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 passing 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 passed 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 passed 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-class 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 nobility" 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 circumstances.
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.