Walter Pieterse Part 12

On the next day things had largely resumed their wonted course. That someone may not charge me with carelessness, or indifference towards the persons with whom we spent a pleasant evening, I will remark in pa.s.sing that Juffrouw Mabbel was again busy with her baking and "clairvoyange," and that Mrs. Stotter had resumed her activities with the stork. Those unfortunate creatures who were committed to her care she condemned to lie motionless for two or three months--perhaps to give the newly born an idea of their new career, and, at the same time, to punish them for the shameful uproar they had caused by their birth.

As for Master Pennewip, he was busy, as usual, educating future grandparents of the past. His wig had not yet recovered from the excitement of the night before and was longing for Sunday.

Klaasje van der Gracht had been awarded the prize with an impressive, "Keep on that way, my boy"; and he kept on. I still see poems in the papers whose clearness, conciseness and sublimity betray his master hand. I have heard that he died of smallpox--he had not been vaccinated; it will be remembered--but I consider it my duty to protect him from any such slander. A genius does not die; otherwise it wouldn't be worth while to be born a genius. Still, if Klaas had died like other people, his spirit would have lived in those coming after him. And that is a beautiful immortality.

The family de Wilde, too, has not died out, and will not die. I am certain of it.

Juffrouw Krummel asked her husband if she was really a "sucking animal." Being from the bourse, and having much worldly wisdom, he replied after reflection that of such things he didn't believe more than half he heard. "In this case the last half," he added--but softly.

Juffrouw Zipperman had caught a cold; but was still able to boast about her son-in-law. She was a "respectable woman." Only she couldn't endure for Juffrouw Laps to talk so much about "virtue," and the "respectability" of her father, who was "in the grain business." Old Man Laps, she said, was not in, but under the grain business. He had carried sacks of grain, but that was quite different from selling grain. For the man who sells is much bigger than the man who carries. Juffrouw, therefore, had been making misleading statements.

Trudie and her sisters had decked themselves out as well as possible and were sitting at the window. When young people pa.s.sed by they looked as if they had never in their lives straightened out anybody.

The Juffrouw in the rear below told the grocer that she was going to move out; for it was just scandalous, simply scandalous the way the Pieterses carried on in their back room; that she couldn't leave anything uncovered.

Juffrouw Pieterse was busy with her household, and looked like a working woman. From time to time she had "divine service" with the children, who, if they could have had their choice, would have preferred to have been born among the Alfures, Dajaks, or some other benighted people whose religion is less strenuous.

I am glad to be able to say that Juffrouw Laps had pa.s.sed a good night. I should like to tell more about her, but I don't care to exhaust myself.

Stoffel had returned to school, and was trying to inspire the boys with contempt for riches. He was using on them a poem that had probably been written in a garret by some poor devil or other whose wealth gave him little cause for complaint. The boys were inattentive, and seemed not to grasp the peculiar pleasure in having no money to buy marbles. Stoffel attributed their hard-heartedness to Walter's crazy ideas: They had heard of his attack on the Margrave and of that remarkable visit to the cave.

And Walter?

He still lived in expectation of the punishment he deserved so richly. For his mother had given him to understand repeatedly that the little "straightening out" of the evening before was merely for practice, and that the reward of his sin would be delayed till she could speak with the preacher about it.

In the meanwhile Walter didn't know what to do. He couldn't return to school: Pennewip had closed for him that fountain of knowledge.

Nor was he allowed to go out for a walk. "Who knows what he will do if I let him out of my sight?" said his mother, who was presumably afraid that he might make a fresh attack on the cloisters. As a matter of fact, she denied him this privilege merely because Walter asked it.

She expressed the opinion that it was best not to let bad children have their own way.

If Walter had been right wise, he would have pretended to be thoroughly in love with that dark back room; then, for his moral improvement, he would have been chased down the steps, and away to his sawmills.

But Walter was not smart.

He was forbidden to go into the front room because the young ladies did not care to see him.

That back room was more than dark: It was narrow, and dirty, and reeked with all the fumes of "III, 7, c." But Walter was used to all this and much more. He had always been a martyr--bandages, poultices, bandy legs, biblical history, rickets, poems on goodness, evening prayers, the judgment day, hobgoblins for wicked children, closed eyes before and after the slice of bread, sleeping with crooked knees, committing sins, fear for the torn breeches, "divine service"

with and without sensible accompaniment!

That droll robber song, whose origin we know so well, shows how easily his childish soul was moved by whatever seemed great to him. He was a pure child, and he was a good boy. He wouldn't have hurt a fly. The criminal character of his song was due to his desire to grasp what is greater than everything else and to be the leader in that world created by his childish fancy.

Robber--good! But a first-cla.s.s robber, a robber of robbers, a robber without mercy--for pleasure!

As to the gross mistreatment of women mentioned in his song, he had no idea what it meant. He used the word for the sake of rhyme, and because from certain sentences in his book he had got the impression that it must afford great pleasure.

If, perchance, for those fourteen stivers Grandisson--weary remembrance--had fallen into his hands, his Wednesday's poem would have been quite different. No doubt he would have sought a reconciliation with the butcher's Keesje, forgiving him completely all his liberties with "Holland n.o.bility" and even presenting him a few slate pencils.

For that is the striking characteristic of spirits such as Walter's. Whatever they are, they are that with all their might, always going further in any direction than they would seem to be warranted in doing by the mere external circ.u.mstances.

From such characters we could hope much, if through some chance--i. e., a natural cause, which we call chance, because we do not understand it and are ashamed to admit our ignorance--if through some chance they were not born among people who do not understand them, and, therefore, mistreat them.

It is one of our peculiarities that we like to mistreat anyone whose soul is differently organized from ours. How does the watch move? asks the child, and cannot rest until he has torn apart the wheels he could not understand. There the watch lies in pieces, and the little miscreant excuses himself with the remark that he just wanted to see how it was made.

CHAPTER XII

Walter sat with his elbows on the table, his chin resting in his hands. He seemed to be deeply interested in Leentje's sewing, but we shall see in a moment that his thoughts were elsewhere, and, too, far away from III. 7, c.

They had forbidden her to speak to the shameless rascal, and only occasionally, when Juffrouw Pieterse left the room, did she have an opportunity to whisper to him a few words of comfort. To be sure, she noticed that Walter was not so sad as we should expect one to be who was caught in between the thras.h.i.+ng of yesterday and the priest of to-morrow. This gentleman was to come to-morrow to settle the matter.

"But, Walter, how could you speak of burning cloisters!"

"Ah, I meant--s.h.!.+"

"And the Count--what had he done?"

"It was a Margrave--s.h.!.+"

"What sort of a count is that? I'll bet he was one out of another house."

"Yes, it was Amalia's father--but that isn't it. I have something to tell you, Leentje--s.h.!.+"

"Amalia--who is Amalia?"

"That was my bride, but--Leentje, I wanted to tell you something--s.h.!.+"

"Your bride! Are you mad, Walter? Your bride?"

"Yes, she was; but now no more. I was going to help her--but a duck came--but that isn't it, Leentje. Now I see it all--sh. I swam by--s.h.!.+"

"Who, what? Swam by?"

"By Amalia. She sat on the rushes--now I understand it all--I am--s.h.!.+"

"I don't understand a word, Walter. But the women--why did you want to----"

Poor innocent Leentje.

"The women were in the book--but listen, I am--s.h.!.+"

"And the cloisters?"

"That has nothing to do with it--I know everything now. Listen Leentje, I am--s.h.!.+"

"For Heaven sake, Walter, what's the matter with you? You look as if you were mad."