The following day, when I came home from the Exchange, Fred told me
that somebody had called to speak to me. According to the description
it was Shawlman. How could he have found me out——oh, yes, I see, the
card!
This made me think of taking my children away from school, for it is
very annoying to be troubled twenty or thirty years afterwards by a
school-companion who wears a shawl instead of a coat, and who does not
know what o’clock it is. I have also forbidden Fred to go to the Wester
Market when there are booths.
Next day I received a letter with a large parcel. I began at once to
read:
“Dear Drystubble!” [I think he ought to have written ‘Sir,’ because I
am a broker.] “Yesterday I called at your house with the intention of
asking you a favour. I believe you are in good circumstances”—[that is
true; we are thirteen of us in our office],—“and I should like to use
your credit to bring about a matter of great importance to me.”—[Should
you not think that he would rather have given me a commission for the
Spring Auction?]—“Through many misfortunes I stand somewhat in need of
money.”—[Somewhat! he had no shirt on his back; this is what he calls
somewhat!]—“I cannot give my dear wife everything that is necessary to
make life agreeable, and the education of my children is, from
pecuniary impediments, not as I should like it to be.”—[To make life
agreeable——? education of children——? Do you think that he wishes to
take a season ticket for his wife at the opera, and place his children
in a gymnasium at Geneva? It was autumn, and very cold,—he lived in a
garret, and without fire. When I received that letter I was ignorant of
this, but afterwards I went to him, and I am still angry at the foolish
style of his letter. What the deuce!——Whoever is poor may say
it;——there must be poor people; that is necessary in society. If he
does not ask charity, if he annoys nobody, I don’t care for his
poverty, but disguising the matter is very improper. Now, let us see
what more he has to say.]—“As I am obliged to provide for my household,
I have resolved to make use of a talent which, as I believe, I am in
possession of. I am a poet——”—[Pshaw! you know, reader, how I and all
reasonable men think about that] “——and writer. Since childhood I have
expressed my feelings in verse, and afterwards, too, I always wrote
down in poetry the sensations of my soul. I believe that I have made
some valuable pieces, and I want a publisher for them. This, then, is
the difficulty. I am unknown to the public, and the publishers judge of
works more according to the reputation of the author than the value of
the contents.”—[Exactly as we judge of the coffee, according to the
reputation of the trademarks.]—“The merit of my work can only be
established by publication; and the booksellers require payment in
advance of all the expenses”—[There they are quite right]—“which is at
present not convenient to me. I am, however, so convinced that my book
would clear the expenses, that I could pledge my word for it, and as I
am encouraged by our meeting of the day before yesterday,”—[That is
what he calls being encouraged!]—“I have resolved to ask you to be
surety for me to a bookseller for the expenses of a first edition, even
if it were only a small book. I give you the choice of works for that
first experiment. In the accompanying parcel you will find many
manuscripts; from which you will see that I have thought, worked, and
experienced much”—[I never heard that he had any business at all];—“and
if I am not a stranger to the talent of expressing myself well, my ill
success will not be due to any want of impressions. In hopes of a kind
answer, I remain your old school-fellow”——[And he signed this with his
name; but I make a secret of that, because I do not like to bring
discredit on any one.]
Dear reader, you can understand how foolish I looked in being made all
at once a broker in verses. I am quite sure that if Shawlman—so I will
continue to call him—had seen me by daylight, he would not have dared
to ask me such a favour; for respectability and dignity cannot be
concealed; but it was evening, and therefore I don’t mind.
Of course, I would have nothing to do with this nonsense. I should have
returned the parcel, but that I did not know where he lived, and I
heard nothing of him. I thought that he was ill, or dead. Last week
there was a party at the Rosemeyers, who are sugar-brokers. Fred went
out for the first time with us; he is sixteen, and I think it right
that a young man at that age should see something of the world;
otherwise he will go to the Wester Market, or somewhere else. The girls
had been playing on the piano and singing, and at dessert they teased
each other about something that seemed to have happened in the front
room while we played at whist in the back room—something in which Fred
was concerned.
“Yes, yes, Louise,” said Betsy Rosemeyer; “you did cry. Papa, Fred made
Louise cry.”
My wife said that Fred should not go out again if he was so naughty;
she thought that he had pinched Louise, or something like that, which
is not proper, and I, too, made preparations to say a few words about
it, when Louise said: “No, no, Fred was very kind; I should like him to
do it again!”
“What then?” He had not pinched her; he had been reciting, that was
all. Of course the mistress of the house likes to have some fun at
dessert,—it enlivens the company. Mrs. Rosemeyer thought that what had
made Louise cry would amuse us too, and therefore asked Fred, who was
as red as a turkey-cock, to repeat it. I could not understand what he
had done; I knew his whole répertoire, which consisted of the
“Wedding-Party of the Gods,” the books of the Old Testament in rhyme,
and an episode from the “Wedding of Camacho,” which boys always like so
much, because it is rather funny; and what there was in all this that
could make any one cry was a riddle to me; it is true, a girl of that
age weeps very soon.—“Come, Fred! Please do!”—and Fred began. As I do
not like to stretch the curiosity of the reader, I will here at once
state, that before leaving home they had opened Shawlman’s parcel, and
Fred and Mary had picked out of it a piece of sentimentality, which
afterwards gave me a great deal of trouble. This book owes its
existence to that parcel, and in due time I will account for it quite
becomingly; for I like to make it known that I love truth, and am a
good man of business.—[Last and Co., coffee-brokers, at No. 37 Laurier
Canal.]
Fred recited a thing full of nonsense. A young man wrote to his mother
that he had been in love, and that his sweetheart had married
another—[there she was quite right I think]—yet that he nevertheless
always loved his mother very much. Is that statement true or not? Do
you think so many words are wanted to say that? At all events I had
eaten a piece of bread and cheese, and nearly finished my second pear,
before Fred finished his story. But Louise cried again, and the ladies
said that it was very beautiful.
Then Fred, who, I believe, thought he had brought out a masterpiece,
told them that he found it in a parcel sent to my house by the man with
the shawl; and I explained to the gentlemen how that happened, but I
said nothing about the Grecian girl, because Fred was present, neither
did I speak of the Kapelsteeg. Every one thought that it was quite
right on my part to get rid of that man. Presently you will see that
there were other things in the parcel of more solid worth, some of
which will appear in this book, because they concern the
coffee-auctions of the Company.
Afterwards, the publisher asked me whether I would not add to the work
the piece or poem which Fred had recited. I consented, but I wish it to
be known that I am not responsible for the sentiments expressed. All
stuff and nonsense. However, I withhold my observations from want of
space. I will only remark that the poem was written at “Padang,” in
1843, and that this is of inferior mark—I mean the Padang coffee:—
Moeder! ’k ben wel ver van ’t land,
Waar mij ’t leven werd geschonken,
Waar mijne eerste tranen blonken,
Waar ik opwies aan uw hand;
Waar uw moedertrouw der ziel
Van den knaap haar zorgen wijdde
En hem liefdrijk stond ter zijde,
En hem ophief als hij viel;
Schijnbaar scheurde ’t lot de banden,
Die ons bonden, wreed van een,...
’k Sta hier wel aan vreemde stranden
Met mij zelf, en God... alleen,...
Maar toch, moeder, wat me griefde,
Wat mij vreugd gaf of verdriet,
Moeder! twijfel aan de liefde,
Aan het hart uws lievlings niet!
’t Is nog naauwlijks twee paar jaren,
Toen ik ’t laatst op gindschen grond
Zwijgend aan den oever stond
Om de toekomst in te staren;
Toen ik ’t schoone tot mij riep
Dat ik van die toekomst wachtte
En het heden stout verachtte
En mij paradijzen schiep;
Toen, door alle stoornis heen
Die zich opdeed voor mijn schreên,
’t Hart zich koen een uitweg baande,
En zich droomend zalig waande...
Maar die tijd, sinds ’t laatst vaarwel
Hoe gezwind ons ook onttogen,
Onbevatbaar bliksemsnel,
Als een schim voorbijgevlogen,...
O, hij liet in ’t voorwaartsgaan,
Diepe, diepe sporen staan!
’k Proefde vreugde en smart met één,
’k Heb gedacht en ’k heb gestreden,
’k Heb gejuicht en ’k heb gebeden,...
’t Is me als vlogen eeuwen heen!
’k Heb naar levensheil gestreefd,
’k Heb gevonden en verloren,
En, een kind nog kort te voren,
Jaren in één uur doorleefd....
’k Minde een meisje. Heel mijn leven
Scheen mij door die liefde schoon;
’k Zag in haar een eerekroon,
Als een eindloon van mijn streven,
Mij door God ten doel gegeven;—
Zalig door den reinen schat,
Die Zijn zorg mij toegewogen,
Die Zijn gunst geschonken had,
Dankte ik met een traan in de oogen;...
Liefde was met godsdienst één,
En ’t gemoed, dat opgetogen,
Dankend opsteeg tot den Hoogen
Dankte en bad voor haar alleen!...
Zorgen baarde mij die liefde,
Onrust kwelde mij het hart,
En ondraaglijk was de smart,
Die mij ’t week gemoed doorgriefde.
’k Heb slechts angst en leed gegaêrd,
Waar ik ’t hoogst genot verwachtte,
En voor ’t heil waarnaar ik trachtte,
Was mij gif en wee bewaard....
’k Vond genot in ’t lijdend zwijgen!
’k Stond standvastig hopend daar;
Onspoed deed den prijs mij stijgen,...
’k Droeg en leed zoo graag voor haar!
’k Telde ramp noch onspoedsslagen,
Vreugde schiep ik in verdriet,
Alles, alles wilde ik dragen,...
Roofde ’t lot mij haar slechts niet.
Wat is min die eens begon,
Bij de liefde mèt het leven
’t Kind door God in ’t hart gedreven
Toen het nog niet staam’len kon?..
Toen het aan de moederborst,
Naauw den moederschoot onttogen,
’t Eerste vocht vond voor den dorst,
’t Eerste licht in Moederoogen?...
Neen, geen band die vaster bindt,
Vaster harten houdt omsloten,
Dan de band, door God gesloten,
Tusschen ’t moederhart en ’t kind
En een hart, dat zóó zich hechtte
Aan het schoon, dat even blonk,
Dat mij niets dan doornen schonk,
En geen enkel bloempje vlechtte,...
Zou datzelfde hart de trouw
Van het moederhart vergeten;—
En de liefde van de vrouw,
Die mijne eerste kinderkreten
Opving in ’t bezorgd gemoed,—
Die mij, als ik weende, suste,
Traantjes van de wangen kuste,...
Die mij voedde met haar bloed?...
’k Ben hier vèr van wat het leven
Ginds ons zoets en schoons kan geven;
En ’t genot van d’ eerste jeugd,
Vaak geroemd en hoog geprezen,
Kan wel hier mijn deel niet wezen;
’t Eenzaam harte kent geen vreugd.
Steil en doornig zijn mijn paden,
Onspoed drukt mij diep ter neêr,
En de last mij opgeladen
Knelt me, en doet het hart mij zeer;—
Laat het slechts mijn tranen tuigen,
Als zoo menig moed’loos uur
Me in den boezem der Natuur,
’t Hoofd zoo treurig neêr doet buigen,...
Vaak als mij de moed ontzonk,
Is de zucht mij schier ontvloden:
“Vader! schenk mij bij de dooden,
Wat het leven mij niet schonk!—
Vader! geef me aan gene zijde,
Als de mond des doods mij kust,—
Vader! geef me aan gene zijde
Wat ik hier niet smaakte... RUST!”
Maar, bestervend op mijn lippen,
Steeg die beê niet tot den Heer,...
’k Boog wel beî mijn knieën neer,—
’k Voelde wel een zucht me ontglippen,—
Maar het was: “nog niet, o Heer!
Geef mij eerst mijn moeder weêr!”
[The translator ventures with great diffidence, for he knows how much
beauty and tenderness have been lost in the translation, to give an
English version of the Poem.]
O mother dear, I’m far from home,
The land that gave me birth:
All hopeless and forlorn I roam,
A stranger upon earth.
’Twas in that home the dewy tear
First glistened in mine eyes,
Thy gentle hand dispelled my fear:
A mother’s love ne’er dies!
’Twas there thy faithful soul watched o’er
Thy helpless little child,
Guiding the feet untried before,
With word and look so mild.
But Destiny destroyed the band
That joined us two in one;
And now upon a foreign strand
I am, with God, alone!
Thy love, my mother dear, does still
In sorrow and in joy,
With undiminished ardour fill
The heart of thy loved boy.
At home, ’tis scarce four years ago,—
I stand upon the shore,
And think I see in future scenes,
Beauties unknown before.
At once the present I despise,
And dreaming, think me blest:
I make myself a Paradise,
Regardless of the rest.
I said farewell: I rue it now:
’Twas all that phantom scene,
Which disappeared so soon! O how
Deluded I have been!
And time which fled with lightning’s wing,
Deep traces left behind:
It dried up the affections’ spring—
Destroyed my peace of mind.
I’ve tested joy, I’ve tested grief,
I’ve thought, and I have striven,
With earnest prayer have sought relief,
But still I’m tempest-driven.
I’ve striven after bliss in life,
I’ve found and lost the power:
I am a child grown old in strife—
Whole ages in an hour.
O mother dear, will you believe?
(God knows that I lie not),
O mother dear, as truth receive,
That you are not forgot.
I loved a girl who seemed to be
A treasure from on high,
By God Almighty given me,
I knew not how or why.
And Him I thanked with happy tears,
For making her my own,
My sighs were lost in transient joy,
I prayed for her alone.
Yet love induced a weight of care,
And trouble filled my breast;
I found but pain and sorrow there,
Where I had looked for rest!
I suffered gladly for her sake,
In sorrows doubly dear;—
No sacrifice but I would make
So fate would leave her here!
Her image rooted in my heart,
Till life’s last sigh shall stand,
When we shall join no more to part
In her dear fatherland.
But what is such a blighted love,
To that with life begun—
A love implanted from above—
Th’ affection of a son?
The babe just taken from the womb,
Draws from its mother’s eyes
A light to guide him through the gloom
That all around him lies.
He draws from out his mother’s breast
A stream that gives him life:
Her faithfulness insures his rest,
Protects from early strife!
She treasures up his childish freaks,
And soothes him when he cries,
Kisses the tears from off his cheeks
With love that never dies!
O mother dear, will you believe
Your son does love you yet?
O mother dear, will you believe
Your son does not forget?
I’m far away from all but thought
Of yonder better sphere;
The joys of early youth I’ve sought:
I cannot find them here.
My lonely heart for ever mourns:
I’m burdened heavily;
My paths obstructed with the thorns
Of long adversity.
In Nature’s bosom oft have I
Let fall a flood of tears;
And even oft been heard to sigh,
When overwhelmed with fears:—
“O Father, give me with the dead,
What, living, I’m denied:
O Father, stretch me on the bed
Whereon my loved one died!
“O Father, give me at their side,
Of all thy gifts the best—
O Father, give me at their side,
What here I yearn for—Rest!”
But this rebellious hopeless sigh,
Scarce uttered, died away;
It went not up to God on high,
And I knelt down to pray:—
“Not yet, my Father, take me hence,
Though quivering on the rack—
O take me not, my Father, hence;
But give my mother back!”