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of revolt—a revolt often blind, illogical, inconsistent with itself, and which, from our point of view, seems curiously out of date—so that one is apt to forget he has only been dead six years,—and he is seldom, if ever, a teacher of anything else.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.