To readers of a certain class of fiction it will no doubt seem strange if I say that Walter’s visit to the Holsma family influenced greatly his spiritual development. Not immediately; but a seed had been planted which was to grow later. He saw now that after all independent thought was possible, even if he could not yet allow himself that luxury. The mere knowledge that there were other opinions in the world than those of his daily mentors was a long stride forward.
He was depressed on account of his lack of knowledge. Those children knew so much more than he did; and this made him sad.
They had spoken of someone who was startled to find footprints. Who was it? The child had never heard of Defoe’s hermit. He asked Stoffel.
“Footprints? Footprints? Well, you must tell me what footprints you mean—whose footprints. You must give names when you ask questions.”
“That’s right,” said the mother, “when you want to know anything you must mention names. And Mevrouw made the salad herself? Well, that’s strange. The girl must have been out somewhere.”
As to other “strange” things, which were not likely to meet the approbation of his family, Walter was silent. Not a word about that Saturnalia, or the omission of grace at a “warm meal”! Nor did he mention the liberties that were allowed the children, or the freedom with which they joined in the conversation. Perhaps it was a superfluous precaution. That bearskin would have been excused for many shortcomings.
Juffrouw Pieterse asked repeatedly if he had been “respectable.” Walter said he had, but without knowing exactly what she meant. That affair with the spoon—had it been respectable? He didn’t care to have this question decided—at least by his mother. But it was nice of Sietske; and wouldn’t he have done the same?
He learned that the day was approaching when he must return to school. More than ever he felt that this source of knowledge was insufficient for him; but opposition was not to be thought of. He was dissatisfied with himself, with everything.
“I shall never amount to anything,” he sighed.
His Lady Macbeth seemed uglier to him than ever. He tore her up. And Ophelia?