Gerrit Rond, the burgomaster, the principal resident, and the respected head of his parish, stroked his plump chin complacently, and looked at his factotum, quietly smiling.

“Well; and what more, Kobus?”

Such imperturbable calm must surely conceal a great plan, thought the veldwachter; and he was several seconds recovering from his consternation. Then he stammered,—

“And ... and ... nothing more, your worship. I reported the matter to you at once; I drew up the procès-verbal. But though I have done my best to find out....”

The honest veldwachter completed his sentence by shrugging his shoulders, extending his arms, and dropping them again,—illustrating the whole pantomime by a face expressive of the utmost helplessness.

But now Gerrit Rond, burgomaster, the principal resident, and respected head of the community, arose from his municipal arm-chair, and spake,—

“Kobus, I know it!”

Kobus listened in breathless excitement.

“Kobus,” the burgomaster went on, looking round him with vigilant eyes, as though he suspected that pear-thieves might be hidden in the corners of his sitting-room,—“Kobus, did he steal all the pears?”

The veldwachter was silent, and looked questioningly at the burgomaster. He could not make out what the latter was driving at.

“I mean,” explained the father of the citizens, “whether Jan o’ the Wood has not got a single pear left on his trees?”

“Well; no, sir. Two baskets the rascal made off with; but how many baskets there were to be had in that orchard, I don’t know. It’s quite terrible the way Jan’s trees bear, and everything prime quality, large-sized, and juicy. I think Jan’s father had them before him, and he must have brought them....”

“That will do, Kobus,” the burgomaster interrupted his subordinate; “but that’s not the point.... So the pears have not all been removed? I mean, by this, that the thief has not unlawfully possessed himself of the whole?”

“Why, no, your worship.”

“Now, Kobus, look here.”

Kobus listened respectfully, understanding that the critical moment had now arrived.

“My father, Kobus, was a man of sense, and when he had enjoyed anything, he always used to say, ‘This peach tastes of more.’”

“Oh, yes!” exclaimed Kobus, as though suddenly enlightened,—whereas, in truth, he was more puzzled than ever.

“And, look you, Kobus, the apple can never fall far from the tree. My father was a sensible man; and I, too, say, ‘This peach tastes of more,’ and....”

Here the burgomaster looked through his half-closed eyelids with an air of infinite sagacity, and added, slowly dragging out his words, one by one,—

“... And—that—I suspect—the thief—will—say—too.”

“O-o-oh!” bellowed the veldwachter; “I understand—the thief will want more pears. He will come back, and then we’ll catch him?”

The burgomaster looked at his factotum with a paternal air of approbation.

“Kobus!” said he, “something may be made of you yet!”

“Does your worship think that?” cried Kobus, in an ecstasy,—and a rosy prospect instantly appeared before his mind’s eye—chief agent in a large town, commissioner of police, nay, perhaps,—but that he would not have dared to say out loud for any money in the world,—perhaps, one day, even burgomaster!

“But now to business, Kobus! This very night we will try to catch the thief; and my name is not Gerrit Rond if we don’t succeed. We’ll hide in Jan’s orchard, and when he comes we’ll collar him, and then....”

Here the burgomaster-detective pointed downwards. Under the tower of the court-house there was a vault or cellar of masonry, which usually served as a receptacle for old iron and thieves; the latter destination, however, was unknown, save by tradition, for only the very oldest inhabitants of the village dimly remembered an evil-doer being imprisoned there.

Kobus then suggested that it might be as well to take his son Hannes with him on their expedition, a suggestion which might have been unkindly interpreted by outsiders, for there were unpleasant reports current about the brave garde-champêtre’s reluctance to pursue criminals alone. The suggestion, however, found favour in the eyes of the magistrate, as it would enable them to take forty winks while the boy watched for the appearance of the thief. This being settled, Kobus withdrew, to reappear at the appointed time that evening. But he had not been gone long when a loud knocking startled the burgomaster out of an incipient reverie.

“Come in!” he cried, somewhat ungraciously, and the opening door revealed Kobus’s bearded face; but this time with so scared an expression, and such wildly rolling eyes, that Gerrit turned rigid with terror and, pale as death, held on to the back of his chair for support, as he stammered,

“Wh—wh—what is it, Kobus?”

“Burrgemeesterr,” rolled out Kobus, hoarsely, making as much as possible of the r’s, and putting his head round the door without coming into the room, “the thief of the apples that were stolen from Piet Stein a year and a half ago, and this thief of the pears....”

“The same,” sighed the burgomaster, struck with consternation.

“Your worship,” said Kobus, “it is a conspiracy! Shall we—should we—go and ask the Dominie?”

But scarcely had Kobus uttered this fatal word than he darted out of the door and up the street, and it was long before his mind’s eye had lost sight of that frightful picture: the burgomaster, purple in the face, and boiling over with indignation; and the voice of his superior thundered in his ears with all the annihilating force of contempt.

“The Dominie!” was all he had said.

The village schoolmaster was an old man of sixty-three, who, ever since his twentieth year, had stood, day after day, Sundays excepted, behind the same desk, leading the peasants’ children from the spelling of s, p, a—spa, to the four elementary rules of arithmetic. Every year a few left him, being found ripe for forgetting at the plough-tail what they had learnt in the schoolroom, and every year fresh aspirants for s, p, a—spa, appeared on the scenes. So he had grown old at his work, and his work with him. For he belonged to the pre-examination days—he was a “schoolmeester,” not an “onderwijzer.” The new generation looked on him rather as a curiosity, a touchstone of progress, a souvenir of old times, than a living being, a wheel in the world-machine of the nineteenth century. Other men of his age had gone with the stream, and followed its capricious windings; he had landed on the bank, and followed his own old path; his mind had rusted into the old groove, and he could not extricate it.

He had already received hints that he ought to retire, to ask for his pension, so as to make way for modern forces; but the idea of ceasing to stand before his class and behind his desk was too strange to the old man—too new!

So he remained on for the present, till his resignation should no longer be a matter of choice.

The elder children were busy doing sums; the younger ones were being attended to by the Dominie himself.

But how strange he was to-day! It sometimes seemed as if he heard nothing of the lesson the children were droning over,—saw nothing of the tricks the older ones were up to in the background,—as if, in fact, he were thinking of something entirely different. He had such fits, sometimes. How funny it was, now, when he dipped his pencil into the inkstand, instead of a penholder, and, shortly afterwards, abstractedly put it into his mouth! What a face he made when he found it out! The whole school had simply yelled at the joke, and the Dominie had got very angry, and put the whole lot of them in detention. Later, however, he almost laughed at the matter himself, and allowed them all to go home. Such foolish and absurd things he used to do every now and then; and the reason for this was, as the burgomaster said, because the Dominie was “an obstructive fellow,” and “not practical.”

And when the burgomaster said so, every one believed him, for the burgomaster was considered a very clever man.

But, after all, the Dominie was cleverer still.

For, indeed, there were sometimes things that the Dominie himself did not know,—of course, for no man can know everything. But, in those cases, he always said, “I’ll just look it up.” And then he looked in his books, and kept on looking till he found it; and he always did find it, because he had such piles of books! For, after all, that was where things were to be found—in books! For this reason the burgomaster was not so clever as the schoolmaster; he had scarcely any books at all. This was one cause of the burgomaster’s dislike. He was Gerrit Rond, the burgomaster, the first man in the village; and the Dominie was just the schoolmaster. And, naturally, the former could not endure being looked on as less clever than the latter. But he did not utter this opinion aloud; he sometimes needed the Dominie’s help in “just looking up something,” and swallowed his dislike as best he could; but people could see it all the same.

Yes, indeed! the Dominie was particularly clever!

Once it befell that Piet Stein’s son came home from the city, where he had “studied” with a view to becoming assistant-teacher; and on that occasion he had said, in the presence of his father, “All the Dominie’s cleverness is worth nothing; he is antiquated, and doesn’t know French.” Piet Stein, junior, was well acquainted with the French language; he had just learnt it. But Piet Stein, senior, seized his promising son by the collar, and dealt him a well-intentioned thrashing, “to knock these new-fangled notions out of him once for all.”

For the schoolmaster was a knowledgeable man. He lived with his books, and—which was less obvious to the eyes of the world—with his instruments and his medicine-chest. For years past he had been practising on his own account, and had acquired a certain medical reputation among the peasants of the neighbourhood as well as within the village. He had, in truth, treated several cases within the last few years with great success; but it might be better not to inquire how many earlier trials had failed. Then came the new ideas—the laws against unlicensed doctoring were strictly enforced, and he received warnings from various quarters, of which, however, he took no notice. He could not understand why he might not try to lessen people’s sufferings, as well as other men, who usually did not succeed any better than he. It had become to him a passion, an aim in life, a vocation.

So he obstinately went his own way, in spite of warnings, till the doctors, whom he injured in their practice, at last lost patience, and prosecuted him. He was convicted and fined, and from that time his medical career was over,—at least so it was universally reported. It seemed strange, however, that now and then a sick person made a wonderful recovery, without having been treated by the doctor.

Now, one evening it happened that old Klaas, the shepherd, was seriously ill, and had asked for the schoolmaster. The Dominie had said “No,” but he had meant “Yes”; for though no longer allowed to do any doctoring, he could not keep from it. So he meant to wait till it was dark, and then slip out unnoticed to Klaas’ cottage.

In Jan o’ the Wood’s orchard three figures were crouching down behind three low dwarf pear-trees, and each of the three had his head full of thoughts that were not those of his neighbour. The burgomaster was chiefly tortured by the idea that on the good or ill success of the evening’s undertaking depended the preservation of his official dignity; for, seeing that he had enjoined the strictest secrecy on the veldwachter, and his promising son and heir, the only question was which of the two would most speedily spread abroad the whole story through the village. But, over and above this, the respected head of the community was trembling like an aspen-leaf, for before his mental eye there arose a vision of a robber—yes, truly and literally, a robber,—a man with a long beard, bristling hair, and bloodshot eyes,—a man who goes about with jemmies and murderous weapons on his person, and—and—who might kill you if you came in his way, you see!

The veldwachter was, before all things, eager to behold the heroic feats of the burgomaster, for he was firmly convinced that the mere presence of the great man was sufficient to compel the miscreant to run into the snare. For terror there was now no room in his martial spirit,—for, after all, he had Hannes with him!

Hannes was a big sturdy chap, who at fifteen might well have been taken for eighteen,—a fellow with fists like engine-buffers, and a face which, for shrewd intelligence of expression, was about equal to that of a sheep. Hannes was burning with impatience to hammer away at the malefactor; hitherto he had only tried his strength on mere vagabonds, but now he was to have the opportunity of measuring himself with a real thief. That would be something to boast of!

Thus the three would-be thief-catchers sat in the greatest excitement behind three of the smallest dwarf pear-trees that any one can imagine.

A considerable time elapsed, during which even the strained senses of the triumvirate could perceive nothing which, in the remotest degree, resembled even a fraction of a thief. At last Hannes’ patience was exhausted, and with it his capacity for silence. “Dad,” he began in a whisper, “if he comes, am I to take him by the throat and choke him, or shall I punch his head till he falls down dead?”

“I don’t know,” replied the veldwachter, in an equally cautious whisper, at least as low as his love for gutturals and sibilants would allow, “I’ll just ask his worship.” Thus did Kobus, and repeated the gruesome question to the burgomaster, thereby sending a shudder through the latter’s limbs.

“Tell him,” said the heroic man to his heroic subordinate, who was squatting between his superior and his son, “that he must seize him by the legs, so as not to come within reach of his hands; the thief is sure to have daggers and pistols to defend himself with if he is attacked.” Thus spake the wise man; but the real reason for his caution was that he felt there might be disagreeable consequences for himself if Hannes received the thief in too heavy-handed a manner.

The veldwachter passed on the message in a whisper to his son:

“Hold him by the legs, Hannes!”

“All right, dad,” replied Hannes, though he did not understand why he was to treat the criminal so gently. But the burgomaster had said so,—in other words, the oracle had spoken, and so——

It was very quiet, in the dark, behind Jan’s pear-tree. The burgomaster dropped his venerated head, and slept. When Kobus heard the low sound of snoring beside him, he turned to his son, and said:

“Hannes, his worship is off; I think I’ll have a nap too; keep a good look-out, and give me a push if you see anything wrong.”

“All right, dad,” said Hannes, and he sat bolt upright, and opened his eyes still wider than before. But the duet at his side, the darkness all round him, and the weariness in his eyelids, made him close them now and then. He struggled bravely against sleep, but there was no one to help him. And he was only fifteen, and it was so late and so dark, and Hannes fell into a doze.

Now and then he was awakened for a moment or so by the uneasy thought that he was the one who had to watch. On one of these occasions, he thought he saw a dim figure pass right before him in this dark, and to hear steps—hurried footsteps. He rubbed his eyes, and—yes—there was some one carefully opening the gate and leaving the orchard.

Hastily Hannes awakened his parent, in the gentle manner prescribed and told him, in a whisper, what he knew. The awful tidings were then reported to the burgomaster, and a moment later the trio were on their way to seek the thief, who surely, as the veldwachter supposed, was just carrying away his booty. Hannes went first, the burgomaster followed, and Kobus formed the rearguard. This order had been determined by the burgomaster. “For,” said he, “as head of the community, I ought to have the most protection.”

In this way the police force wandered aimlessly about for some time. Hannes did not know for certain what direction the thief had taken after leaving the orchard; and, besides, there was scarcely any light. It really seemed as though the moon were taking upon herself to play at bo-peep with the most worshipful the burgomaster, for she chose not to show up at all. Yes, perhaps, indeed—oh! scandalous thought!—she was making faces at the great man behind her thick curtain of clouds! Who knows?—there are such queer stories told about the moon.

The expedition, then, returned to the orchard unsuccessful, and once more took up its position behind the dwarf pear-trees. That the miscreant might yet return seemed probable, as Hannes assured them that he had indeed seen him carrying something under his arm, but not a large sack or anything of that sort. He could not, therefore, have taken much with him. And they waited—waited—waited....

Meanwhile the schoolmaster had quietly gone on his way. The better to escape observation, he did not take the nearest way, along the main street, but went out into his back garden, opened a little gate which led into Jan o’ the Wood’s orchard, struck right across the orchard, and so reached a lane leading round to the other side of the village. Here he turned into a wood, and, following a small winding footpath, came at length to a lonely cottage, seemingly forsaken, hidden away among the tall trees. Here he seemed a habitual visitor. At least he lifted the latch without first knocking, opened the door, and found himself in an apartment serving at the same time as bedroom and kitchen.

A close, heavy air, and an ominous stillness, seemed to oppress him as he entered. But the Dominie was not easily daunted. He felt about till he found a lamp standing on the table, and lit it. With the light, life seemed to come into the dead silence of the room; at least a low moaning was heard from a corner where there was a bedstead, and a broken voice asked, “Who’s there?”

“It’s I, Klaas, the schoolmaster,” announced the visitor; and, bending over the sick man, he went on, “How is it with you?”

“It’s all up, Dominie, it’s all up,” gasped the voice. “Oh, Klaas is no great loss—not much; oh no!”

There seemed to be reason enough for such an estimate; at least the man who lay there dying did not give the idea of one whose loss society would feel very keenly. The flickering lamp-light showed the bed-place, let into the wall like a ship’s berth, in an indefinite half-darkness, except the head, on which a dull yellow gleam was cast. There lay, on an unsightly grey, greasy bolster, a head that at first sight seemed more animal than human. The thin face was made still more angular and hollow by the strongly projecting cheek-bones, and the pointed chin with its bristly beard. The upper-lip, and indeed the whole mouth, was almost covered with stiff hair; the nose was broad, flat, and turned up; while a quantity of lank, tangled hair fell over the projecting forehead and deep-set eyes. But these eyes glittered fiercely, every now and then, in their dark sockets, and then again looked anxiously, almost entreatingly, at the schoolmaster.

The Dominie tried to answer him cheerfully. “Come, come, Klaas! What foolish talk is this? You may not have been a king or a great man, but you have been of use for all that. Shepherds are wanted just as much as kings.”

“No, sir,” said Klaas, moving his head restlessly. “Every day so many finer lights are blown out, and Klaas is only a rushlight. Oh, Lord, yes!”

The old schoolmaster tried to comfort him, but Klaas still seemed to have something on his mind.

He had stolen Jan’s pears a fortnight ago, he told the schoolmaster at last.

The old man remained with him till a late hour, and then started homewards by the same way as he had come.

“Father, father!”

“What is it, Hannes?”

“I hear the gate creak.”

“So it does.... Your worship, here he comes back again.”

“Really? Yes, I see him.... Kobus, stand firm, my man. Let Hannes hold him fast by the legs. No, not yet—wait till he passes! Oh, do be careful! Look out for his weapons!”

“Hannes, be ready!”

“I’m quite ready, dad.”

“Not before I speak, and then by the legs—do you hear?”

“Yes, dad. Hush now!”

—The shuffling of approaching footsteps in the grass of the orchard ... suddenly a figure disengages itself from the darkness.—

“Now, Hannes, now!”

Hannes creeps forward along the ground, seizes the figure, according to instructions, firmly by the ankles—a good pull—and the thief falls forward at full length. Hannes seizes his wrists, and lets himself fall flat on the top of his prey.

The veldwachter, for greater security, incontinently throws himself upon his two predecessors; and the burgomaster crowns the human pyramid, and the successful thief-hunt, by sitting down, with all his burgomasterly weight and a heavy bump, upon the three others, triumphantly shouting the while, “I’ve got him,”—which is answered by, “Oh my ribs, your worship!” from the uppermost stratum, “What in thunder!” from the midmost, and a smothered groan from the lowest.

“Hannes, have you got a hold of his hands—tight now?”

“Yes, your worship, but I can’t do anything myself like this.”

“Well, I’ll get up, but keep a good hold of him—do you hear?”

“All right, sir.”

The burgomaster arose. “Kobus, put the handcuffs on him at once. In heaven’s name make haste about it then.”

The veldwachter bustled up from the ground, and set about securing the prisoner as closely as possible. While he was thus occupied, and Hannes was holding the persistently silent criminal, the burgomaster kept walking round and round his captive in order to see what sort of a fish he had got in his net. In this he would probably have been unsuccessful, had not the moon, in a sudden caprice, shone out brightly once more. When the triumvirate saw the pale face, paler than ever with the fright and the cold moonlight, and perceived it to be the face so well known to them, all their astonishment uttered itself in the simultaneous cry—

“The Dominie!”

The school was empty, and the children had a holiday, for the Dominie ... was sitting in the vault under the tower.

Under the tower sat the Dominie, amidst pieces of old iron and other rubbish. Light and air stole in shyly, in small quantities, through the little, square, grated window, in which a single scrap of glass, dusty and weather-stained, remained in one corner, to show there had once been a pane. As the court-house was surrounded by a paddock, which again was enclosed by a low wall, the sounds from outside only penetrated indistinctly, as a vague murmur, into this chamber. Sometimes it was quiet,—deadly still, there, especially of an evening, and then life came into the place, for the rats and mice began their games. The Master was an old man, and nervous, and he could not sleep much. He thought over the whole matter in his wakeful hours, and it gradually became clear to him that he had been arrested by mistake.... Klaas had stolen Jan van ’t Hout’s pears, and he, the Dominie, had been taken for the thief returning for a second load. But it would not be difficult to prove his innocence. Only it was lasting a long time; he ought surely to have been tried before now. Four days had passed without his hearing anything. Even the veldwachter, who, as a rule, could not be with him two minutes without wanting to relate some story or other, was now silence itself, when he brought the Dominie his daily rations. What was the meaning of this delay?

“SITTING IN THE VAULT UNDER THE TOWER.”

Yes, the delay had well-founded reasons! The burgomaster had indeed caught the fish, but he did not exactly know what he was to do with him. It was a ticklish business. Was he to hand over the prisoner immediately, without the form of a trial, to the authorities in town? or was he first to hold an inquiry, and send up the procès-verbal along with the prisoner? Supposing the latter to be the case, how was he to set about it? It was a most unfortunate circumstance that there had never been any thieves in the parish, for now the burgomaster was most certainly at his wits’ end. The secretary—a poor, infirm old man, almost in his dotage—was consulted in vain. The same result attended a conference with the “law-holders.”[^[6]] Finally the burgomaster called Kobus to his assistance. He reflected for some time, and said at last:

“Doesn’t it say in the communal bye-laws?”

“This case is one for which no provision is made in the Gemeentewet” said the burgomaster, with admirable composure,—the truth being that the greater part of the Gemeentewet was Greek to him, and that he had gradually picked up, by practical experience, what knowledge he possessed of his official duties. Kobus, however, was very far from suspecting any such subtleties, and believed his superior implicitly. His invention being now exhausted, he confined himself to remarking, with a sigh, “If it hadn’t been the Dominie himself, now, we might have asked him—he could surely have looked it up somewhere.”

Yes, that would have been too absurd. They could not have brought the Dominie all his books in a wheelbarrow, and requested him to “look up” information as to what was to be done with himself! No—that would not do. But all at once an expedient occurred to Kobus. There was an old, old man in the village—a grey-beard of ninety or more. Perhaps in his young days there might have been such a thing as a malefactor in this rural region. Yes, the idea was not such a bad one, and Kobus was sent as a delegate from the government to this oracle of antiquity. In fact, the old man had a suggestion ready. He remembered that some sixty years ago an analogous case had occurred, and then the burgomaster had first examined the culprit himself, and then sent him to town for trial. He added, however, that the burgomaster on that occasion had not been quite certain of what he ought to do. That, however, did not matter so much—the precedent was there in any case. The schoolmaster then must be examined; and, as Mulders had once been present at a trial in court, the forms of justice presented no such great difficulty after all.

On the fifth day after his arrest, the schoolmaster was haled forth from the dungeon under the tower, and—of course, heavily handcuffed—taken to the council-chamber. That was an event. The whole village formed a long procession, which accompanied the prisoner; and when he was taken inside, his train remained hanging about the doors. Then followed a buzz and clatter among the crowd, as though it were a swarm of bees, or a duck-yard.

“THAT WAS AN EVENT.”

“It’s too bad,” said a little old woman; “an old white-haired man like that. What may not a man come to? Only yesterday he was teaching my daughter’s children their lessons, and to-day the poor lambs are running after their master, because he’s been in jail just like some nasty vagabond. And I can’t believe it of him, do you know—anything but that. He has always been much too kind to every one. I’m not the only one here whom he has helped for nothing—nothing at all—without your having to pay a cent for it.”

“Yes, but, mother,” began a rich farmer,—with a face and attitude in which the most condescending amiability could not altogether hide the lowest greed, and a stupid arrogant conceit,—“you must understand that there are well-founded reasons—I say, well-founded reasons—for the man to have been taken up—eh? That’s surely self-evident—eh? No one is put into handcuffs without important reasons; there must be a ground for such a motive—I say, for such a motive.” And then the mighty orator looked round him with a “What do you think of me now?” expression, and enjoyed his victory over the old woman. But the latter was not to be driven from the field so easily.

“You go along with your French talk. I know nothing about that,—and yet I think I know quite as much as you do yourself. But this I know, that it doesn’t look well for you, of all people, to abuse the schoolmaster anyway. Even though it were as clear as a post above the water that the Dominie had stolen, you ought to stand up for him! Do you understand me—eh?”

The rich farmer understood quite well. When his youngest boy had been lying ill some months ago, he had been too mean to send for a doctor, though he could well afford it, and had called the schoolmaster to his assistance. Then, as at other times, the Dominie had said “No,” to keep up appearances, as he was not supposed to practise any more; but he had thought “Yes,” and acted on his thought. And the rich farmer had paid him nothing. This was why he now hurriedly turned away from this covert attack, muttering something about “old creatures getting quite childish,” but abstained from further contradiction.

But the old woman could not be everywhere at once to take the Dominie’s part, and the conclusion of most conversations was this: “Yes, you see, folks don’t call a cow piebald, when there’s not a spot about her.”

Suddenly, however, all voices were hushed before the reverently-uttered magic formula, “The Burgomaster!”

The crowd parted to let him pass, and he went up to the council-chamber, where the faithful Kobus, in his Sunday suit, was awaiting him. He was already going to meet the burgomaster, in order to tell him that “they” were all there; but the great man was looking straight in front of him, as stiff as a poker, and making, in a direct line, for his official chair, like a guest who, on being ushered in, looks neither to right nor left, but makes straight for the lady of the house.

This was “the proper form.” Kobus was so impressed by this ceremonial that he stared with open mouth and eyes, and remained immovable, like a masculine counterpart of Lot’s wife. The burgomaster had elegant manners, that he had.

“Are all present?” asked the burgomaster, suddenly.

Kobus awakened with a start from his ecstatic trance. “Yes, your worship,” he answered, regaining his composure.

“Then the trial may begin,” said the President of the Court. “And you, Veldwachter, do you caligraph it!”

“I—I don’t altogether understand, your worship.”

“Caligraph, Veldwachter!”

“Oh!—ah!—hm—yes, I don’t understand——.”

“Write it down, Veldwachter. Caligraphy—that is the art of writing, you know.”

“All right, your worship.” Kobus sat down at a table, took up a pen, and bent over a sheet of paper. But the paper was destined to remain unsoiled. For, all of a sudden, the burgomaster looked round him, and, probably struck by the emptiness of the room, inquired, “Veldwachter, are all the witnesses present?”

“All the witnesses are present, your worship,” answered Kobus, indicating, with a majestic wave of the hand, his solitary son Hannes, who sat so forlorn, that, looking at him and the schoolmaster, it would have been hard to say which was witness and which defendant; for the Dominie had his handcuffed hands on his knees under the table, and you would not have guessed from his calm features—pale and worn with the fatigues of the last few days—that he was accused of any crime.

“But,” pursued Kobus, “your worship has just said something that gives me an idea. Ought there not to be some other witnesses?”

“Other witnesses?”

“Yes, I mean witnesses to witness for him, do you see? I mean to say, Hannes sits here, for instance, to speak against—I mean against the Dominie,—but ought there not to be some witnesses to speak for him as well?”

The burgomaster began to think. This was a difficult question, one of those ticklish and delicate problems, the solution of which forms the principal raison d’être of a burgomaster’s career. If only this miserable trial had never begun! He cast a furtive glance at the defendant. If only he could consult the Dominie, and ask him to look up his books about the matter! But away with such humiliating thoughts! No; better, if it must be, to manifest his ignorance in a more becoming way: “Veldwachter, is that what they do in town? It was different in my time.”

“They do it that way now, your worship.”

“Then we had better move with the times, and adapt ourselves to the new usages. But where are the—the for-witnesses to come from?”

“Oh! there’s a whole crowd outside the door, your worship—perhaps you might find one among them. And if there’s no one to be had—well, at any rate, we’ve done our best to find one.”

“Go outside, then, and proclaim a summons, on my behalf.”

Kobus went and did so, wording the “proclamation” as clearly as he knew how. But a deathly stillness was all the answer he received. For though many a simple soul was honestly convinced of the defendant’s innocence, and though here and there a solitary voice had been raised in his favour,—to go in there, into the council-chamber,—to stand before the tribunal,—that was more than those timid folk could undertake.

Suddenly, however, a shrill voice cried, “Well, if no one else will do it, I will.” And the little old woman who had already taken up the cudgels for the Dominie, forced her way hastily to the front of the crowd.

“Look’ee there; Auntie’s going to speak,” cried various voices. Every one repeated, laughing, “Auntie’s going to speak!” for under this name the old lady was known to all the village.

Auntie cared neither for laughter nor tears, but went straight forward, climbed the court-house steps, and then suddenly turned round, waved her thin old arms, and cried as loud as she could, “You’re a pack of cowards, the lot of you,—do you hear, you great loobies?” Then she disappeared inside. And though she was a funny figure enough as she stood there, no one thought of laughing,—they all felt the truth of Auntie’s words too deeply.

“YOU’RE A PACK OF COWARDS.”

Auntie was conducted inside by the veldwachter, and her eye immediately fell on her client. The Dominie remained seated in the same attitude, discouraged and dejected—deeply humiliated by the thought that, at his age, with his aspirations and such a past behind him, he should have to bow his head beneath the weight of a criminal accusation! The trouble dimmed his thinking powers, and drove the blood through his veins at lightning speed. What a hammering in his pulses—what a thumping in his temples—what a rushing in his ears! He felt like a swimmer who has been long under water, and finds it press more and more crushingly on him, and hears its noise in his ears. That was the fever—the fever that was rising higher and higher in his blood, and brought that unnatural flush to his usually pale cheeks.

Auntie looked at the sad spectacle he presented, and her indignation rose, and craved for immediate utterance.

“Burgomaster!” she began, “don’t you call it a shame that the Dominie——”

But her flow of words was immediately interrupted by the burgomaster: “Silence! witness, this is not as it should be. You have come here to give your evidence voluntarily, and to do this effectually all the forms must be observed. Witness, what is your name?”

“Well, I never—my name! Just as though the whole village didn’t know me? Come, come, Burgomaster, every one knew my name long before yours was ever thought of; and do you want to pretend that you don’t know me? No, man, that won’t do. All those grand manners won’t go down with old Auntie. All the same, I can tell you plainly why the poor fellow could not have stolen the pears; and so you are quite out of it, with all your fine forms and speeches, do you see? Now just let me ask you, if he took the pears, where did he leave them,—say?”

And Auntie placed her arms akimbo, and assumed an attitude which seemed to say, “Your turn now—come on!”

But the opposite party remained passive. The burgomaster, as it happened, was seized with a violent fit of coughing, which seemed as though it could not come to an end. It was a pity, for, but for that, surely, the wise man would have answered the conundrum with Solomonic perspicuity. The veldwachter-clerk said, “Hm, hm—yes, yes,” and covered his beard with his hand. The witness for the prosecution yawned with ennui and hunger. The defendant sat still, and looked at the old woman with rigid eyes.

But all things come to an end, and so did the presiding judge’s cough. However, he seemed to have coughed away all his judicial sagacity, for he remained silent. Not so Kobus Mulders, who awakened from his reverie after this fashion—

“Yes, yes,—where did he leave them? I only say, your worship,—where did he leave the pears, if he stole them?”

“Oh, yes, that’s what I should like to know,” said Auntie, shortly, and closed her lips with a look of firm conviction.

Another pause.

“Yes,” resumed Kobus, “he can’t have swallowed them all down at once.” This joke appeared to him so inexpressibly funny, that he burst into a loud hoarse laugh, which was echoed by no one except Hannes. But suddenly the joker’s features became rigid, and he looked at every one present with a face whose expression plainly said, “How is it possible that I did not think of it before?” and exclaimed, “I know! Your worship, the little chest that we found in Klaas’s cottage the day after he died——”

“Well, Kobus?” asked the burgomaster, in great excitement—so much so that he quite forgot to speak officially.

“It is the Dominie’s, and now I understand everything. The Dominie didn’t steal, and Auntie is quite right. It could not be, either. Just listen. The Dominie has been at his doctoring again. He went to see Klaas when he was dying, and forgot to take his medicine-chest away with him when he left. I am quite sure it is his medicine-chest, because it is the same thing I used to see in his hands in the old times, when nobody minded his doctoring folks. And the time just corresponds. On the day after we arrested the Dominie, I went to see Klaas, and found him dead. It’s as plain—as—well, it’s quite plain!”

Every one had listened with the greatest attention, and the explanation seemed to have made a deep impression on all. The Dominie, however, seemed to feel it most. He suddenly started up out of his apathy, leaned his handcuffed hands on the table, and tried to speak. Everything melted into a dull roar inside his head—the light turned to scarlet—he had fainted.

All of them hastened up to help him—Auntie foremost, in spite of her old legs. Slowly he came to himself again, and then he tried to think. He remembered what had happened, in a dim sort of way. What now? What should he answer if they asked him whether Kobus’s supposition was correct? It was—and yet, if he acknowledged that he had gone to Klaas on that particular evening to give him medical help, then he would have to expect for the future so strict a supervision of his forbidden practice, that it would thenceforth be almost impossible to carry it on. And he could not give it up—he could not, and would not. But to be looked on as a thief! Oh, if he could only think—think quietly and calmly. But this fever! this fever! No, it was his duty, his calling, and he must be true to it, though he should be crushed by the contempt of the whole world—the world he longed to do good to. And wildly, as a wave of delirium swept over him, he said, “No! no! no! I didn’t do that! The chest is not mine! I know nothing about it, and wish to know nothing—do you hear? I am no doctor; I am only a poor schoolmaster! I am much too stupid to be a doctor, and I have never done anything of the sort! I’m a thief—a wretched thief—a thief!” He cried shrilly once more, with all his strength, “A thief!” and let his burning head drop on his heaving breast.

His hearers looked at each other. Not one of them now believed in his guilt, and even in the burgomaster—who was only narrow-minded, not bad-hearted—every hostile feeling now gave place to pity.

“Come, Dominie,” he said, laying his hand on the old man’s shoulder, “come, you mustn’t make so much of it as all that. We all understand the whole business now; and as for the medicine-chest, I forbid every one here present to say one word about it!” At these words the burgomaster looked round him with such a solemn air of command, that Kobus cast down his eyes, and Hannes shuddered with sheer reverence. But the great man, mindful of his duties as presiding judge, went on—“Now, defendant, you are acquitted; you may go.”

But Auntie flew up in a storm of indignation. “What! go? My patience, me! Burgomaster, don’t you see the poor soul can hardly sit in his chair? Come, Hannes, you great lout, what are you loafing about there for, you great long booby, you? Run out, and tell them to send some menfolks to carry the Dominie home. Quick now!”

This classic oration produced a visible impression on Hannes, and, before long, he came back with several men, who carried the schoolmaster away, Auntie walking behind, and saying, from time to time, “Take care! take care!” When it became known outside that the Dominie’s innocence was established, every one set up a loud cry of joy.

Inside, however, the burgomaster and Kobus were looking at each other with serious faces. “I haven’t written down anything, with all the confusion,” said Kobus. The burgomaster considered. If the matter were reported in town, he would probably get well laughed at for his mistake. And what about the forms in which such a narrative, if reported, would have to be clothed? No; it was best to put the whole thing aside, and say no more about it.

“Veldwachter, it seems to me that this matter is not now of sufficient importance for us to communicate it to the judicial authorities of the parquet; so you may go too.”

Without understanding half of this speech, Kobus was able to catch the burgomaster’s drift,—the matter was at an end. So he went home, reflecting how frightfully learned the burgomaster was.

C. K. Elout.

MY HERO.

I was a boy of twelve or thirteen, and, just like other boys of that age, full of life, mischief, ideals, and illusions.

A good-for-nothing little scamp out of school, I was, under the master’s eye, a queer mixture of the genuine mischief-loving boy and the zealous pupil. If I found no attraction in the dry science of arithmetic and the rules of grammar, all the more did I feel attracted by the history of all nations in general, and ours in particular.

Yet not altogether; it was only the warlike Spartans and Romans, our own crusading knights, and the fierce and enterprising Gueux,—in short, only those whom I looked upon as heroes who could arrest my attention.

Frequently it vexed me that my lunch-slice of bread and butter did not consist of black, coarse bread; sometimes I felt a deep disdain for my clothes, so different from those in which the Roman legions marched to victory; all peaceable merchant-vessels were an abomination to me,—I knew but one ideal—to be a hero.

What I understood by a hero was not quite clear, even to myself,—only this was certain, that no one could be a hero unless he had won many great battles over stronger adversaries, or had blown up his ship in order to save the flag, or ended his glorious life covered with wounds in the breast (never in the back, of course!). In short, my idea of a hero was somewhat complicated; but this much was certain, that a great hero ought to be able to show a large number of wounds and scars, and that his bravery should be equalled by his generosity.

I wished to be a hero myself, but as I quite understood that I was too young for the position at present, my great desire was, at least, to see and know a hero.

I sought everywhere for this superior being, and thought at last that I had found my ideal in our new “odd man,” who had been a soldier, and had a large scar on his cheek.

From this one outward and visible token of his bravery, I argued that he must have more hidden about his person, under his clothes. These wounds, alas! I could never hope to see, as he did not live in the house, but came every day to clean boots and run errands.

I was, however, firmly convinced that they existed. The only drawback to his greatness was the fact that he had both his arms and no wooden leg. I would much rather it had been otherwise, but managed to content myself with his many unseen wounds.

I was still seeking an opportunity of asking him how and when he had become a hero, when I was suddenly bereft of my illusion.

Our kitchenmaid was beforehand with me.

One day, when I had furtively slipped out to the kitchen, in order to question Frans, I heard Mie, our maid, say—

“I say, Frans, have you been in the wars, that you have such a mark over your face?”

Then he replied—

“In the wars! I believe you! We’ve nothing more to do with wars in this country, now! No,—when I was leaving the service, I treated my chum one night. But he got drunk and outrageous, and chucked me through a window, so that I cut my face open. No—I didn’t get it in the wars—and jolly glad of it, too!”

I stood thunderstruck—the tears rose in my eyes.

No wounds on his breast! Even the scar was a delusion and a snare. I no longer believed in living heroes. They no longer existed.

But I was going to be a hero all the same. And till I was able to re-introduce the breed, I would content myself with the dead heroes of the past.

“I HAD FURTIVELY SLIPPED OUT TO THE KITCHEN.”

But there were so many of them—and I wanted a special hero all to myself. Where should I find him?

De Ruyter was a hero, killed by the enemy’s shot—but I had nowhere read that he had many wounds.

Bayard!—but I knew so little of him—and besides, he was not a Dutchman.

Cæsar—Napoleon—Blücher!—but how about the wounds?

Besides, every one knew that these were heroes; and I wanted one for myself—for my own special worship—not one of the universally famous ones.

My search, however, was not to be fruitless long. I found my hero in the following way.

There were to be drains laid down round the old church in our city; and the ground being dug up for that purpose, a number of skulls and bones were found in the black earth.

All the boys of the school went to look as soon as they could get away, and it may be supposed that I did not remain behind. We were all inspired with a frenzied enthusiasm for relics of antiquity. We grubbed about in the earth of the opened graves, to find coins, pots, or even potsherds if we could get nothing else. We envied the town workmen, who were allowed to keep on digging and finding all day long; and scarcely had it struck twelve when we flew to the Kerkplein, to see what these greedy persons had left us, and to discover anything that might have escaped their search.

But we found nothing—neither did the diggers. Most of the boys, therefore, gave up the search—I, alone, did not. I was seeking a dead, unknown hero,—while they were looking only for coins and nicknacks. I knew for certain that I should find something, when there were not so many eyes on the watch, and therefore I remained away from school one morning in order to go to the old churchyard.

For a long time nothing at all had been found—not even bones or mouldering boards; so that all the other boys too—those who did not belong to our school—had grown tired of coming.

Luck, however, was with me!

On one particular spot, at some distance from the church, pieces of skeletons again began to be dug up. The workmen examined the earth to see if it contained anything of value, but found nothing. My eager eye, however, spied among the clods a lump of a different colour. I loosened the earth from it, and found, to my great joy, a flattened bullet.

That was a discovery!

I turned over the heap of earth, and thus came into possession of six bullets, and a little copper plate covered with earth and rust.

The bullets!—My hero was found!

Reverently I picked up some bones which had been thrown aside, and carefully packed the remains of my hero in my school satchel.

My hero!—a real hero now!—not an imaginary one, like Frans, the odd man.

When I came home, in a tumult of joyful excitement, I secured my treasure safely in my play-box, to which I had a key. And then I had my hero safe—all to myself!

At dinner, I looked round triumphantly, and felt the deepest disdain for my parents and sisters. They had never made such a discovery! They could not even understand what it is to possess the very remains of a hero—the hero himself! I scarcely ate anything for pride and joy, till my mother said—

“Why, Con, you’re not eating. Are you not well?”

I could only stammer a few words, and then thrust a whole potato into my mouth in order to prove my appetite, which, happily, reassured my mother.

As soon as dinner was over, I darted to my own room to assure myself that I had not been dreaming, and that my hero existed in very truth. The bones and bullets, and the little metal plate, were there still.

I contemplated them all once more, with a look full of love and reverence, and went downstairs again, so as to arouse no suspicion.

Never had I been a better-behaved boy than on that evening. I played with my little sister as nicely as possible; I was obedient as I had never been before,—all for fear that some unlucky circumstance might lead to a discovery of my hero on the part of my parents.

At last it was time to go to bed. At last I was alone with the sacred relics of the man who had stood six bullets, without reckoning the innumerable wounds—to be taken for granted—on his breast!

I gazed at the bones, brown and dirty as they looked—at the flattened bullets, and rusty bit of metal, with deep reverence. The plate probably bore his name; but if so, it was illegible with the dirt. Should I clean it? I burned with eagerness to know his name, and felt half inclined to do it; but desisted, thinking that, being rusty, and covered with earth, it would prove its age much better than if it were bright and polished up like new.

At last, after long contemplation of my treasures, I locked them up, and put the key under my pillow, for fear of burglars. Once in bed, however, I could get no sleep. All sorts of ideas relating to my hero crossed and recrossed my brain.

In the first place, I resolved to make a secret of him. It is a glorious thing to have a secret all to one’s self—and such a secret!

It was settled, then—no one was to see or hear anything of him. I alone was to possess my Hero, and be able to worship Him.

Then I began to wonder who he could have been, and when he had lived, and where he had fought and died.

It was quite clear to me that the six bullets represented but a small part of his wounds, for it was not possible that he had been killed on the field of battle by the sixth of those bullets. I knew that the fallen are always buried on the field of honour. Therefore he must have died of other wounds,—probably sword-cuts, lance-thrusts, or the like.... Then I fancied all sorts of biographies for my hero.

I should have liked best of all for him to have been a Crusader; but I was forced to give up that idea, seeing that in those days there were no guns, and therefore no bullets.

I therefore resolved to seek in more modern times.

A Water Gueux slain in fight? That, too, would not do. They were wrapped in a flag, and with a “One, two, three—in God’s name,” let down into the sea.

I weighed all possible cases—to reject them again immediately.

At last I hit upon the following, which satisfied me pretty well:—My hero had fought in Napoleon’s wars, and was for his valour promoted by the great Emperor to the rank of general. In all battles he had been foremost, and many a wound bore witness to his courage. Napoleon had even chosen out a kingdom for him; when fortune changed, and all nations rose to free themselves from the power of the great conqueror.

Then my hero had left his place in the army, and his exalted offices, and had ranged himself under his country’s flag to serve her as a private soldier.

After giving numerous proofs of courage, he was so severely wounded at the battle of Waterloo,—where he defended the colours of his regiment, single-handed, against a large number of the foe,—that he felt his end approaching. And when he knew that the victory was won, he dragged himself home to his native town to die.

His funeral was a splendid one, and the fallen hero was buried in a spot apart from others, who were not thought worthy to be near him, even in death.

This last circumstance I added, after long consideration, to explain the isolated position of my hero’s grave.

Another difficulty, however, presented itself. Why was there no monument erected to him?

The solution of this question cost me no little trouble. In our church there were two splendid monuments, with beautiful Latin verses on them; and the men who slept under them were of far less importance than my hero. But here, too, there was an explanation. My hero himself had said on his deathbed that he did not wish for a monument, but preferred to rest simply under the green grass;—his name would live well enough without one!

This, however, raised a new difficulty. I had never heard of any hero buried in the former burying-ground close to the church. Happily, however, I remembered to have read somewhere that “ingratitude is the world’s reward.”

He was forgotten!

That grieved me deeply; but I determined with myself to revive the memory of his name, when I should be somewhat older, and could write in the papers, and become a member of the Useful Knowledge Society. Then I would tell people how great my hero had been, and how ungratefully the world had treated him. Till then, he should remain my secret.

Of course I had adorned him with all sorts of chivalric qualities. I had seen him in my thoughts as the protector of helpless women, as the avenger of wrong; I had seen him risk his life at the command of his superiors, and in order to win one look from his lady.

And I had ended by endowing him with the crowning grace of modesty. Of this I was not a little proud. I knew for certain that all the other boys’ heroes would be brutal and arrogant, and set upon getting monuments for themselves.

Mine, however, was modest ... and his reward was oblivion.... Yes—till I should arise ... then my hero should be greater than all others.

Happy that now I knew all about my hero, youth and excitement were too much for me, and I fell asleep.

Next morning I arose, no longer a boy—not even a man. I was a great man. I had a task before me. I must give back to my hero his just fame and honours.

I had even assumed a new manner!—marbles and suchlike games were now beneath me,—and I thought the other boys uninteresting and childish. They, on their part, soon found that I had become tiresome and pedantic, and asked me if I had come in for a fortune, and was now too much of a swell for them. I only laughed, and wrapped myself once more in my own glory.

This lasted a few days, and then I began to find out that the solitary enjoyment of glory and a secret was not so great a pleasure as I had thought. Happily I had two bosom friends—Wil and Ed.

I resolved, after many heart searchings of heart, to share my wealth with these two. After I had sworn them to secrecy, and also exacted a solemn promise that they would not endeavour to appropriate my hero to themselves, I told them of my discovery, and all I knew of him,—for what I had myself imagined now seemed like truth to me. I enjoyed their evident jealousy, and, still more, their admiration and reverence for me.

“But, Con,” said Wil at last, “what is the hero’s name, really?”

I stood aghast. I had never thought of that! But they shall never exult over me because I did not know the name of my own hero. So I mentioned the first name that came into my head—“Jan Liller.”

“AFTER I HAD SWORN THEM TO SECRECY.”

Happily, they believed me.

From that day forward there was a constant whispering among us, a mystery in our conversation, even on the most unimportant subjects, which drove all the other boys wild with curiosity. But we revealed nothing. We had even determined, for fear of discovery, never to speak of my hero otherwise than as “L. J.”—even when we were alone. J. L. seemed to us much too dangerous.

Sometimes little boys were sent out to listen to us, under pretence of carrying on their games in our neighbourhood. But we were on our guard, and only talked all sorts of nonsense when the small spies were within hearing. Thus my secret did not leak out. Yet we could not be silent altogether.

In school, when the master told us about the great men of our country, from Claudius Civilis to William the Silent, we smiled pityingly, and said to each other, afterwards—

“L. J. could have done better than that!”—or, “They ought to have tried L. J.; he could have taught them something!”—and the like—so that we began to be called “L. J.’s.” But we took great care that no one should find us out, and were very proud of our secret.

I say our secret,—yet, after all, it was really mine, for I had shown the bullets, the metal plate, and the bones neither to Wil nor to Ed. They thus only knew the half—and no more than I had thought fit to tell them. The finest and most important part of all was unknown to them. Of course they acted as if they had been au fait in the whole thing; but they were nothing of the sort.

At home, my changed behaviour began gradually to attract general attention. I had assumed a mysteriousness of demeanour, from which my father—judging from long experience—argued that there must be some special piece of mischief on hand.

As I frequently remained lost in thought, and no longer cared for games as I used to do (I thought them childish since the discovery of my hero), my mother came to the conclusion that I was not well; while my little sister, of course, was as curious as a girl can be. Therefore the three, each for his or her own reason, were constantly at my heels. I soon noticed this, and it was no small hindrance to my doings and projects.

I scarcely dared to produce my hero, for fear some one should come to my room unawares and surprise me in the midst of my relics, and so discover my secret.

My plans, more especially, were in danger!

I wished—as a homage to the glorious Jan Liller—to make an elegant little casket, lined with precious bits of silk, plush, and lace, to preserve therein his precious relics, and the glorious evidences of his heroic existence. I intended to make the fretwork casket myself,—but I durst not do it in the general sitting-room. Whenever I could, I stole away to my own little room, and went to work there. Once I was surprised by my mother when very busy; but when she saw my work, she pretended not to have noticed anything. My conscience reproached me bitterly; for I understood that my dear mother had thought I was working at a present for her approaching birthday.

But, for the moment, my hero took precedence of everything. I hoped to be able to buy something for my mother’s birthday, trusting to the ready aid of my father’s purse.

On a certain day, when I was out for a walk with my father, he suddenly said to me, “Well, Con, is the digging in the Kerkplein all over? I have not been there for some time. I suppose you have been there to see whether anything in your line has been turned up?”

Did my father suspect anything? and was he fishing?

I answered evasively.

“I have not been there since last week.”

“DID MY FATHER SUSPECT ANYTHING?”

That was true—for just a week ago I had found my hero—and after I had found him, I was satisfied. The charm of rooting about among the graves had vanished. There was nothing more to find now.

“I only thought,” said my father, jokingly, “that you had found a treasure—you are so mysterious lately. Say, my boy, have you grown rich, and are you going to keep your money all to yourself?”

“I have never found anything, father,” I stammered, full of shame at the lie, and yet full of satisfaction at my courage—in daring to tell a falsehood to save my hero from discovery.

Happily my father changed the subject, by asking me if I had any present in view for mother’s birthday. To be honest, I had to answer no, for my hero had taken up all my thoughts and energies. But just as I was thinking what to say, a great, a glorious idea rose up in me. What could be a better present for my mother than my hero?

At the sacrifice of my secret,—of my own discovery,—I would surprise her with the revelation of my find, and share my hero with her! It was a hard struggle, but, once resolved, I could say with cheerful assurance, “Yes, father, I have something very, very nice!”

“That’s good, my boy!” said my father, as he patted me approvingly on the shoulder. “Do your best to make it so, for your mother deserves it.”

Since the old churchyard had been mentioned, I was eager to find out if my father knew anything about my hero. Therefore I asked, with as careless an air as I could assume—

“Say, father, who used to be buried in that place round the church?”

“Why, my boy, I don’t know. It must be at least fifty years since that burying-ground was used. When I came to live here the new cemetery was already opened, and I really do not know who was buried in the old place.”

“But, father, did you never hear of any one that was buried there?”

“No,” said my father; but, after thinking a little, he went on: “Yes, I do, though! they buried Kees Van Assen there. I heard so the other day from Notary Van Tefelen.”

Could that be my hero? It might well be, why else should the old burying-ground have been mentioned at the notary’s?

Surely, then, he must have been a great-uncle or distant cousin of that odious Alfred, whom we always called “the Muff,” because he never would join our games for fear of getting bruised and scratched, or soiling his clothes and hands.

“Was Van Assen a hero, father?” I uttered the words with difficulty.

“A hero, my boy? No, certainly not. No, quite the contrary!”

“A coward, father? I thought as much.”

“Indeed, and why?”

“Because that stupid boy of the minister’s is Van Assen too, and he is a coward!”

“That does not follow. This Van Assen was not in any way related to the minister’s family. At least I believe not. But he was not a coward, he was far worse. He was a traitor to his country. He betrayed the town to the French.”

“And what did they do to a low fellow like that?” I asked, full of pain and indignation that a countryman of mine could have betrayed his native town to the enemy.

“At first, nothing; for at that time he was protected by the French. But when they were gone, his fellow-townsmen razed his house to the ground, and he was shot.”

“Then he was buried in the churchyard?”

“Well, yes; because his family was a rich and distinguished one, they consented to bury him in the churchyard; but, of course, it was done without show or splendour. I know no more about it.”

“Don’t you know in which corner he was buried?”

“Yes, the corner by the baker’s shop.”

Now there were two corners of the churchyard which had a baker’s shop near them. Near one of them, I had found my hero; but he was called Jan Liller, and not Van Assen! I resolved never more to buy tarts or buns in the corner where the traitor was buried,—that was accursed from henceforth. We had been in the habit of going there, because we got far more for our money than elsewhere.

It now at once became clear to me that this baker knew of the traitor’s neighbourhood, and was afraid of losing his customers unless he sold his goods very cheap!

I had not thus gained much information by my inquiries. Only I had found a new point of comparison, my hero versus Van Assen! Jan Liller was dearer to me than before, now that I could contrast him with a contemptible Van Assen! My hero had become greater than ever!

As soon as I reached home, I ran to my own little room, in order to gaze my fill on his relics—to steep my soul in his greatness.

On the stairs I felt for my key.

What was that? It was not in my pocket! I had not lost it—I was certain of that. Then I must have left it sticking in my box, and in that case my secret—my hero was lost!

A terrible fear overcame me. My steps dragged on the stairs. With a sinking heart I opened my door,—my presentiment had not deceived me!

There stood my little sister before the open box!

“You horrid girl—what are you doing with my things? Keep off!” I screamed, when I saw my secret revealed.

“But, Con! you had left the key in the lock, and I just looked in!” cried my sister, terrified.

“DASHED THEM ON THE GROUND!”

“Yes—it’s just like girls—always bothering about things that don’t concern them. You’re always meddling with everything, and spoiling other people’s things!”

“Oh, Con! don’t be so angry! I only just wanted to look! And, just see,—I’ve been cleaning up this dirty little brass plate that was inside. I’ve made it look quite nice—and there’s some writing on it.”

At the same time she thrust the now glittering brass plate into my hands.

I looked at it.

Everything seemed to turn round with me. Everything was black. I could see nothing but the glittering yellow plate, and the name engraved on it:—

KEES VAN ASSEN,

1813.

I dropped the brass plate, seized the bones and the bullets out of the box, and dashed them on the ground.

There lay my hero!

Conrad van der Liede.

NEWSPAPER HUMOUR.

To keep apples from spoiling, they should be placed in a cool room in the house occupied by a family with eight children.

---

Florist. “Look at the blush on these roses, sir.”

Bachelor (with a look at his purse). “I see. They must be blushing at the exorbitant price you charge for them.”

FLORIST: “LOOK AT THE BLUSH ON THESE ROSES, SIR.”

---

Domestic Morality.

“You have not been looking sharp, Bet; the butcher has given you more bones than meat again.”

Bet. “Well, I told him so at the time. I said, if it was for myself I wouldn’t take it.”

---

Actor. “When I was last acting here, the public were so enthusiastic, you can’t imagine. Why, they insisted on carrying me back to the hotel, when I left the theatre.”

Critic. “Man, man, you don’t mean to say you were so far gone as that?”

---

Patient. “Doctor, I think I have had an attack of the gout.”

Doctor. “Stuff and nonsense! if you had really had one, you couldn’t think—you’d know it.”

---

“Father,” inquired a small boy, “what does a ‘Paradise’ mean?”

“A Paradise, my son, is the corner by the fire when your mother has gone to stay with her friends for a few days.”

---

A Harmless Insect.

Traveller. “Waiter, how can you give me soup like this?—there’s a fly in it.”

Waiter. “Oh! that won’t hurt you—it’s quite dead.”

---

A lady having engaged a new man-servant, answering to the name of Joseph, told him that she would always ring once for him, and twice for her maid.

A short time after this, she rang the bell, but Joseph failed to appear. She grew impatient, and pulled the bell-rope again. The maid entered.

“I did not ring for you; I wanted Joseph. Why does he not come?”

“Joseph,” replied the maid, “is sitting by the fire, reading Madame’s paper. When Madame rang the first time, he told me to look out, for he should not wonder if you were to ring again. And when Madame did so, he turned to me, and said, ‘See? that’s for you.’”

---

“Why, ma’am,” said the housemaid, when she heard that her mistress had been very unwell during the night, “why didn’t you tell me when you felt ill?”

“I didn’t want to wake you, you had been working hard all day, and——”

“Oh! that’s nothing; you might have called me all the same. I sleep so sound that you would never have waked me.”

A RASCALLY VALET.

A room in a hotel. Tables and chairs are covered with portmanteaus, carpet-bags, clothes, &c. On a table (L.) is an open jewel-case, (R.) a sofa; in the background a bed. Frans (Jonker Van Bergen’s man) is discovered half-reclining on the sofa, smoking a cigar.

Frans (sings).

“Mon maître est un filou,

Et moi j’ n’ suis pas bête, la, la....”

That was indeed a barbarous idea—leaving me at home. “Charité bien ordonnée commence par soi-même,” as we used to say at Paris. My gentleman’s gone out a-courting, and I may just sit and grumble in these confounded lodgings! He hasn’t the smallest grain of feeling. Why couldn’t he remember that while he’s busy making love to his silly cousin, and flattering his cracked old aunt,—that is, making fools of both of them,—I might, in the meanwhile, very appropriately amuse myself with the maid!

Pretty little thing, that Sophie! Just a little bit bête, still—but that will come all right in time—I’ll educate her fast enough. We haven’t been to Paris for nothing. I had views on her already, when we were here eighteen months ago. She was then a mere child, and I had not yet seen Notre Dame and the Pont-Neuf. In point of fact, come to think of it, I was still very young, and not au fait about life. I can clearly remember getting quite confused when the postman’s flaxen-haired daughter scolded me for ... come, Frans, let those things rest ... she’s at rest herself.... How could I help it, if the girl was so gone on me? Why didn’t her father take better care of her? What is a father for, if not to look after his daughter?

What a difference, when I think of those days! Confused! ashamed!—why, I don’t know the meaning of the words. The only thing I’m ashamed of now, is that I ever had the faiblesse to be ashamed of anything. And now that, thanks to my education in the guinguettes, I have become quite a jeune homme accompli,—now that I might have begun a nice diversion with the suivante of my master’s intended, ... now I’m got rid off with a gruff, “Frans, stay and look after the room!”

He’ll talk in a different tune when he finds he needs me again to get him out of some scrape or other. Then it is, “Frans, dear Frans, save me; I don’t know what I’m to do!” Frans is good enough for that. But besides this, au fond, it’s unjust to leave me here indoors. A man is a man, and has reason and freewill. Jonker Van Bergen goes out courting. So we see that beings with reason and freewill do go courting. But I too am a man; I have freewill and reason—therefore I ought to go out courting too. That is clear and undeniable.

Glorious logic! Precious philosophy! Invaluable gift of Heaven, which is scattered with generous hand at Paris. Beloved nurse of all that ... that....

And with all that I’m sitting here indoors, like Job, on his ancient sofa. It is annoying; it’s very annoying! It’s the most annoying thing in the world! It could not possibly be worse; it’s ennuyant, étouffant, embêtant!

[Jumps up angrily, and walks backwards and forwards, smoking.]

I’m curious to know whether he’ll get through with his business, and succeed better than last year. The devil grant he may! Otherwise it’s all up with him—all up—and he’s ruined! If he hasn’t made his lady-cousin his own, with all that belongs to her [goes through the gestures of counting money], within a month, he’s a dead man! Physically dead, financially dead, civilly dead,—dead in every possible way! Dead to chambertin, baronfayol, and champagne; dead to the bouillotte table; dead pour tout ce qui porte un jupon ... enfin—burst up!

This wouldn’t really matter so much if these gentlemen hadn’t the disagreeable habit of dragging down every one about them in their fall. [Makes a wry face.] The cheques! the cheques!

I am anything but à monaise, as we used to say at Paris. We have only a month before us. Before that time we must have money to pay up, or the whole thing will go smash. And then he’s quite capable of saying that it was I who forged the cheques. Then come examinations and cross-examinations, witnesses à charge and à décharge; reply, duplicate, triplicate, or whatever they call it; and the end of it is that the President puts on the black cap—grim fashion that!—and has a sentence read out, in which poor Frans is very badly used on the score of ... complicity!

I might indeed get hold of a lawyer who has studied the circonstances atténuantes, as we used to say at Paris; but what’s the good, when the stupid bench don’t understand them? Civilisation is at such a low ebb in this land of ours. Quite otherwise over there. I attended a trial in France ... a woman who had committed the sottise of hacking her child to pieces, chopping it up small, and cooking it ... what further could you have? It would have been a bad look-out for her in this country. Over there, she simply had to take the precaution of providing circonstances atténuantes, ... and she got off all right. That’s what I call philanthropy—civilisation! Just look for civilisation here! there’s nothing of the sort. Everything is taken ill here. If your scales or your weights are not quite right, they take it ill of you! If you call a man a thief or a scoundrel, in the friendliest way in the world, and can’t produce your proofs on the spot, they take it ill of you! Just as if those were not the biggest scoundrels of all against whom nothing can be proved! If you happen to swear falsely, they take that ill too! Why, not long ago I heard of a man undergoing very unpleasant treatment in public, because he—it seems incredible—because he had set his own house on fire! Stupid nation this! Not the faintest notion of the universal rights of mankind! The house belonged to him; what business was it of people’s what he did with it? Why shouldn’t he make a bonfire of it as soon as smoke this “light brown”? (Good cigar, too!) Yes, they say, but ... his next-door neighbour! Stuff and nonsense! Am I not to illuminate, because somebody else prefers to sit in darkness? If my next-door neighbour has cat’s eyes, he had better go and live somewhere else.

No, no,—that delicate feeling,—that tact,—that talent for making black white with all the facility in the world, and without fear of contradiction,—and above all, the glorious circonstances atténuantes,—all these you find only in France!

Splendid invention, those circonstances atténuantes! They are the lightning-conductor of the Procureur du Roi’s wrath, as we used to say at Paris. They are galvanism applied to the Code Napoléon. They are ... in short, they are anything you please.

Oh, pleasant France! beloved France! When I say France, I mean Paris. Paris, with its bals-musard! Paris, with its rendezvous on the Boulevards and in the Bois de Boulogne! Paris, with its limonadières, fruitières, bouquetières, and all other ières!

[Begins to recite, with exaggerated action.]

“O France! O precious land! O paradise o’ the world!

I greet thee, though the marsh and mud ... marsh and mud....”

... well, never mind; I shall hit it some other time. How is one to find a rhyme to “world”? I ought to have begun differently. But what I mean is, that if ever I find myself mixed up in this fâcheuse affaire of the cheques, I shall at once make my native country a present of my citizenship, and take shares in France. Then I shall have the right of being attended to by a French court, take a few circonstances atténuantes with me, and Frans is all right—quits the court without a stain on his character!

A greater fool than that young Huser I never saw in all my born days. Who ever heard of a man letting himself be ill-treated in the place of another? I never could understand that story. The imbecile! I wish I knew where to find him; I should go to him, and say, “Huser, my dear boy, we’ve made a mistake again about a signature or two; do make yourself responsible for the error—there’s a good fellow.” I believe, upon my soul! the man would be fool enough to do it over again. I can’t explain the matter, but I dare swear that Huser, in spite of his sour face, was the most faithful chum in the world. I would bet something that he had been brought up at Paris, or at least had a French nurse or a Swiss bonne. Sacrifices like that it would be vain to look for elsewhere ... [A knock at the door.] Ho, hey! entrez.

[Sits down on a chair in the middle of the stage, stretching his legs straight out in front of him.]

Look here now, Frans, you must represent your master, the noble and honourable gentleman, Jonkheer Karel Bernhard Anton Jozef Delmare Van Bergen Van Wiesendaal! (Raises his voice.) Entrez!

Enter General Van Weller, in undress uniform, with a riding-whip in his hand.

Frans (without looking round). Who’s there?

Van Weller. Look round, and perhaps you’ll know.

Frans. I’m just like Louis Napoleon’s knights—I do well, but I don’t care to look round.[^[7]]

Van Weller (looks round with displeasure, then approaches and gazes fixedly for a few moments at Frans). No, you are not he. You are too low-looking a fellow to be my nephew. Who are you?

Frans (without changing his position). In the first place, or, as we used to say at Paris, primo, I must request you to allow me to express my thanks for your very flattering opinion with regard to my physiognomy; secundo, it would be the proper thing for you to do me the favour of informing me of your name.

“ENTREZ.”

Van Weller. Insolence personified!—my nephew cannot be far off. (To Frans.) My name is Jan Weller. Who are you?

Frans. I don’t know.

Van Weller. It is surely your place to know.

Frans. Alas! who in this corrupt age does know himself? At Ephesus, it was written——

Van Weller. That does not concern me, or you either. What is your name?

Frans. That’s another matter. My late master used to call me....

Van Weller (impatiently). Well?

Frans. ... when he was in a good-humour, “You vagabond!”

Van Weller. Pretty! very pretty! If you keep up this game much longer, I shall be tempted to write that name on your back with my horsewhip!

Frans. Don’t do that, please. It would cause confusion, as it is not my name at present.

Van Weller (smiling). Well, tell me your name, then?

Frans. Girls who don’t know me call me “Angel,” or something similar. Others,—of earlier date,—“scoundrel, wretch, miscreant,” and I don’t know what all ... mostly words that are not to be found in the Dictionnaire de l’Académie.

Van Weller. Tell me, in the devil’s name, who you are, fellow!

Frans. My mother used to call me Levi....

Van Weller. Well then?

Frans. Yes, but ... that is not my name. She only called me so, because there was a Jew of that name who sold vegetables down our street, and I could imitate him so well.

Van Weller. It is enough to exhaust any man’s patience! Speak out, once for all, in whose rooms am I?

[Andries puts his head in at the door.]

Andries. Are you here, General?

Frans (springs to his feet). General? Your obedient servant!

Van Weller (to Andries). Come in! [Enter Andries.] Ask this fellow his name. If he does not answer briefly, and to the point, as soon as I give the word “March!” you take him by the collar and throw him out of window.

[Andries salutes, turns on his heel, and marches up to Frans. Frans approaches the bed.]

Van Weller.(to Frans). What are you going to do?

Frans. With your permission, General ... I have always been a lover of military exercises, but being only a civilian I am not at all well up in window-throwing drill, and so, I thought, a couple of pillows on the pavement....

Van Weller. Andries, bring the fellow here!

[Points to the floor with his riding-whip. Frans escapes Andries who walks toward him with a stiff military step.]

Van Weller. Quick march! Seize him, and bring him here!

[Sits down. Andries seizes Frans, and drags him roughly to the spot indicated, but in such a manner that Frans stands with his back to the General.]

Van Weller. Right about face!

[Andries turns Frans round by the shoulders, forcing him to face the General,—then takes a step backward, and remains standing at attention.]

Van Weller. (throws the riding-whip to Andries). Take it! Now, attend! When I say “Out!” you begin to thrash him till the word is given to stop. (To Frans.) What is your name?

Frans. I have already told you, sir, that my mother—

Van Weller. Out!

[Andries lays on with the whip.]

Frans. No—no—oh!—my name is Frans Varel, General!

Van Weller. Leave out the “General!” for the future. And the “oh!” also. Answer briefly what I ask you—no more, no less. What is your profession?

Frans. Valet, or rather secretary, to——

Van Weller. Enough! Who is your master?

Frans. Jonkheer Van Bergen.

Van Weller. Just so, that must be the right man! Has he any other name besides Bergen?

Frans. My master’s full name is Jonkheer Karel Bernhard Anton Jozef Delmare Van Bergen Van Wiesendaal. (Aside.) Oh! how miserably I’m representing him!

Van Weller. How old is your master?

Frans. I think he is twenty-eight.

Van Weller. The same! the same! How long have you been in his service?

Frans. We grew up together.

Van Weller. Then you knew his father?

Frans. Certainly. It was he who used to call me “vagabond,” when——

Van Weller. That is not what I am asking. How long is it since the old gentleman died?

Frans (considering). Fifteen or sixteen years.

Van Weller. Did he die of an illness?

Frans. He certainly did not die of health.

Van Weller (impatiently). Speak out—what did he die of?

Frans. Of ... of ... an exaggerated sense of honour.

Van Weller. Speak plainly, fellow, or I’ll give the word! Relate what happened shortly before his death.

Frans. Shortly before his death....

Van Weller. Well—be quick!

Frans. He was still alive.

Van Weller (angrily). Out!

[Andries lays on with the whip.]

Frans (quickly). Stop!

Van Weller(to Andries). Why are you not thrashing him as I told you? You hear him trying to make a fool of me!

Andries. The word was given to stop, General.

Van Weller. He gave it, not I!

Andries. There was nothing about that in the orders, General.

Van Weller. I am in sole command here, of course. Now speak, you scoundrel, quickly! Out——

Frans. Oh, sir! I’m beginning! The next day——

Van Weller. What? What day? I know nothing yet!

Frans. Monsieur Socrates also knew nothing. The recognition of this fact is the source of all wisdom, General. I am telling you the story in my own way, beginning at the end. I belong to the school of M. Dumas and M. Sue.

Van Weller. Don’t wear out my patience any longer, fellow! Relate consecutively what took place on the last day of Mr Van Bergen’s life.

Frans. He got up at half-past four in the morning, and put on his socks and boots. I did not see this, but I am induced to believe it, as he appeared, a little later, with his boots and spurs on. It is thus a fair inference that he had just put them on, unless, like M. Charles Douze, he had been sleeping in them—in which case....

Van Weller. Are you quite incorrigible? Don’t tell me the story like that!

Frans. Am I to blame? N’est pas conteur qui veut. I did not profess to be a good story-teller, General.

Van Weller. Silence! I ask you for the last time whether you are willing to relate, in a proper manner, what you know of the affair?

Frans. About Charles Douze? He was born——

Van Weller. Out!

[Andries strikes Frans with the whip, several times.]

Frans. Ai! ai!—oh! General!—I’ll tell you everything!

Van Weller. Stop! (To Frans.) Now go on, and think of your back.

Frans. The old gentleman had come back from an assembly at Court, the evening before, very much put out. They said he had had a quarrel, and was to fight a duel next day. I only know this by tradition, as you may say, because I and the young master were under arrest, locked up in the summer house, because we had stolen apri——

Van Weller. Never mind the apricots, and tell me about the duel.

Frans. Well, then—my master must have slept very badly that night. This, too, I only know by way of tradition; and since tradition represents the border-land between the dark region of myth and the daylight of history——

Van Weller. Out——

Frans. Ow!—wait—listen! Next morning he went out at five o’clock, and came home at half-past six, mortally wounded. He had a bullet in his left breast, whence I infer that he had been shot. But I cannot with certainty——

Van Weller. Silence! Who was his adversary?

Frans. That I do not know. The coachman who drove the master out, said....

Van Weller (impatiently). Well?

Frans. Said he did not know either.

Van Weller (stamps his foot). Did your master die soon after?

Frans. Yes—at half-past one that afternoon ... as near as I can guess. For, you see, as the young gentleman had fastened a frog to the pendulum of the big clock that stood in the hall——

Van Weller. To the deuce with your frogs and your clocks! Answer me—did any one come to see Bergen before his death?

Frans. Yes; three officers, one of them a major.

Van Weller (aside). Ah! that was Huser. (To Frans.) What happened then?

Frans. They were admitted to see him, but the servants were sent away. But as I have always been very fond of tragedy scenes, I managed to peep through the keyhole; and I saw that the Major fell on his knees beside the bed, and cried. The kneeling was very well done ... his contenance was simply perfect ... I was all attention. Old Mr Van Bergen held out his hand to him, and said——

Van Weller (rising quickly). That is just what I want to know—go on!

Frans. That he was thirsty.

Van Weller (sits down again, as if disappointed). That’s not what I meant. Go on!

Frans. They gave him something to drink. Then he sat up in bed, and put his arms round that officer. “Let us part in peace,” he said, “sans rancune!” The officer kept on crying, and said, “Can you ever forgive me, Bergen?” The master smiled, and said, “Gladly! gladly!—sans rancune, dearest——”

Van Weller. Well—dearest what?

Frans. I couldn’t catch the name. And I never saw that Major again. I heard that he died about six months later.

Van Weller (aside). It must have been Huser—not a doubt about it! (To Frans.) And then? What happened next?

Frans. The wounded man asked one of the officers to call his little Charles—that was the young master, who was still in the summer-house—I had got out.... The young gentleman came up to the bed, and, instead of being pleased at getting out sooner than he expected, he began to cry too.

Van Weller. Go on, go on!

Frans. After being silent for some time, the master said to the Major——

Van Weller. Go on, do, fellow! I’ve been waiting for that about an hour!

Frans. He said,—“Don’t distress yourself over my death. It was in fair fight. My fate might have been yours. Only—be a father to my poor Charles!”

Van Weller. What next?

Frans. The Major began to sob again, and cried, “I swear to you I will!” Then Baron Van Bergen smiled pleasantly, held out his hand to him once more, and died. [V. W. remains lost in thought.] It was a touching scene, General. The old gentleman died almost as naturally as M. Furneau of the Théâtre Royal. I should have been quite overcome with emotion if the other two officers had possessed any knowledge of the stage. They seemed to be novices, who had never been in Paris. Not the faintest idea of tragic action—they didn’t even wring their hands! Of course that of itself gave them a stupid attitude——

Van Weller. Will you hold your tongue? How was it that you never saw this officer again?

Frans. They said in the kitchen that he was abroad with his son, and that when he came home he was going to take Master Charles with him. But he never came back.

Van Weller. And his son?

Frans. I never heard anything about him.

Van Weller. Have you ever seen him?

Frans. Never.

Van Weller (aside). I think the fellow is lying. (To Frans.) Did you ever know a man by the name of Huser?

Frans. Huser? Yes, very well indeed. He was the young master’s greatest friend. Or rather—for they weren’t exactly friends—he was ... he did ... he gave ... well, I never quite knew what to make of that Huser.

Van Weller. Now we’re getting near it! What became of Huser?

Frans. H’m!—nothing much! ... he did not turn out anything to boast of, General. He was careless,—he was fast ... that is to say, he wasn’t exactly that. He gambled ... at least, no, he never gambled. But ... in short, I don’t know anything about it. All I know is, that he came to smash in the end.

Van Weller (aside). Poor Gustav! poor boy! (To Frans.) Go on, man, tell me all you know.

Frans. He had a difference of opinion with the Procureur du Roi, as we used to say at Paris. He had been imprudent—(whispers)—forged cheques!—people took it ill of him,—and—you know the law, General!

Van Weller (aside). Poor boy! (To Frans.) But how was that possible? Was he in debt?

Frans. On the contrary, his father had left him plenty of money, and he lived very economically.

Van Weller. And he did not play, you say?

Frans. Never. He had old-fashioned notions on that head.

Van Weller. Was he, perhaps, given to courting?

Frans. Oh! no—he was too stiff and solemn for that. He always looked sulky and discontented. He was a tiresome sort of fellow. I think, even, that he used to make verses.

Van Weller. And he was your master’s friend?

Frans. No, and ... yes! He was always with us, and at our rooms. He always helped the young master when he had the chance; but afterwards he used to give it him like blazes.

Van Weller. Strange, very strange! And how long ago is that?

Frans. Four years.

Van Weller. What was your master doing then?

Frans. Nothing.

Van Weller. How? I thought he was at the university.

Frans. Well—studying, and doing nothing—that comes pretty much to the same thing.

Van Weller. And this Huser?

Frans. Before that fâcheux évènement I spoke of, he was studying too. I think he wanted to be a lawyer....

Van Weller. Silence! Nothing but what I ask you! Is your master a good sort of man?

Frans. He might certainly be better.

Van Weller. Silence! You deserve a good thrashing. He is a bad servant that speaks ill of his master. If I ask you any question that you would injure your master by answering, then you are to hold your tongue. Do you understand? I don’t want to make any traitors. Remember this carefully, or I shall give the word. Did your master play high at the university? [Frans is silent.] ... So—he’s silent ... therefore our young gentleman did play ... therefore he is betraying his master by his silence.... Out!

[Andries strikes him.]

Frans. Oh! my dear good gentleman, what am I to say? No, no, the young master never gambled.

Van Weller. He lies! Yes—I forgot to say that if you don’t tell the truth, I shall give the word too. Did your master gamble at the university? Out!

[Andries again raises the whip.]

Frans (points to the window). Fire! fire! for heaven’s sake!—save yourselves! ... fire!

[The General hastens to the window. Andries remains rigidly at his post. Frans runs to the door.]

Frans. I should have done that sooner. (With a low bow.) General, your humble servant.

[Exit.

Van Weller (returning from the window). I see nothing, absolutely nothing. Where is the fellow?

Andries. He’s run away, General.

Van Weller. Why didn’t you hold him?

Andries. That was not in the orders, sir.

Van Weller. The scoundrel has been making a fool of me! Never mind—I know enough for the present. Do you know him, Andries?

Andries. Yes, sir, he’s a good-for-nothing fellow.

Van Weller. Of course—like master, like man!

Enter Sophie, with a note.

Sophie. You here, Andries? (Looks at General V. W.) Who’s this man?

Andries. Hush—sh!

Van Weller (to Andries). Silence! (To Sophie.) What do you want here, my girl?

Sophie (looks hard at him). I have a note for young Mr Van Bergen’s man. (To Andries.) Hasn’t Frans been here? Surely this is the gentleman’s room? He said number four, and——

Van Weller. Just give me that note.

Sophie. Are you Mr Van Bergen’s man too?

Van Weller. Yes. Give it here.

Sophie (to Andries). Will it be all right if I give it to this man? [Andries does not answer.] Good gracious! what’s the matter? Why are you standing there as glum and stiff as if you were on parade?

[Tries to seize his hand, but he pushes her gently back.]

Andries (nodding towards the General, who is watching them with an air of amusement). Eh!

Sophie (shakes him by the arm). Do speak! What is it?

Andries. Eh!

Sophie. Has he made you like that? (To Van Weller.) What does this mean? I don’t like it. It doesn’t suit me at all. May I ask you, for the last time, to tell me what it means? [Van Weller laughs heartily.] Still better! He thinks he’s making a fool of me. [Turns to Andries and shakes his arm again.] Andries, Andries, do speak, or I shall be angry!

Andries (under his breath). Do be quiet! It’s the General!

“ENTER SOPHIE WITH A NOTE.”

Sophie. Oh! (Turns to Van Weller.) Please, sir, may I ask why you wouldn’t let Andries go out on leave the other day? That was not nice of you. I’d——

Van Weller (to Andries). Who is this pretty child?

Andries. She’s Mam’zelle Sophie, Freule Van Wachler’s maid.

Van Weller. Why, that’s fortunate! (To Sophie.) Well, and how is my sister Koosje?

Sophie (surprised). Your sister Koosje, sir?

Van Weller. Yes—Mevrouw Wachler!

Sophie (curtseys). Very well, sir. (To Andries.) Think of that—I never knew that the mistress’s Christian name was Koosje. Why, that’s a name any one of us might have!

Van Weller (to Andries). Are you in love with this charming creature?

Andries. With your permission,—yes, General.

Sophie. That’s nice of you, Andries! I never asked any one’s permission. And supposing the gentleman were to say, No?

Van Weller. Well, well,—you may make your mind easy,—I won’t say No! (To Andries, calling him aside.) Something has just occurred to me. I don’t want that rascal to tell his master that I have been questioning him. Does he care about...? [makes the gesture of drinking].

Andries. Yes, General.

Van Weller. And try to persuade your sweetheart to stay here a little. I should like to talk to her.

Andries. Yes, General. (To Sophie.) Just give your note to the General, Sophie, and answer him nicely if he asks anything, and be as pleasant and polite as you can. Remember, he can let me off on leave!

[Salutes, and turns to go, but comes back.]

Van Weller. Well—what is it now?

Andries. Am I to be drunk, too, General?

Van Weller. No need for that! March!

[Exit Andries.

Sophie. Do you wish to take the note, sir?

Van Weller. Just lay it down here.

Sophie. But I think there’s some hurry about it. The young gentleman said I was to bring a key back with me.

[Van Weller takes the note, and reads it, with gestures of astonishment. Looking round, he sees the casket. He goes up to it, and stands still, lost in thought. At last he takes the key out of the lock and gives it to Sophie.]

Van Weller. There’s the key, my girl. You have done your errand well—so go now—just go.

Sophie. But Andries said you wanted to talk to me.

Van Weller. Yes ... no ... it’s hardly needed now.... Or.... (hesitating) How are things going, Sophie?—is there to be a wedding soon?

Sophie (confused). Yes—if Andries....

Van Weller. I’m not speaking of Andries now—I mean in the Van Wachler family.

Sophie. Ah! I think there will, indeed! for the young lady has three lovers.

Van Weller. That’s enough to begin with. I had only heard of one. And who are they?

Sophie (counts on her fingers). First, Jonkar Van Bergen,—then the music-master, Holm,—and the third is old Mr Buys.

Van Weller. What do you say?—a music-master?

Sophie. Oh, don’t laugh at him, sir—he’s such a good man! It’s only a pity that he’s always so sad.

Van Weller. And why do you think he is one of the young lady’s lovers?

Sophie. Why—because Mr Van Wachler said so himself.

Van Weller. Surely you misunderstood him, my good girl.

Sophie. Why so? For my part, I should prefer him to Jonkar Van Bergen. Mr Holm is less merry and cheerful, but then one can see that he has had his troubles. They say he is a prince, who has for some reason or other turned music-master,—but I’m not sure of that.

Van Weller. And Jonkar Karel?

Sophie. Jonkar Van Bergen is—but please don’t say I said so, sir—I don’t think he is to be trusted. This morning, he had been talking to Madame about the young lady and Mr Holm—Madame is very much opposed to the music-master....

Van Weller. That I can well believe!

Sophie. Well ... he put his arm round her neck and kissed her, and when she was out of the room he made fun of her, though she had just been calling him “charmant garçon.” Later on, I heard him say, “Just as silly as ever! She’ll choke with her affection some day!” Now, do you call that a man to be trusted, sir?

Van Weller. No, not exactly. [Chucks her under the chin.] But old Buys now?—how did you come to think of him?

Sophie. I don’t quite understand how it is. I never used to notice anything. He is nearly as old as you, sir—and one can’t love a man like that, can one?

Van Weller (with a start). Ah!

Sophie. I mean love like—love as one——

Van Weller. Yes, yes, I understand. I’ll make you a present of the explanation.

Sophie. Well—I know nothing about it—but, the other day, when I went up to her sitting-room—now don’t say I told you, sir!

Van Weller. No, no—just go on.

Sophie. She was sitting on his knee, and he kissed her.

Van Weller. Well, I’m surprised at my niece!

Sophie. Oh! don’t think any harm of her, sir! The three lovers is the only thing, and I don’t think the worse of her for that! If I were a man, I’d want to be her lover too,—I’m sure I would!

Van Weller (aside). I think I must be on the track. (To Sophie.) Look here, can you hold your tongue?

Sophie. Yes—when I’ve nothing to say.

Van Weller. When you get home, don’t mention having seen me. I have just returned from Java, and want to surprise the family. Give young Mr Karel the key, and say you had it from Frans.

Sophie. But—that would be a story.

Van Weller. Did you never tell a fib in your life?

Sophie (after thinking a while). Only once—when Andries asked me whether....

Van Weller. All right, my child. Say whatever you like.

Sophie (coaxingly). Please, sir, if Andries asks for leave——

Van Weller. He shall get it! If I were Andries, and had a sweetheart like you, I should have deserted long ago!

[Exit Sophie.

Van Weller (alone). I shall find him—I must find him!—on my soul I will find him. [Starts, as if remembering something.] That note!—there was something about Huser in it. [Takes it up and reads.] “Frans, lock the casket at once,—I forgot it. There are letters from Huser in it that concern us alone. Send me the key.” Why is he so anxious to keep these letters secret, as if the existence of the State depended on the publication of a student’s correspondence? I left the box open—but it’s not honest, Weller! [Walks up and down, as if in doubt.] It’s not honest. But, Gustaf!—perhaps it will help me to trace him! I will read them! [He goes up to the box, takes out some papers, looks at them, and lays them aside. At last he comes to one which he appears to recognise.] That’s Gustaf’s hand. [Sits down, reads, and seems much disturbed. At last he jumps up.] Andries! Yes, my presentiment did not deceive me! Oh! my noble boy, where are you? Gustaf! Gustaf! But that scoundrel—that Karel Van Bergen,—who, Heaven mend it! calls himself my nephew. I must see him! He shan’t have that girl of my sister’s, though she were ten times as much of a coquette, and had twenty lovers instead of three! She would still be too good for him! Andries!

Enter Frans, intoxicated.

Frans (sings).

“Mon maître est an filou

Et moi j’ n’ suis pas bête ... la ... la....”

Ah! good-morning! good-morning! Mon maître est un filou. Oh, yes! but we’ve had circonstances, splendid circonstances—to begin with.

Van Weller. Andries!

Frans. Andries is a good fellow, a downright good fellow—but just the least bit bête. Never been to Paris, sir? Are you coming to Paris? Allons mourir pour la patrie.

[Approaches the General.]

Van Weller (pushes him away roughly, so that Frans falls on the sofa). Lie there, beast! Andries!

Frans (muttering). Mon maître est un filou.... [Falls asleep.]

Enter Andries.

Van Weller (stamps his foot). Where the devil have you been all this time, fellow? Get the horses—at once—I must see the king immediately! [Exit Andries.] My poor boy shall be righted, or they shall never hear the last of it!

Multatuli.

(From “The Bride in Heaven.”)

DROOGSTOPPEL INTRODUCES HIMSELF.

I am a coffee-broker, and live at No. 37 Lauriergracht. It is not my custom to write novels, or any such thing; so it was a long time before I made up my mind to order a couple of reams of paper and begin the work which you, dear reader, have just taken up, and which you ought to read if you are in the coffee business,—or, in fact, if you are anything else. And not only have I never written anything which was in the least like a novel, but I don’t hold with even reading anything of the sort, because I am a man of business. For several years past, I have been asking myself, what is the use of such things? and I am perfectly amazed at the impudence of poets and novelists in palming off upon you things which have never happened, and, for the most part, never can happen. Now, in my business,—I am a coffee-broker, and live in the Lauriergracht, No. 37,—if I were to send in to a principal (a principal is a man who sells coffee) an account containing only a small part of the untruths which are the main point in all poems and romances—why, he would at once go to Busselinck & Waterman. (Busselinck & Waterman are coffee-brokers too; but it is not necessary for you to know their address.) So I take good care not to write any novels, or send in wrong accounts. I have always noticed that persons who let themselves in for that kind of thing generally get the worst of it. I am forty-three, and have been at the Exchange for twenty years, so that I have every right to put myself forward when a man of experience is in demand. I have seen plenty of firms fail in my time! And usually, when I examined into the causes of their failure, it seemed to me that they must be sought for in the wrong direction given to most people in their youth.

I say, “truth and sound sense!” and that I stick to. The mistake comes in, in the first place, with Van Alphen;[^[8]] and that in his very first line about the “dear little creatures.” What on earth could induce this old gentleman to call himself an adorer of my little sister Truitje, who had sore eyes; or of my brother Gerrit, who was always biting his nails? And yet he says that “he sang these verses, compelled by love.” I used often to think, when I was a child, “Man, I should like to meet you, just for once—and then, if you refused me the marbles I should ask you for, or the whole of my name in chocolate letters” (my name is Batavus), “then I should consider you a liar.” But I never saw Van Alphen. I think he was already dead when he used to tell us that my father was my best friend. I thought far more of Pauweltje Winser, who lived next door to us. And that my little dog was so grateful for kindness! We never kept dogs, because they are dirty.

That is the way children are brought up; and, later on, come other lies again. A girl is an angel! The man who was the first to discover that, never had any sisters of his own. Love is bliss! One is going to fly, with one object or another, to the end of the earth. The earth has no ends; and, besides, love is madness. No one can say that I do not live happily with my wife,—she is a daughter of Last & Co., coffee-brokers. I am a member of Artis,[^[9]]—she has a shawl that cost ninety-two florins,—and yet there was never any question between us of a foolish love like that, which insists on living at the very end of the earth! When we were married, we made a little tour to the Hague, she bought some flannel there, and I am wearing under-vests made of it to this day,—but love never drove us out into the world any farther than that. Thus, it is all madness, and lies together!... It is not verses alone that seduce the young into untruthfulness. Just go into the theatre, and listen to the falsehoods that are being spread abroad there! The hero of the play is pulled out of the water by some fellow on the point of going into the bankruptcy court. Then he gives the fellow half his fortune. That cannot happen! Not long ago, when my hat was blown into the Prinsengracht I gave the man who brought it back to me twopence, and he was quite satisfied. Of course, I know I should have had to give something more if it had been myself that he pulled out, but certainly not half what I possess. Why, it is quite clear that, on this principle, one need only fall into the water twice to be ruined! But the worst of it is, with such things represented on the stage, the public gets so accustomed to all these falsehoods, that it thinks them fine, and applauds them. I should just like to throw a whole pit full of such people into the water, and see whose applause was sincere. I, who hold by the truth, warn every one that I am not going to pay so high a salvage for the fishing up of my person. Any one who is not satisfied with less, may just let me stay where I am. On a Sunday, however, I should pay rather more, because then I wear my gold watch-chain, and my best coat.

Yes! the stage ruins many—still more than the novels. It looks so well! With a little gold tinsel and paper lace, things can be made so attractive. For children, that is to say; and for people who are not in business. Even when they want to represent poverty on the stage, the picture given is always a false one. A girl, whose father has gone bankrupt, is working to keep the family. Very good! There she sits, then, sewing, knitting, or embroidering. But just count the stitches that she takes in the course of the whole scene. She talks, she sighs,—she keeps running to the window,—but she does not work. The family who can live on such work as this, must have few wants indeed! Of course a girl like this is the heroine. She has thrown several villains down the stairs. She continually calls out, “Oh! my mother! my mother!” and thus represents virtue. What sort of a virtue do you call that, that takes a year to finish a pair of woollen socks? Does not all this give people wrong ideas about virtue and working for their living?

“AND HE WAS QUITE SATISFIED.”

Then her first lover—he was formerly a clerk at the copying-book, but now a millionaire—suddenly comes back and marries her. Lies again. A man with money will never marry a girl from a house that has failed.... And then—virtue rewarded! I have had plenty of experience in my time; but still it shocks me terribly when I see truth perverted in this way. Virtue rewarded! Isn’t it just like making a traffic out of virtue? It is not so in this world, and a very good thing it is that it is not. Where is the merit of being virtuous, if virtue is to be rewarded? Now, I am as virtuous as most people, but do I expect to be rewarded for it? If my business goes on well,—which, in fact, it does;—if my wife and children keep in health, so that I have no worry with the doctor and chemist;—if, year by year, I can put away a little sum for my old age ...;—if Fritz grows up a good man of business, so that he can step into my shoes when I retire and go to live at Driebergen, ...—well, if all these things are so, I am quite content. But all that is a natural result of circumstances, and of my attention to business. I don’t ask for any special reward for my virtue.

That I am virtuous, is quite evident from my love for truth. This—next to my attachment to our orthodox belief—is my ruling passion. And I should like the reader to be quite convinced of this, because it is my excuse for writing this book.

A second passion, which rules me quite as much, is my devotion to my business. And it is these two which have caused me to write this book. I am now going to explain how this happened.

Multatuli.

(From “Max Havelaar.”)

DROOGSTOPPEL PAYS A CHARITABLE VISIT.

Droogstoppel had undertaken to publish a volume selected from the MSS. of his old schoolfellow Havelaar—alias “Sjaalman,”—who had returned from the Indies in great poverty. He was preparing it for the press with the help of his son Fritz and his German clerk Stern. He soon found that the work involved difficulties.

Besides the difficulty of selecting and arranging what was necessary out of such a mass of materials, there were constantly occurring in the MSS. words and expressions which Stern could not understand, and which were new even to me. They were mostly Javanese or Malay. Moreover, many abbreviations were used, which were difficult to decipher. I saw that we needed Sjaalman, and as I do not think it good for a young man to pick up undesirable acquaintances, I was unwilling to send either Stern or Fritz. I took with me some sweets that had remained over from our last party,—for I am always one to think of things like that,—and I set out to look for his abode. It was not a very brilliant one,—but there is no such thing as equality among people, so how can they all expect to live in the same sort of houses? He says something of the same kind himself in his essay on “Claims to Happiness.” Besides, I don’t think anything of people who are always discontented.

It was in the Langeleidsche Dwarsstraat, in a back-room upstairs. The ground floor was occupied by a second-hand dealer, who sold all sorts of things—cups and saucers, furniture, old books, glass, pictures by Van Speyk, and I don’t know what else. I was terribly afraid of breaking something; for in such a case the people always charge you more than the things are worth. A little girl was sitting on the steps, dressing her doll. I asked her whether Mr Sjaalman lived there. She ran away, and presently her mother came.

“A SECOND-HAND DEALER, WHO SOLD ALL SORTS OF THINGS.”

“Yes, he lives here, sir. Just you go upstairs to the first door, and then up the next floor to the next door, and then another flight of stairs, and then you can’t miss it. Mijntje, just run up and say there’s a gentleman. Who shall I say is asking for them, sir?”

I told her I was Mijnheer Droogstoppel, coffee-broker in the Lauriergracht, but that I would announce myself. I climbed up as high as they had told me, and heard a child’s voice singing inside the door on the third floor. I knocked, and the door was opened by a woman—or a lady. I really did not quite know what to make of her; she looked very pale, and tired, and the look in her face made me think of my wife on washing-day. She was dressed in a long white shirt or jacket, without a waist, that hung down to her knees, and was fastened in front with a black pin. Under this, instead of a proper skirt or petticoat, she wore a piece of dark flowered linen, wound round her several times, and rather tight at hips and knees. There was no trace of folds, width, or fulness, such as there ought to be in any decent woman’s dress. I was glad I had not sent Fritz, for I thought her costume very indelicate; and what made it still stranger was the ease with which she moved—as if she felt quite comfortable like that. The creature seemed quite unconscious that she did not look like other women. Moreover, she did not seem in the least embarrassed at my coming. She hid nothing under the table, and did not push the chairs about, or do any of the things you always see people do when a respectably dressed stranger comes in.

She had her hair combed back like a Chinese, and fastened behind her head in a sort of twist or knot. I have heard since that her dress was a sort of Indian costume, which they call sarong and kaabai out there, but I thought the whole thing very ugly.

“Are you Juffrouw Sjaalman?” I asked.

“A LONG WHITE SHIRT OR JACKET.”

“Whom have I the honour of speaking to?” she said, in a tone that seemed to convey that I ought to have said something about honour too.

Well—I don’t hold with compliments. A principal is a different matter, and I have been in business long enough to know what I am about; but I didn’t think it necessary to use much ceremony in a third-floor back. So I said, without more ado, that I was Mijnheer Droogstoppel, coffee-broker, Lauriergracht, No. 37, and I wanted to see her husband. Well—and why should I have made any more fuss about it?

She offered me a rush-bottomed chair, and took a little girl on her lap, who was sitting on the ground playing. The little boy, whom I had heard singing, looked full at me, and stared at me from top to toe. He, too, did not seem in the least embarrassed. He was a little chap of about six, as queerly dressed as his mother. He had on a wide pair of knickerbockers that did not come down to the knees; and his legs were bare from there to the ankle. Very indecent, I think. “Have you come to talk to papa?” he asked, in a way which showed me at once that his upbringing was not at all what it ought to be. But because I did not quite know what attitude to take up, and also wanted to talk a little, I answered, “Yes, my little fellow, I want to talk to your papa. Do you think he will be coming in soon?”

“I don’t know; he’s gone out to look for some money to buy me a paint-box.”

“Hush, my boy,” said the woman. “Play with the pictures a little, or with your Chinese puzzle-box.”

“Why, you know the gentleman came and took all the things away yesterday.”

So that was the way he spoke to his mother—h’m! ... and there had been “a gentleman,” it appeared, to “take everything away.” ... Cheerful visit, this! The woman, too, did not look in good spirits; she turned away and wiped her eyes, when she thought I could not see her, as she put the little girl down on the floor beside her brother. “There,” she said, “now play with Nonnie a little.” An extraordinary name for a child.

“Well, Juffrouw,” I asked, “do you expect your husband in soon?”

“I cannot say for certain,” she answered.

At this the little boy suddenly left his sister, came up to me, and asked,

“Sir, why do you call mamma Juffrouw?”[^[10]]

“Why, what then, youngster?” said I, “what ought I to say?”

“Why ... just like other people. The Juffrouw lives downstairs—she sells saucers and tops.”

Well—I am a coffee-broker—Last & Co., Lauriergracht, 37—there are thirteen of us in the counting-house, and, if you count Stern, who gets no salary, fourteen. And yet my wife is simply called Juffrouw; and does any one expect me to go and say Mevrouw to that person? Certainly not. Every one ought to keep his place; and what’s more, the sheriff’s officers had been there the day before, and taken away the furniture. So I thought it quite the proper thing to say Juffrouw, and stuck to it.

I asked why Sjaalman has not come to my house to fetch back his parcel. She seemed to know all about it, and said that they had been away—at Brussels. He had been writing for the Indépendance there, but had been obliged to give it up, because the paper had so often been refused admission into France on account of his articles. They had returned to Amsterdam a few days since, because Sjaalman had heard of a situation there.

“At Gaafzuiger’s, I suppose?”

Yes, that was the name. But it had come to nothing, after all, she said. Well, I knew more about that than she did. He had dropped the bound volume of Aglaia, and he was lazy, pedantic, and in bad health ... just so; that was why they discharged him.

She added that he meant to come and see me one of these days,—perhaps he was even now on his way to my house,—to ask me for an answer to the request he had made to me.

I said that he could come when it suited him, but that he was not to ring the bell, because that gives the servant so much trouble. If he waited a little, I told her, some one would be sure to come out sooner or later, and he could go in then. And then I departed, taking my sweets with me, for, to tell the truth, I didn’t like the look of things at all. I did not feel at my ease there. Why, a coffee-broker is not a crossing-sweeper, or a street-porter, I should think; and I am sure I look respectable enough. I had on my fur-lined overcoat, and yet she sat there as calmly, and talked as unconcernedly to her children, as if she had been alone. Besides, she seemed to have been crying, and if there is anything I cannot put up with, it is discontented people. Besides, it was chilly and unsociable in the place,—I suppose, because the furniture had been taken,—and I like a room to look cosy and comfortable. As I was going home, I thought I would try and keep on my old clerk Bastiaans a little longer,—because, after all, I don’t like turning a man into the street.

Multatuli.

(From “Max Havelaar.”)

APHORISMS.

I think so much of Heine that I am glad I never met him.

Two people are never at the same moment equally angry with one another.

The assertion that we prefer other work than that given us to do, frequently implies a dislike to any work whatever.

---

Two left-hand gloves do not make a pair. Two half truths do not necessarily constitute a truth.

---

A horseman once fell from his horse, and since then every one who is thrown calls himself a good rider.

---

Every one has thoughts. Only with a few persons does the thought become an idea. Still fewer are those who know how to reproduce the form and colour of their ideas. And to those who do, people continually say, “Just what I was thinking!” Just so—except for the outline—except for the colour—except for the light and shade. That is—except for a great deal.

---

He who has gone farthest astray is best able to find the right road. I do not say that much straying is necessary to know the way. Nor yet that every one who has gone astray knows it.

---

When a swift runner breaks his leg, the crawlers have a bal paré.

“TWO PEOPLE ARE NEVER AT THE SAME MOMENT EQUALLY ANGRY WITH ONE ANOTHER.”

---

Take one piece of advice. Don’t be advised by any one.

---

Between soul and speech lies the length of a trumpet. I think—I almost believe—that few trumpets are as short as the Dutch.

---

In the hospital at Amsterdam a sailor was to have his leg amputated. The professor—I mean Tilanus—took it off for him. The man calmly smoked his pipe, clenched his teeth now and then, but kept the upper hand of the pain.

Professor T. admired his spirit, and spoke in praise of it while he was putting on the bandages.

Suddenly the courageous patient gave a yell. The Professor had pricked him with a pin.

“How! you calling out like this? You, who just now——”

“That’s true; but look here, Professor, the pin was not in the bargain!”

The sailor was right.

---

Professor Z. was a friend of Apothecary Y.’s. He invited him to tea one day by means of a note, which got lost.

The note was picked up by a man who knew the signature, and deciphered the rest. He read it as a prescription for convulsions in cattle.

Moral: Not a day passes but the public surprises me with a reading of my writings which is still wilder than the interpretation of Professor Z.’s note.

Multatuli.

OF SELF-DEPRECIATION.

Now I am going to tell you how humility came into the world.

Pygmee was small of stature, and liked looking over other people’s heads. In which he was seldom successful, because he was so very small.

He went on a journey to look for people smaller than himself, but he could not find them. And his longing to look down on them became more and more intolerable.

At last he came to Patagonia, where people are so tall that even the children just born look down on their fathers.

Pygmee did not like this—in other people. But in his despair of finding any smaller than himself, he bethought himself of a plan. He invented a virtue, which proclaimed as its first principle, “Whosoever is taller than Pygmee must stoop till he comes within Pygmee’s line of vision,”—and the novelty made its way. All the Patagonians became virtuous. When any one, by walking upright, sinned against the “first principles” of Pygmee’s virtue, he was punished in a peculiar way. Every one who was bowed down and virtuous jumped up and caught him round the neck till his head reached the level of Patagonian good conduct. And the man who was strong enough to carry all Patagonia on his shoulders, without becoming virtuous, was set in the pillory, with a collar round his neck, and a word inscribed thereon in the Patagonian tongue, which, being literally translated, signifies—

“THIS MAN MADE HIMSELF OBNOXIOUS TO PYGMEE.”

People have tacitly agreed, however, to express it in our language by—“Pride.”

Multatuli.

OF EDUCATION, WITH PRACTICAL ILLUSTRATIONS.

... I am positively forced to tell you that I think Dominie Pennewip’s lot might have been counted an extenuating circumstance had he been convicted of eight deadly sins at once.

I have noticed that a considerable number of great men began their careers as swineherds (see all biographical dictionaries); and it seems, therefore, as if this employment called out the elements of all the qualities needed to govern men—or to enlighten them. Which is not quite the same thing....

... As for comparing human beings and pigs, let the reader remember the connection between coal and diamonds, and every one will be satisfied—even the theologians!

But, since making this observation on the splendid prospects which await any one who has spent his tender youth in the society of the grunting coal-diamonds of the animal kingdom, I have several times thought it strange that, in the biographies of great men, there should be so few examples of ex-schoolmasters. For, after all, all the elements which seem to constitute a pig-pasture the nursery of genius are abundantly present in the schoolroom.

The reverse process frequently occurs. Every day we see exiled princes giving instruction to idle youth. Dionysius and Louis Philippe are not the only ones; and I myself have attempted to teach French to an American. Which proved impossible.

If elective monarchies should come into fashion again, I should like to see the people’s choice confine itself, by preference, to persons who had studied mankind from models in miniature, just as one learns geography from portable globes and atlases. All virtues, inclinations, passions, errors, misdeeds,—all points which have to be studied in human society,—are found in a small and comprehensive scale on the benches of the school; and the boasted diplomacy of many a statesman only amounts, when looked at carefully, to the tricks of which our Machiavels of three feet high make the warp and woof of their tactics.

The schoolmaster’s profession is not an easy one; and I have never understood why it is so poorly paid, or, since it seems that this is an inexorable law of nature, how it is that people are always found to fill it, instead of drawing the same pay as drill-instructors, and showing soldiers how to load their guns, which is less perplexing to the mind, and gives you more fresh air, with oxygen in it.

Or else, I should prefer to be a minister. For the latter has to do with people who are quite at one with him as to the matter in hand, and come and listen to him of their own free choice; while the teacher has to keep up a constant fight with reluctance on the part of the pupils, and also with a highly dangerous set of rivals, in the shape of tops, marbles, and paper dolls—not to mention sweets, changing teeth, scarlet fever, and weak mothers.

Pennewip was a man of the old school,—at least so he would appear to us if we saw him now-a-days, in his grey coat, long waistcoat, and knee-breeches with buckles, the whole figure crowned with a brown wig, which he was constantly pushing hither and thither, and which was always curled just so at the beginning of the week—if there was no rain in the air. For curls cannot stand damp; and it was on Sundays that the man came with the curling-tongs.

Yet the old-fashionedness is, perhaps, only relative. Who knows whether it was not counted new-fangled in its day; or how soon the same thing may be said of us. However that may be, the man was addressed as “meester,” and his school was called a school, and not an institution. In his school, where, according to the simple fashion of the time, boys and girls sat side by side, you learned—or you could learn, if so minded—reading, arithmetic, writing, the history of your own country, psalm-singing, wool-work, knitting, marking, and religion. All this was in the ordinary curriculum; but any pupil who particularly distinguished him or herself by talent, application, or obedience, received, over and above, lessons in verse-making,—an art wherein the soul of Dominie Pennewip greatly delighted. He “finished” the boys to the point of complete fitness for “acceptance”;[^[11]] and, with the help of his wife, brought the girls the length of a sampler, with a red text on a black ground, or a spitted heart between two flowerpots. Then their education was complete, and they were quite fit, if so minded, to become the grandmothers of our present generation of citizens.

---

The school was empty, and the forms looked as though the pupils had left all their weariness behind them there. The map of Europe looked ill-temperedly down on the pile of copy-books, next to which lay the quill pens, worn down to the gums, so to speak, in the pot-hooks and hangers which have opened the gate of access to all learning so long that the memory of man goeth not to the contrary. The difficult sum in fractions was still visible, in all its glory, on the blackboard; but yet, the school was no school; its spirit had fled—it was a corpse.

Yes, the informing mind had departed with the children. For that these carried about with them a large quantity of the above article shall speedily be made evident.

It was the great day on which Dominie Pennewip was to judge of the fruits of his pupils’ poetic genius. There he sat. His much-moved wig shared in the emotions which filled him on reading the poems; and we will be indiscreet enough to look over his shoulder, so as, in our turn, to be touched by impressions of never-sufficiently-to-be-appreciated artistic enjoyment.

Wig to the right, and at rest.

Tryntje Fop, on her Cap.

“My name is Tryntje Fop,

I have a cap on my head atop.”

“Not bad; but—let us see—yes, that is better. The superfluous words, ‘on my head,’ weaken the impression of the whole.”

He scored through the superfluous words, and now Tryntje Fop has simply a cap on, without a head.

“This is the sort of terse and concise style I like.”

Wig somewhat to the left.

Lucas de Bryer, on our Country.

“Fatherland, cake, and almonds also,

In the moonlight I a-walking go;

Cake, Fatherland, and brandy-wine,

I go a-walking in the moonshine.

Five fingers have I upon my hand,

In honour of our dear Fatherland.”

“Melodious,” said the master; “it runs quite melodiously. And there is depth in the cake and the brandy, with the Fatherland in between them.”

Wig to the right.

Lysje Webbelaar, on her Father’s Trade.

“The cat fell downstairs to-day;

My father, he sells pota-

Toes and onions.”

“Original; but I do not like her dividing the word potatoes.”

Wig to the left.

Jannetje Rast, on a Weathercock.

“He stands on a chimney, all soot below,

And shows the wind the way it must blow.”

“This is not quite accurate; for, strictly speaking——, but, as a poetical license, it may pass.”

Wig to the front.

Grietje Wanzer, on a Caterpillar.

“The little caterpillar, without fear,

Jumps round upon the trees, both far and near.”

“Descriptive poetry. There is a certain boldness in the idea of the caterpillar fearlessly jumping about.”

Wig at rest.

Leendert Snelleman, on Spring.

“In the spring all is bright and gay;

My brother’s birthday is in May;

But now he has chilblains on his feet.

So we’ll praise the spring, as it is meet.

Then we’ll go for walks together,

And look for eggs at Easter.”

“It is a pity that the rhyme is so very careless. His ideas are really uncommon, and well developed. The transition to the egg is quite characteristic.”

Wig pushed down to the back of his neck.

Keesje, the Butcher’s Son—Eulogy of the Dominie.

“My father has killed many an ox with his knife,

But Master Pennewip is still in life.

Sometimes they were lean, and sometimes fat,

And he wears a wig underneath his hat.”

The wig was pushed to one side—very far to one side.

“H’m—strange—what shall I say about it?”

The wig went back again to the extreme right.

“What have I got to do with the oxen?”

The wig protested, with some impressive movements, against all such bovine relationships.

“WIG PUSHED DOWN TO THE BACK OF HIS NECK.”

“H’m—could that be what these new-fangled writers call humour?”

The wig was drawn forward to Dominie Pennewip’s eyebrows, which denotes doubt.[^[12]]

“I must take that boy in hand one of these days.”

The wig came to anchor on the zenith, by way of expressing its satisfaction at the Dominie’s intention of taking Butcher’s Keesje seriously in hand.

Lucas de Wilde, on Religion.

“Religion’s a good thing indeed,

Of which all people have great need.”

“The fundamental idea is correct and beautiful,” said Pennewip, “but it ought to have been further developed.”

The wig nodded assent.

Truitje Gier, on Mrs Pennewip.

“The path of virtue she does show,—

Who would not gladly with her go?

And at odd moments, as is fit,

She teaches us to darn and knit.”

The wig gave a leap of joy, and its curls embraced one another. The master could not refrain from calling his wife to share in the enjoyment of Truitje Gier’s effusion, which was pasted on a piece of cardboard, and hung up above the mantelpiece in honour both of the poetess and her subject....

Louwtje de Wilde, on Friendship.

“Friendship is a good thing indeed,

Of which all people have great need.”

The wig did not appear quite satisfied. Lucas de Wilde’s “Religion” was brought to light, and placed for comparison beside Louwtje’s “Friendship.”

“H’m ... well ... it might be possible. Instances do occur of the same idea springing up simultaneously in two different minds.... It might ... or could ... be so....”

Wimpje de Wilde, on Angling.

“Angling is ...”

“How! What is that?”

Yes, indeed! there it was—

“Angling is a good thing indeed,

Of which all people have great need.”

The wig was in perpetual motion; it seemed as though it too were taking part in the angling operations.

Master Pennewip hastily turned over the papers he had not yet examined, sorted out the productions of the whole Wilde family, and ... yes, indeed! Mietje de Wilde, Kees de Wilde, Piet and Jan de Wilde, declared, with touching unanimity, that religion, friendship, fishing, dreaming, cauliflower, and conjuring are good things indeed, of which all people have great need. It was an overwhelming flood of good things and human need!

What was an honest wig to do? It did the best thing that could be done under the circumstances, and more cannot be required of any one. After perceiving the fruitlessness of its efforts to find out any difference between fishing and friendship, conjuring and dreaming, cauliflower and religion, it behaved as though the matter did not concern it in the least, and assumed a neutral position, with an air, on the part of its little curls, of looking forward with interest to the sequel—as the reader is no doubt doing.

“ANGLING IS A GOOD THING INDEED.”

Leentje de Haas, on Admiral de Ruyter.

“He climbed to the top of a tower,

And twisted ropes on the same;

Then he went to sea in a vessel,

And was crowned with eternal fame.

“He did great deeds and glorious,

And overthrew Sallee;

The States named him victorious,

Our hero of the sea.

“Then to marauding England

He went in wrath so dire,

The same he, most intrepid,

Besieged and set on fire.

“How many Christian captives

He freed from slavery’s chains!

Then Netherland’s valiant warriors

Broke all his window-panes.

“For terror of all traitors

What time he sailed the sea,

His title it was ‘Daddy’—

His wife was ‘Granny,’ she!

“He gave the Lord the glory,

A Christian life he led,—

Then got he through his garments

A bullet, and was dead!”

The wig clapped its curls applaudingly. It seemed delighted. Alas! the joy of such a wig does not last long. This, too, was soon to——But we will not anticipate.... We shall know only too soon.

“Wouter Pieterse—The Song of the Brigand.”

“Hey! What’s this? And Virtue—where is Virtue?”

“ADMIRAL DE RUYTER.”

Dominie Pennewip could not trust his own eyes. He turned the sheet over and looked at the back, to see if the Virtue he had given Wouter as a subject was hidden there.

Alas, alas! there was no trace of virtue in Wouter’s composition.

Poor wig!

Yes—poor wig! For after having made it to undergo what no wig ever underwent before,—after having tugged, plucked, ill-used, and tormented it to an extent which would have taken more than the imagination of the whole De Wilde family to conceive,—Dominie Pennewip tore it from his head, doubled it up between his convulsively clenched hands,—stammered, “Heaven and earth! Gracious goodness! where in nature did he pick that up?”—banged it down on his head again, clapped his venerable three-cornered hat atop of it, and flew out of the front door like a man possessed. He went straight to the Pieterses’ house.

Juffrouw Pieterse, Wouter’s mother, had been entertaining a few of her friends and neighbours at a “little evening,” with tea and cake.

“Good evening, Juffrouw Pieterse; I am your obedient servant. I see you have company,—but——”

“Don’t mention it, sir! Just come in and sit down!... Will you take a cup with us—sage-milk?”

“Juffrouw Pieterse,” replied the master, solemnly, “I did not come here to drink sage-milk!”

“But please sit down, Dominie——”

It was not easy, under the circumstances, but the ladies shifted their chairs a little, and the Dominie was finally installed in his. He was coughing with overwhelming seriousness. He looked round on the company, drew out a roll of papers, pulled his wig to one side, and spoke:

“Juffrouw Pieterse! you are an honest, respectable woman,—and your late husband—sold shoes——”

Juffrouw Pieterse cast on Juffrouw Laps a glance of vindictive triumph.

“Yes, sir, he did!”

“Don’t interrupt me, Juffrouw Pieterse. Your deceased consort sold shoes. I have had your children at my school, from the time when they were so high, to their confirmation. Is not that true, Juffrouw Pieterse?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied, somewhat uneasily, for she began to be frightened at the impressive solemnity of Pennewip’s tone. “Yes, that’s true, Dominie!”

“And I ask you, Juffrouw Pieterse, whether you, so long as you, through the means of your children, have had anything to do with my school, have had any complaints—I mean, well-founded complaints, Juffrouw Pieterse—to make of the way in which I—with the help of my wife—have given your numerous offspring instruction in reading, writing, arithmetic, Dutch history, psalm-singing, sewing, knitting, marking, and religion? That is what I ask you, Juffrouw Pieterse.”

A ghastly silence. The neighbour in the back-room downstairs, who had repeatedly complained of the noise during the evening, had every reason to be satisfied.

“That is what I ask you, Juffrouw Pieterse,” repeated the Dominie, putting on the pince-nez, which was considered antiquated in those days—destined, as it was, to become the height of fashion some decades later.

“But, Dominie——”

“No buts, Juffrouw Pieterse. I ask of you—or I ask you,—for it is quite allowable, Juffrouw Pieterse, in this case, to omit the preposition,—I ask you if you have any complaints to make—I mean, of course, well-founded complaints—of the instruction given by me in reading, writing——”

“Goodness, no, Dominie!—I have no complaints; but——”

“Is that so? No complaints? Well, then, I declare to you—— Where is your son Wouter?”

“Wouter? Why—oh! he went out, so he did! Hasn’t he come in yet, Trui? Wouter is out for a walk, Dominie, with the little Hallemans—very nicely-behaved children, Dominie,—and they live——”

“Eh! what?—with the Hallemans, is he?—the Hallemans who go to the French school? oh! indeed—yes! So it’s from the Hallemans he learns such things—it must be——... loose morals ... utter depravity ... the French school...! Well, in short, Juffrouw Pieterse,—I say that your son——”

“Eh?”

“I tell you that your son Wouter——”

“Well—what has Wouter been doing now?” asked Juffrouw Laps, rejoiced, pious person that she was, at the new misdeed she was to hear of.

Just as Pennewip was about to open the indictment, there was another ring at the bell,—and the unfortunate delinquent entered the room.

“Juffrouw Pieterse,” Pennewip began, “my school is known as a good school even so far off as Kattenburg[^[13]]—do you hear that, and understand it?”

“Oh yes, Dominie!”

“I repeat it,—well known; and more especially so on account of the good moral tone which prevails there,—I mean, of course, in my school. Religion and virtue are put foremost. I could show you verses on such subjects that—but I will pass over that for the present. Let it suffice you to know that my school is known as far as ... what do I say?—I have even taught the son of a resident in Wittenburg,[^[13]]—a block-maker he was—and once, indeed, I was consulted in writing as to what was to be done with a boy whose father lived no nearer than Muiderberg!”

“Very good, Dominie!”

“Yes, Juffrouw Pieterse! I am still in possession of the letter—which I could show you if I chose; the man was a sexton, and the youth had fallen into a sad habit of drawing unseemly figures on the tombstones—but just on that account—I mean for the sake of the religion and virtue for which I am so well known—I feel it my duty to take this opportunity of informing you that I do not choose to see the good name of my school ruined by means of that good-for-nothing rascal of a son of yours, who stands there!”

Poor Wouter was aghast. That sounded very unlike the appointment he had been dreaming of—brigand-in-chief to the Pope of Rome,—which, however, he no longer desired, having thought of a different position which would suit him better.

His mother was about to proceed to what she called “her religion,” and administer chastisement on the spot, in order to satisfy the Dominie, and show him that, in her house, too, religion and sound morals had the first place. But the schoolmaster thought it better to inform the company what was toward, and thereby bring the culprit to a deeper sense of his delinquencies.

“Your son, Juffrouw Pieterse, belongs to the class of robbers, murderers, and fire-raisers!” ...

No more than that!

“Gracious goodness! Merciful justice! What next! Oh! my gracious patience! How is it possible? What human beings have to endure!” Something like this—for I will not answer for textual accuracy—was the flood of exclamations which overwhelmed the ten-year-old robber, murderer, and fire-raiser. Poor Wouter!

“I will read you a piece in his own handwriting,” said the Dominie, “and any one who, after this, can still doubt the utter depravity of this boy——”

The whole company promised with one voice not to doubt it. The poem, indeed, which Master Pennewip thereupon proceeded to read, was of a kind which rendered doubt on that head very difficult; and I myself, though I have chosen Wouter as my hero, shall not find it easy to convince the reader that he was not so bad as would appear from his atrocious—

SONG OF THE BRIGAND.

“With my sword—

On my steed—

And my helmet on head,

Ride at them! The foeman’s skull cloven in twain,—

And forward!—”

“Christian souls!” cried the whole company, “is he mad?”

“And forward!—

And never draw rein

Along the high-road,

The brigand’s abode,—

With a thrust and a blow;

Drive back the Dragoons—the Viscount’s laid low!” ...

“Dear heavens above us!” moaned Wouter’s mother, “what in the world has this Viscount done to him?”

“For the spoil”—

“Look at that now,—for the spoil!” said Juffrouw Laps, “I always say,—they begin with a Bible, and then——”

“And the spoil

Is my bride.”

“Did ever any one hear the like?—his bride! Why, the boy’s only just cutting his second set of teeth!”

“And the spoil

Is my bride,

Bought for mine own with the sword at my side——”

“With the sword at his side!!”

“And the spoil is my bride,

Bought for mine own with the sword at my side.

Like a feather I bear her right into the hall,

To the grotto——”

“Gracious patience! what does he want in a grotto?”

“As swift as the wind

I ride on with my prey,—

And I heed not her weeping—her groans are my joy,

What delight!——”

“Mercy on us! does he call that delight? It makes me go cold all over!”

“Then again

Up and down,

East and west through the land!”

“There he goes again!”

“Then again

Up and down,

East and west through the land,

Here a villa to raze—there a convent ablaze—

With rifling of treasure:

My pleasure!——”

“The devil must be in the boy ... his pleasure!”

“And then we are gone!—

Ride on! ever on,

New adventures to seek—

My path it is marked by the steel and the fire—

On, on, ever on, let me hasten—nor tire,

My vengeance to wreak!”

“Gracious goodness! what can they have done to him?”

“For revenge is the task

He would ask—

The king of the wood——”

“Is the boy mad? I’ll king him!”

“For revenge is the task

He would ask—

The king of the wood—

Who alone, against all, his sceptre holds good——”

“What sort of a thing is that?”

“Who alone, against all, his sceptre holds good,

And his banner of might!—

Up! Hurrah!

Who will come to the fight?”

The company shuddered audibly at this invitation.

“Up! Hurrah!

Who will come to the fight?

We will spare no creature that ever was born—

Now we’ll hang all the men——”

“Lodderyn![^[14]] Trui! you see I——”

“We’ll hang all the men, and the women——”

“Lodderyn! lodderyn! lodderyn! Trui!”

“And the women shall mourn,

For our joy and delight!”

“Our joy and delight!” repeated Pennewip in a sepulchral voice,—“our joy and delight!... He ... does ... these ... things ... for ... his ... delight!”.

The whole company was near swooning. Stoffel’s pipe had gone out. But Wouter had a sort of passive strength in his nature; and when his mother had thrashed him enough to secure her own return to consciousness, he lay down, not altogether discontented, in his corner of the back room, and soon fell asleep, to dream of Fancy.

Multatuli.

(Ideen.)

GOING INTO BUSINESS.

The plan of “going into business” was quite attractive to Wouter. Perhaps because he did not quite know what it meant. He asked his brother Stoffel about it.

“Well—don’t you understand that? ‘In business’ means the same thing as—as being a merchant.”

“But what shall I have to sell? And how shall I know what people want?”

“Oh, you must not imagine that you will have to go about with a peddler’s pack, and ring at people’s front doors to know if they want to buy anything. You’re a stupid; you never will understand anything. ‘In business,’ you see, means—it means——”

Stoffel began to stammer. He was not the first to stumble over a definition—and will not be the last. But there are few who, in such a case, have an ally at home to help them out.

“How can you always talk such nonsense, Wouter?” cried his mother. “There’s Stoffel, now, explaining everything to you so clearly, and there you are again making out you don’t understand. Who in the world ever told you that you would have to go about the street with a pack on your back, like an oilman or a mersan de la perreplu?[^[15]] Is that what I have brought you up for, and made you take the highest place in the school? You are an ungrateful child. What is the good of your knowing so much, and being able to make such fine letters, with curls and flourishes to them, if you must insult your own mother?”

Readers who care anything for justice, will find it strange, and perhaps unfair, that Wouter should have been overwhelmed with this flood of reproach. Unfair? Certainly! But—strange? Why, no! I solemnly affirm my accuracy in depicting a certain manner of carrying on a controversy, of which Juffrouw Pieterse was unquestionably mistress.

But now, supposing Wouter had, in all humility, remarked that he had given no occasion for the above sermon? Well, in that case he would have been overwhelmed with a second lecture on the far-reaching and infamous wickedness of being in the right, which, indeed, under certain circumstances, is a fault—and a bad one.

Multatuli.

(Ideen.)

TWO PARABLES.

A Professor of Ichthyology was delivering his lecture. The students were listening—well, pretty attentively as students go—not to mention students of Ichthyology.

“The carp, gentlemen, the carp——”

Then followed some facts about the carp.

“Now the carp, gentlemen, as I was saying——”

At that moment a carp came swimming into the lectureroom. How the beast did it, considering how dry it was there, does not concern us. The poor students had suffered from drought for ever so long,—and, after all, a carp is no better than a student.

“There he is himself!” they cried, with one voice.

So they left the professor in the lurch with his lecture on the carp, and went to look at the carp for themselves. Now I think this quite right and natural on the part of the students. But I wish we could do the same, and try to look at men—and women too—for ourselves, instead of listening to somebody’s dicta about Man!

Multatuli.

(Ideen.)

“AM I NOT JUST LIKE PLATO?”

THERSITES AND PLATO.

Plato once had a bad cold—so bad that it was evident to every one. Thersites imitated his way of coughing, and said:

“Am I not just like Plato?”

However, this was not the worst—any man is free to ask a question. The worst of it was that thousands upon thousands of people immediately replied, “Just so. Hurrah for Thersites, the new philosopher!”

The man founded a school on the spot. And, therefore: Cave, caveto, caveto, cavete, cavetote, caveunto!

Multatuli.

(Ideen.)

EGOTISM.

“You talk a great deal about yourself,” say many who never get talked about, either by themselves or other people. “This is against the tone of good society.”

“I advise you to seek better society than mine.”

“You talk a great deal about yourself——”

“Yes. Would you prefer me to speak of you, ... or your cat, ... or your dog, ... or your ass?”

Do you wish that? Well, content yourself, I have often done so, but you did not know it at the time, because you are always confusing yourself with your neighbour’s donkey. Your neighbour has also been complaining; he says that I have been all the time talking about your donkeys. Compensation! The donkeys themselves have never complained, the good, dumb beasts.

“You talk a great deal about yourself——”

“Yes. I want to be honest.”

“You talk a great deal about yourself——”

“Yes. I am my own latest love. I had loved long, and often, and ardently, before that love was born. But now that it does exist, ... and is the last....”

“You talk a great deal about yourself——”

“Yes. If it wearies you, what hinders your exchanging me for the Aglaia? What hinders your becoming a subscriber to ‘The Life, Fortunes, and Business of the Kappelman Family’—in one vol., cloth gilt?”

“You talk a great deal about yourself——”

“Quite so. When you do what Havelaar did, and the rich young man in Matthew xix. did not do, I will talk about you.”

Multatuli.

(Ideen.)

THE STORY OF CHRESOS.

Chresos lived in Bœotia. By profession he was mayor of a little village, whose name I do not know, neither can I tell you how he had strayed into Bœotia, since his family belonged to Athens—nay, I think he was even related to Alcibiades, who was a Frenchman born too soon. Chresos was a good sort of man, and lived contentedly. He looked after his village as well as he could, and amused himself, in his spare hours, by playing on the lute; but he only did this at home, and never annoyed any one with his music.

And, behold, there came robbers, who ill-treated the inhabitants of the village over which Chresos had authority. He laid aside his lute, and tried to drive the robbers away; but he was told that he ought not to have done this, because the robbers were under the protection of the magistrates in the capital.

Chresos did not believe this, because it seemed to him too bad to be credible. He continued to resist the robbers, and, their force being too great for him, he sent a messenger to Thebes, to ask for help.

Instead of help, he received for answer, that he was an unworthy mayor, and entirely incompetent to fill any office in Bœotia. He did not attempt to deny this. After having advised his villagers to have patience, he left the place with his wife and children, taking nothing with him but his lute. His house was occupied by a new mayor, who, it may be supposed, was less unworthy, in the opinion of the Theban magistrates, and who, also, seemed to be on very good terms with the very robbers whom the stupid Chresos had wanted to exterminate. At any rate, there were no more complaints of violence, although the robbers still remained in the neighbourhood.

With difficulty, Chresos obtained access to the Areopagus, and related what had happened to him. He pointed to his family, who were perishing of want—through a misunderstanding on the part of the magistrates; for he still thought that the whole matter arose out of a misunderstanding. I have already told you that he was not really a Bœotian by birth. This was why he held such mistaken opinions.

But the Areopagus took no notice. Chresos asked his wife to have patience, which was not necessary, and consoled himself by playing the lute. He was no great musician, but there is something peculiar in the playing of a father who sees his family starving; this was why they listened to him, not because Chresos played well. There was something that tickled coarse ears. There were many coarse ears in Bœotia.

When they said, “Well played, Chresos; go on,” his hand fell limply down, and the tears stood in his eyes at the thought that this undesired praise was the price of his children’s hunger.

Yet he played from time to time, because he could do no other. And his family bore their hunger patiently.

Again and again he appealed to the Areopagus. At last he received the following answer:—

“The Court of Areopagus, &c., having heard the complaints of the ex-mayor Chresos as to the outrages in the village of——, &c.

“HE PLAYED FROM TIME TO TIME.”

“Having likewise heard his request for a decision between him and the Theban magistrates, &c.

“And whereas the said Chresos declares that he and his family are in a position of great distress, in consequence of a misunderstanding which induced the said magistrates to take the side of the robbers who plundered the village,

“And whereas, moreover, many witnesses declare that they have heard the said Chresos playing on the lute,

“In pursuance of, &c., &c.,

“The sentence of the Court is, that the said Chresos continue playing on the lute, and pay all costs.”

The Areopagus had been bribed,—and its name was Holland.

Multatuli.

(Minnebrieven.)

THE FAIRY TALE THAT FANCY TOLD WOUTER.
Fancy’s Fairy Tale.

Wouter had found out that he was a prince. His princedom lay in the region of the moon ... no, much farther off than that.

This is how he came to it:—

Long before the beginning of this story,—yes, very, very long ago, there was a Queen of Spirits, just as in Hans Heiling. Her name was A—OO.

She did not live in a cave, as did the one in Hans, but held her court far above the clouds, which is more airy, and also more fitting for a queen.

She wore a necklace of stars, and a sun was set in her signet-ring.

When she went out, the nebulæ flew up like dust, and she scattered the firmaments with a stroke of her fan.

“HER NAME WAS A—OO.”

Her children played with planets for marbles, and complained that they were so hard to find when they rolled away among the furniture. This made Prince Upsilon—the queen’s little son—very cross, and he kept asking for some other kind of toys.

The queen had a box full of Sirii given him, but in a little while these too were lost. But that was Upsilon’s own fault. He ought to have taken better care of his playthings. People did what they could to content him. But whatever was given him, he kept calling for something else—something more and bigger. This was a fault in the little prince’s character.

His mother, who, as Queen of Spirits, was a very sensible woman, understood that it would be a good thing for the youngster to get accustomed to doing without for a little. So she said that Upsilon was to be left without any playthings at all.

This was done. They took away everything from him,—even the comet with which he and his little sister Omicron were playing at battledore and shuttlecock.

Prince Upsilon was of a passionate temper, and so far forgot himself as to say something very disrespectful about his mother.

Princess Omicron, too, led astray by his example (for nothing is more ruinous than bad examples), angrily threw her battledore at the Universe. Which was not nice in a little girl.

Now in the kingdom of Spirits there was a law that whoever lost sight of the respect due to the Queen, or threw anything at the Universe, should be punished for the same by a temporary loss of all rank and dignity.

Prince Upsilon became a grain of sand.

After having behaved well for a couple of thousand years, he received the joyful tidings that he was promoted to the rank of a tuft of moss.

In this capacity he kept his duty in mind, and did everything that a good moss tuft ought to do. And on a certain morning he awoke as a polype.

This happened about the time when human beings first began to prepare their food by means of fire.

He built one or two continents, and in about two thousand years’ time he was rewarded for his zeal by being changed into a shrimp.

In this position, also, no one had the slightest reason to complain of his conduct, and in due course he was transferred to the class of sea-serpents.

He amused himself, innocently enough, by playing at hide-and-seek with the sailors, but did no one any harm; and some time afterwards he received four feet and the rank of mastodon, with the privilege of disporting himself on shore.

With philosophic calm he adapted himself to his new circumstances, and occupied himself with geological observations. A few million ages later....

When I speak of ages, it must be borne in mind that all this time taken together was only a short quarter of an hour in the land of Spirits, ... or rather that it was absolutely nothing. For time was invented for the convenience of mankind, as we give spelling-books to children. For Spirits, then, now, and in the future is exactly the same thing. They comprehend yesterday, to-day, and to-morrow in one glance,—just as we read a word without spelling. What was and shall be, is.

The Egyptians and Phœnicians knew this very well, but we seem to have forgotten it.

A few million years later, then, he rose to the rank of an elephant; and, a spirit-minute or so after that,—that is ten years, I mean human years this time—before the beginning of my story, he was transferred to the class of human beings.

What he had done amiss, as an elephant, I do not know.

But, Fancy had said, if he did not want to be put back another step, instead of being shortly restored to his rank as a prince of Spirits, he must look to his ways as a human being; not make any more verses about brigands, or sell any more Bibles; and then, why, perhaps it might come to pass.

Alas, he would have to put up with Juffrouw Pieterse’s not wearing a train. “That,” said Fancy, “is so, and can’t be helped.”

Fancy appeared to be a sort of maid-of-honour of Wouter’s mother, who came to visit him in his banishment, so as to cheer him up a bit, and tell him to take courage, for the temporary punishment that had fallen to his lot did not mean that people had ceased to love him.

She promised to come and see him from time to time.

“But,” Wouter had asked, “how is my little sister?”

“Your sister has been punished too—you know the law. But she is a dear child. She is submitting to it patiently, and promises to do better in the future. In the beginning she was a bubble of air, and conducted herself irreproachably as such. Then she became a moonbeam, and in this capacity also no one had any fault to find with her. She shone so that it was a pleasure to see her, and your mother had need of all her strength of mind to keep from granting her a respite. So she was soon promoted to be a perfume, and filled the Universe to such a degree that she gave us a headache. This happened about the time when you were beginning to eat grass. Then she became a butterfly. But your mother found that this was not a suitable position for a girl, and therefore soon changed her into a constellation—see, there she is—below us.”

Wouter looked for Omicron, but could not find her.

It often happens that we miss something because it is too big.

“See,” said Fancy, “there—to the right—no—rather farther off—there—there—the Pole Star. That’s her left eye. You can’t see the right, because she is stooping after Orion, her doll. She is holding him on her lap and playing with him.”

Wouter now saw her clearly, and cried “Omicron! Omicron!”

“No, no,” said the maid-of-honour, “that won’t do, prince. The queen expressly directed that your confinement was to be on the cellular system. It is only as a great favour that you two are shut up within the same universe. When your brothers spoilt the Milky Way some time ago by letting floods loose over it, they were put very much farther apart.”

Wouter was greatly grieved at this. He would so have liked to kiss all those stars, with the doll in their lap, which were his little sister.

“Oh! Fancy,” he cried, “do let me be with Omicron!”

Fancy said neither yes nor no. There was something in her manner as if she were thinking over the possibility of bringing a very difficult matter to pass.

But Wouter, taking courage from her hesitation, repeated his prayer:

“Oh! let me be with my little sister. I don’t mind if I have to eat grass again, or build continents. I will do my very best at it, if I may only be with Omicron!”

It seems as though Fancy were afraid to promise what might be out of her power, and, at the same time, that it pained her not to be able to give the promise.

“I will ask,” she whispered; “and now....”

Wouter rubbed his eyes ... he was standing on the little bridge over the canal.

Multatuli.

(Ideen.)

HALF-AN-HOUR AT THE HAIR-DRESSER’S.

Farce.