Walter Pieterse Part 1

Walter Pieterse.

by Multatuli.

PREFACE

Most of us know that The Hague is somewhere in Holland; and we all know that Queen Wilhelmina takes a beautiful picture; but to how many of us has it occurred that the land of Spinoza and Rembrandt is still running a literary shop?

How many of us have ever heard of Eduard Douwes Dekker? Very few, I fear, except professional critics. And yet, the man who, forty years ago, became famous as Multatuli (I have borne much), was not only the greatest figure in the modern literature of the Netherlands, but one of the most powerful and original writers in the literature of the world. An English critic has called him the Heine of Holland; Anatole France calls him the Voltaire of the Netherlands.

Eduard Douwes Dekker was born in 1820, at Amsterdam, his father being the captain of a merchantman trading in the Dutch colonies. At the age of eighteen Dekker sailed on his father's vessel for the East Indies, determined to abandon the business career that had been mapped out for him and enter the colonial service. In 1839 he received a clerks.h.i.+p in the civil service at Batavia. He now remained in the employ of the government for seventeen years, being promoted from one grade to another until he was made a.s.sistant Resident of Lebak in 1856.

In this important position he used his influence to better the condition of the natives; but, to his sorrow, he soon found that he did not have the support of his superiors. What he conceived to be right clashed with the line of conduct he was expected to follow. In a rash moment of "righteous indignation" he handed in his resignation; and it was accepted.

This hasty step put an end to a brilliant political career and entailed upon Dekker years of disappointment and hards.h.i.+p. Seeing that he was pursuing the wrong method to help either the Javanese, or himself, he immediately tried to get reinstated, but without success. In 1857 he returned to Holland and applied to the home government, hoping to be vindicated and restored to his post. Again he was disappointed. The government offered him another desirable position; but, as it was a matter of principle with Dekker, he declined it.

When he saw that it was useless to importune the government further, Dekker made his appeal to the people in "Max Havelaar" (1860). The book was an instant success and made the name of Multatuli famous. Through the perfidy of a supposed friend, however, Dekker failed to get very substantial material rewards from this work. For ten years yet he was struggling with poverty.

The Bohemian life that Dekker was now compelled to live--his family was on the sufferance of friends--estranged him from his wife and strengthened what some might call an unfortunate--or, at least, an untimely--literary friends.h.i.+p that Dekker had formed with a certain Miss Mimi Schepel, of The Hague. The spiritual affinity between the two soon developed a pa.s.sion that neither could resist. This estimable lady, who afterwards became Dekker's second wife, is still living, and has edited Dekker's letters in nine volumes. Dekker died in February, 1887, at his home in Nieder-Ingelheim, where he had lived for several years.

The "Woutertje Pieterse" story was first published in Dekker's seven volume work ent.i.tled "Ideen." Here it is sandwiched in between miscellaneous sketches, essays and treatises, being scattered all the way from Vol. I to Vol. VII. The story falls naturally into two parts, of which the present volume is the first part. The second part, written in a different key, deals with "Walter's Apprentices.h.i.+p."

A good deal of the flax, or silk, of his Chinaman's pigtail, to use Dekker's form of expression, I have unraveled as being extraneous matter. However, despite these omissions, it is quite possible that some very sensitive person may still find objectionable allusions in the book. If so, I must refer that one to the shade of Multatuli. From his own admission his shoulders were evidently broad; and, no doubt, they will be able to bear the additional strain.

Hubert Evans.

New York City, November, 1904.

WALTER PIETERSE

CHAPTER I

I don't know the year; but, since the reader will be interested to know the time when this story begins, I will give him a few facts to serve as landmarks.

My mother complained that provisions were dear, and fuel as well. So it must have been before the discovery of Political Economy. Our servant-girl married the barber's a.s.sistant, who had only one leg. "Such a saving of shoe-leather," the good little soul argued. But from this fact one might infer that the science of Political Economy had already been discovered.

At all events, it was a long time ago. Amsterdam had no sidewalks, import duties were still levied, in some civilized countries there were still gallows, and people didn't die every day of nervousness. Yes, it was a long time ago.

The Hartenstraat! I have never comprehended why this street should be called thus. Perhaps it is an error, and one ought to write Hertenstraat, or something else. I have never found more "heartiness"

there than elsewhere; besides, "harts" were not particularly plentiful, although the place could boast of a poulterer and dealer in venison.

I haven't been there for a long time, and I only remember that the Straat connects two main ca.n.a.l-streets, ca.n.a.ls that I would fill up if I had the power to make Amsterdam one of the most beautiful cities of Europe.

My predilection for Amsterdam, our metropolis, does not make me blind to her faults. Among these I would mention first her complete inability to serve as the scene of things romantic. One finds here no masked Dominos on the street, the common people are everywhere open to inspection, no Ghetto, no Templebar, no Chinese quarter, no mysterious courtyard. Whoever commits murder is hanged; and the girls are called "Mietje" and "Jansje"--everything prose.

It requires courage to begin a story in a place ending with "dam." There it is difficult to have "Emeranties" and "Heloises"; but even these would be of little use, since all of these belles have already been profaned.

How do the French authors manage, though, to dress up their "Margots"

and "Marions" as ideals and protect their "Henris" and "Ernestes"

from the trite and trivial? These last remind one of M'sieu Henri or M'sieu Erneste just about like our castle embankments remind one of filthy water.

Goethe was a courageous man: Gretchen, Klarchen----

But I, in the Hartenstraat!

However, I am not writing a romance; and even if I should write one, I don't see why I shouldn't publish it as a true story. For it is a true story, the story of one who in his youth was in love with a sawmill and had to endure this torture for a long time.

For love is torture, even if it is only love for a sawmill.

It will be seen that the story is going to be quite simple, in fact too frail to stand alone. So here and there I am going to plait something in with the thread of the narrative, just as the Chinaman does with his pigtail when it is too thin. He has no Eau de Lob or oil from Maca.s.sar--but I admit that I have never found at Maca.s.sar any berries which yielded the required oil.

To begin, in the Hartenstraat was a book-shop and circulating library. A small boy with a city complexion stood on the step and seemed to be unable to open the door. It was evident that he was trying to do something that was beyond his strength.

He stretched out his hand towards the door k.n.o.b repeatedly, but every time he interrupted this motion either by stopping to pull unnecessarily at a big square-cut collar that rested on his shoulders like a yoke, or by uselessly lifting his hand to screen an ingenuous cough.

He was apparently lost in the contemplation of the pictures that covered the panes of gla.s.s in the door, turning them into a model chart of inconceivable animals, four-cornered trees and impossible soldiers. He was glancing continually to one side, like a criminal who fears that he is going to be caught in the act. It was manifest that he had something in view which must be concealed from pa.s.sers-by, and from posterity, for that matter. His left hand was thrust under the skirts of his little coat, clutching convulsively at something concealed in his trousers pocket. To look at him one would have thought that Walter contemplated a burglary, or something of the kind.

For his name was Walter.

It is a fortunate thing that it occurred to me to relate his history; and now I consider it my duty to report that he was entirely innocent of any burglarious or murderous intentions.

I only wish I could clear him of other sins as easily as this. The object he was turning and twisting in his left breeches pocket was not a house-key, nor a jimmy, nor a club, nor a tomahawk, nor any infernal machine: It was a small piece of paper containing fourteen stivers, which he had raised on his New Testament with Psalms at the grocer's on the "Ouwebrug"; and the thing that held him fast on the Hartenstraat was nothing more or less than his entrance into the magic world of romance. He was going to read "Glorioso."

Glorioso! Reader, there are many imitations, but only one Glorioso. All the Rinaldos and Fra Diavolos are not to be mentioned in the same breath with Glorioso, this incomparable hero who carried away countesses by the dozen, plundered popes and cardinals as if they were ordinary fallible people, and made a testament-thief of Walter Pieterse.

To be sure, Glorioso was not to blame for this last, certainly not. One ought to be ashamed to be a hero, or a genius, or even a robber, if on this account one is to be held responsible for all the crimes that may be committed years afterwards in the effort to get possession of one's history.

I myself object to any accusation of complicity in those evil deeds that are committed after my death in quenching the thirst for knowledge of my fate. Indeed, I shall never be deterred from a famous career merely by the thought that some one may sell the New Testament to get hold of the "Life and Deeds of Multatuli."

"You rascal, what are you loitering around here for? If you want anything, come in; if you don't, make yourself scarce."

And now Walter had to go in, or else abandon his cherished Glorioso. But the man who bent over the counter and twisted himself like a crane to open the door and snarl these words at our young hero did not have a face that advised anything like turning back. He was angry. At first Walter had not had the courage to go in; now he did not dare to turn back. He felt himself drawn in. It was as if the book-shop swallowed him.

"Glorioso, if you please, M'neer, and here----" He drew that infernal machine from his pocket. "And here is money----"

For he had learned from his schoolmates, who had infected him with this craving for romance, that at the circulating library strangers must deposit a forfeit.

The shopman seemed to regard himself as "sufficiently protected"

by the sum produced. He took down a small volume, which was greasy and well worn, and bore both within and without the traces of much unclean enjoyment.

I am certain that the "Sermons of Pastor Splitvesel," which stood undisturbed on the top shelf and looked down contemptuously on the literature of the day, would have been ashamed to bring their spotless binding into contact with so much uncleanliness. But it is not difficult to remain clean in the upper row. I find, therefore, that the "sermons" were unjust; and the same is true of many sermons.