Walter Pieterse
A Story of Holland
By
Multatuli
(Eduard Douwes Dekker)
Translated by
Hubert Evans, Ph. D.
New York
Friderici & Gareis
6 East Seventeenth Street
Copyright, 1904,
By
Friderici & Gareis
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 clerkship
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 Assistant 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 hardship. 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 friendship that Dekker had formed with a certain
Miss Mimi Schepel, of The Hague. The spiritual affinity between the
two soon developed a passion 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 entitled "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 Apprenticeship."
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.
CONTENTS
† Page
Chapter I
The origin of the story: regarding poetry, incurable love,
false hair, and the hero of the story--The dangers of fame and
the advantage of the upper shelf--The Chinaman's pigtail, and
the collar of humanity 1
Chapter II
An Italian robber on the "Buitensingel" in Amsterdam--The bitter
suffering of the virtuous Amalia--Wax candles, the palisades of
morality--The cunning of the little Hallemans--The limitations
of space 9
Chapter III
The difference between a sugar bowl and a Bible--Leentje's virtues
and defects--An unfounded suspicion against Pennewip's honor 18
Chapter IV
The profound silence of Juffrouw Laps--Stoffel's sermon--Walter's
fidelity to Glorioso--The last king of Athens--Ruined stomachs
and bursted ear-drums 24
Chapter V
How one may become a great man--The cleverness of
M'sieu Millaire--Versifying and the art of classifying
everything--Hobby-horses 27
Chapter VI
Preparations for a party--The assignment of rÙles--The conflict
between wishing and being--Some tricks of fancy--The two
sawmills--Amalia and the ducks 34
Chapter VII
Poetry and wigs--The vexation and despair of the latter 42
Chapter VIII
A tea-evening, and how it began--Some gaps in the author's
knowledge--Stoffel's zoˆlogical joke--The cause of the last Punic
war--And the advantage of smoking 48
Chapter IX
Echoes of the last Punic war--The defeat of Hannibal (Laps)
by Scipio (Pennewip) 61
Chapter X
Causes of the tedious peace in Europe, showing the value
of a "tea-evening" as a study--Specimens of school-verse
concluded--Suitable for society poets and clever children 68
Chapter XI
Report on the condition of the leading characters after the
catastrophe--Walter again: a character-study 75
Chapter XII
Leentje as a comforter and questioner--Prince Walter and his
dominions 80
Chapter XIII
Convincing proofs of Walter's improvement--His first invitation--A
study in love--Paradise and Peri 87
Chapter XIV
Great changes in the Pieterse family--Walter becomes poet-laureate
at the court of Juffrouw Laps--The mountains of Asia--The bridge,
Glorioso, and love--again 102
Chapter XV
Walter's dream--A swell coachman--Juffrouw Laps's difficulties
117
Chapter XVI
Femke hunts for Walter, and finds him under peculiar
circumstances--Her adventures by the way 125
Chapter XVII
The widower's birthday--Klaasje's poem, and how a surprise may
involve further surprises 132
Chapter XVIII
Walter's recovery--The doctor's pictures--Amsterdam dramaturgy
138
Chapter XIX
Pastors, sermons, and Juffrouw Laps--Chocolate, timidity, and
love--The fire that didn't break out--Some details of religious
belief 150
Chapter XX
Our hero calls on the doctor--Some strange happenings--How Walter
delivered his present 161
Chapter XXI
Ophelia reaches her destination, and Femke becomes a
queen--Walter's first experience "proposing"--Choosing a
profession 170
Chapter XXII
Walter enters the real world--The firm Motto, Business & Co.--The
technique of the novel--And the snuff of the Romans 180
Chapter XXIII
How one may become a "prodigal" by studying the story of the
Prodigal Son 194
Chapter XXIV
Why Walter did not see Femke--The worldliness of a servant of
the church--The secret of Father Jansen's deafness in his left
ear 201
Chapter XXV
Kings and doughnuts--How the masses soar and fall--Walter's
cowardice and remorse of conscience--A good remedy for the
blues 211
Chapter XXVI
Our hero retires thinking of Princess Erika, to be aroused
by robbers and murderers, who are in collusion with Juffrouw
Laps 225
Chapter XXVII
Walter alone with a pious lady, or Juffrouw Laps on the war-path
240
Chapter XXVIII
A midnight kiss--A wonderful statue in the "Juniper Berry"--
Republicans and True Dutch hearts--A sailor with--Femke? 245
Chapter XXIX
Sunrise on the "Dam"--An exciting encounter with a water-nymph--A
letter from heaven--America, a haven for prodigal sons 260
Chapter XXX
A message from Femke, which Walter fails to understand--Dr. Holsma
to the rescue--Femke and family portraits--Femke, and once more
Femke 270
Chapter XXXI
Stoffel's view of the matter--Juffrouw Laps's distress, and
Juffrouw Pieterse's elation--Elephants and butterflies, and
Kaatje's conception of heredity 279
Chapter XXXII
A theatrical performance under difficulties--The contest between
Napoleon and King Minos of Crete--A Goddess on Mt. Olympus--Kisses
and rosebuds 286
Chapter XXXIII
Conclusion 298
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 assistant, 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 canal-streets, canals 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 "HÈloises";
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, Kl‰rchen----
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 Macassar--but I admit that I have never found at Macassar
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 knob 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 glass 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 passers-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.
After Walter had given his name to the man in a trembling voice, he
stuck the reward of his misdeed under his coat and hurried out the
door, like a cat making away with the prey for which it has waited
for hours.
Walter ran and ran, and did not know where to go. He couldn't go home;
he was watched too closely there,--which was not very difficult,
as the space was rather limited.
He selected quiet streets and finally came to a gateway that he
remembered to have seen several times. It was a low, smooth arch,
where it always smelled like ashes. Here, as a truant, he had taken
that leap! He was with Franz Halleman, who had dared him to cut sacred
studies and jump from the top of this arch. Walter did it just because
little Franz had questioned his courage.
To this escapade he was indebted for his great familiarity with the
prophet Habakkuk, whose prophecies he had to copy twelve times as
a penalty. Further, the sprain that he got in his big toe on that
occasion gave him a good barometer in that organ, which always warned
him of approaching rain.
In a certain sense Habakkuk is to be regarded as marking a transition
in Walter's life, viz. from nursery rhymes to books which deal with big
people. For some time he had felt his admiration for "brave Heinriche"
to be growing; and he was disgusted with the paper peaches that are
distributed as the reward of diligence in the beautiful stories. Of
any other peaches he had no knowledge, as the real article was never
seen in the houses he visited.
Nothing was more natural than that he should most ardently long to
talk with the older schoolboys about the wonders of the real world,
where people ride in coaches, devastate cities, marry princesses,
and stay up in the evening till after 10 o'clock--even if it isn't a
birthday. And then at the table one helps one's self, and may select
just whatever one wants to eat. So think children.
Every boy has his heroic age, and humanity, as a whole, has worn the
little coat with the big collar.
But how far can this comparison be carried? Where does the
identity stop? Will the human race become mature? and more than
mature?--old? Feeble and childish?
How old are we now? Are we boys, youths, men? Or are we
already----? No, that would be too unpleasant to think of.
Let us suppose that we are just in the exuberance of youth! We are
then no longer children exactly, and still we may hope something of
the future.
Yes, of the future,--when this stifling school atmosphere has been
blown away. When we shall take pleasure in the short jacket of the boy
that comes after us; when people will be at liberty to be born without
any legal permit, and will not be reviled for it; when humanity will
speak one language; when metaphysics and religion have been forgotten,
and knowledge of nature takes the place of noble birth. When we shall
have broken away from the nursery stories.
There is some silk for my Chinaman's pigtail. Some will say it is
only flax.