Walter had never seen such a slice of bread. He didn’t know whether he ought to bite through the width, or the thickness. The bit of cheese gave him his cue.
He liked Mrs. Claus much better this time. And Father Jansen, too; even if he wasn’t like Walter had imagined him to be.
He had never conceived a preacher as being anything else but a very supernatural and spiritual and celestial sort of person. Father Jansen didn’t seem to be that kind of a man at all.
He visited the sheep of his fold, especially the plain people, not to make a display of beneficence—for he had nothing, but because he was happiest among simple people. He was fond of bread and butter of the Mrs. Claus variety. For the rest, he said mass, preached about sin, catechised, confirmed, absolved, and did whatever needed to be done. He performed the functions of his office, and did not think it at all strange that he should have gone into the church, while his brother in Nordbrabant succeeded to the business of his father, who was a farrier and inn-keeper.
“And what are you going to be?” he asked Walter; “for everybody in the world must be something. Wouldn’t you like to be a bookbinder? That’s a good trade.”
“I was—I was in business, M’neer; and I’m going back to business.”
“That’s good, my boy. You may get rich. Especially here in Amsterdam; for Amsterdam is a commercial city.”
Walter wanted to add: “The greatest commercial city of Europe.” But he was abashed by the—worldliness of Father Jansen’s talk. He didn’t find it disagreeable: he was merely surprised at it.
“A boy like you ought to eat a lot. You look pale. My brother can bend a horseshoe. What do you say to that? Have you ever eaten our Brabant bread? Ham isn’t bad, either. A person that doesn’t eat enough gets weak. I always eat two slices of bread and butter whenever I’m here at Mrs. Claus’s; but I’m not nearly so strong as my brother. You ought to see the Vucht fair. That’s a great time.”
Walter was more than surprised to hear such talk from a preacher: he was almost pleased. He had never received such charming messages from heaven. Of course they came from heaven, those friendly words uttered in Brabant dialect between the puffs of Father Jansen’s pipe. This man in a priest’s coat chattered away as if there were no such thing in the world as God, Grace, and Hell—especially the latter. He was as happy as a child in telling about the strength of his brother, the horseshoer. It was his business to lead the world to eternal happiness; and he liked thick slices of bread and butter with cheese.