Walter's illness now took a favorable turn. As soon as he was
strong enough to leave his bed, the whole family noticed that he
had grown. All remarked about it and called each other's attention to
it. No one was better convinced of the fact than Juffrouw Pieterse; for
"that boy" had "outgrown all of his clothes," and it would not be easy
"to fit him out respectably again." So much interesting notoriety and
respectability had been reaped from Walter's illness that it was only
natural that his convalescence should be turned to the best account.
The child would sit and fill in the colors in pictures. The doctor
had presented him the pictures and a box of colors. The latter,
so Stoffel said, were the genuine English article.
Oh, such pictures!
Walter was interested especially by pictures from the opera and the
tragedy. There were pictures from Macbeth, Othello, Lear, Hamlet,
from "The Magic Flute," "The Barber of Seville," "Der Freisch¸tz,"
and from still a few more--each one always more romantic than the
last. In selecting suitable colors for his heroes and heroines, Walter
had the advice of the entire family, including Leentje. Usually there
was disagreement, but that only made the matter more important. In
only two details were they agreed: faces and hands were to have
flesh-color, and lips were to be painted red. It had always been
that way; otherwise, why was it called flesh-color? On account of
this arrangement Hamlet came off rather badly, receiving a much more
animated countenance than was suited to his melancholy.
"I wish I knew what the dolls mean," said Walter. He was talking
about his pictures.
"It's only necessary to ask Stoffel," his mother replied. "Wait till
he comes from school."
Walter asked him. Stoffel--there are more such people in the
world--would never admit that he did not know a thing; and he always
knew how to appear knowing.
"What the dolls mean? Well, you see--those are, so to say, the pictures
of various persons. There, for instance, the one with a crown on his
head--that is a king."
"I told you Stoffel could explain them," corroborated his mother.
"Yes, but I should have liked to know what king, and what he did."
"Well! There it is at the bottom. You can read it, can't you?"
"Macbeth?"
"Certainly. It's Macbeth, a famous king of ancient times."
"And that one there with a sword in his hand?"
"Also a king, or a general, or a hero, or something of the
kind--somebody that wants to fight. Perhaps David, or Saul, or
Alexander the Great. That's not to be taken so exactly."
"And the lady with the flowers? She seems to be tearing them up."
"That one? Show her to me: Ophelia. Yes, that's Ophelia. Don't
you know?"
"Yes. Why does she throw the leaves on the ground?"
"Why? why? The questions you do ask!"
Here the mother came to the rescue of her eldest son.
"Yes, Walter, you mustn't ask more questions than anybody can answer."
Walter did not ask any more questions, but he determined to get to
the bottom of the matter at the first opportunity. His imagination
roamed over immeasurable domains--such an insatiate conqueror was
the little emperor Walter in his night-jacket!
He associated the heroes of his pictures with the doctor, who had been
so friendly to him, and with his immortal Glorioso. The Peruvian story,
too, furnished a few subjects for his empire. He married Telasco to
Juliet; and the priests of the sun got their rights again. Master
Pennewip received a new wig, but of gold-colored threads, on the
model of the straw crown of a certain King Lear. Persons that he
could see from the window were numbered among his subjects. He had
to do something; and this foreign material was preferable to that in
his immediate surroundings. Even Lady Macbeth, who was washing her
hands and not looking particularly pleasing, seemed to him to be of
a higher order than his mother or Juffrouw Laps.
In fact, for him those pictures were the greatest things in
the world. He was carried away with the crowns, diadems, plumes,
iron gratings over the faces, with the swords and the daggers with
cross-hilts to swear on--with the trains and puff-sleeves and girdles
with pendents of gold--and the pages. All this had nothing in common
with his everyday surroundings. How is it possible, he thought, that
anyone who has such beautiful pictures should sell them? The doctor
must have inherited them!
Even if he had known that Lady Macbeth was the personification of
crime, it would still have seemed to him a profanation to bring her
into contact with the plebeian commonness around him.
All at once something in Ophelia's form reminded him of Femke. She
too could stand that way, plucking the petals from the flowers and
strewing them on the ground.
He had dim recollections of what had happened, and occasionally he
would ask indifferently about "that girl." He was afraid to speak
her name before Gertrude, Mina, and Pietro. He was always answered in
tones that showed him that there was no room for his romance there;
but he promised himself to visit her as soon as he got up.
"When you're better you must go to see the doctor and thank him
for curing you--but thank God first; and then you can show him what
you've painted."
"Of course, mother! I will give her the Prince of Denmark--I mean him,
the doctor."
"But be careful not to soil it; and don't forget that the ghost of the
old knight must be very pale. Stoffel said so--because it's a ghost,
you see."
"Yes, mother, I'll make it white."
"Good. And you'll make the lady there yellow?" pointing with a
knitting-needle to Ophelia.
"No, no," cried Walter quickly, "she was blue!"
"She was? Who was?"
"I only mean that I have so much yellow already, and I wanted to make
her--this one--Ophelia--I wanted to make her blue. That one washing
her hands can stay yellow."
"So far as I'm concerned," the mother said, "but don't soil it!"
Stoffel, in the meantime, had got on the track of those pictures. He
was slick and had an inquiring mind. One of his colleagues at school,
who was in some way connected with the stage, told him that such
costume-pictures were of great value to players. He also told him
other things about these pictures and about the play in general.
It was fortunate for Walter that Stoffel brought this knowledge
home with him. Even to-day there are people who find something
immoral in the words "Theatre" and "Player"; but at that time it was
still worse. The satisfaction, however, of imparting knowledge and
appearing wise put Stoffel in an attitude of mind on this occasion
that ordinarily would have been irreconcilable with that narrowness
which with him took the place of conscience.
"You see, mother, there are comedies and comedies. Some are sad,
some funny. Some are all nonsense, and there's nothing to be learned
from them; but there are comedies so sad that the people wail when
they see them--even respectable people!"
"Is it possible!"
"Yes, and then there are others where there's music and singing. They
are nice, and moral too. They are called operas; and people who
are entirely respectable go there. You see, mother, there's nothing
bad about it; and we ought not to be so narrow. The old Greeks had
comedies, and our professors still study them."
"Is it possible!"
"Walter's pictures are from real comedies; but I can't tell all the
details now. I will only say there are good comedies."
"You must tell Juffrouw Laps. She always says----"
"And what does she know about it? She never saw a comedy in her life."
That was the truth; but it was just as true of the Pieterse
family--with the exception of Leentje.
One afternoon Leentje had complained of a terrible headache and
had left off sewing and gone out. Later it was learned that she had
not spent the evening with her mother; and then there was a perfect
storm. But Leentje would not say where she had been that night. "That
night" was Juffrouw Pieterse's expression, though she knew that the
girl was at home by eleven o'clock. Leentje betrayed nothing. She
had promised the dressmaker next door not to say anything; for the
dressmaker had to be very careful, because her husband was a hypocrite.
In Leentje's work-box was found a mutilated program; and then one day
she began to sing a song she had never sung before--"I'm full of honor,
I'm full of honor; oh, yes, I'm a man of honor!"
And then it was all out! She had been to the Elandstraat and had seen
the famous Ivan Gras in a comedy!
Leentje began to cry and was going to promise never to do so again,
when, to her amazement, she was told that there was nothing wrong in
it, and that even the greatest professors went to see comedies.
And now she must tell them about it.
It was "The Child of Love," by Kotzebue, that had greeted her
astonished eyes.
"There was music, Juffrouw, and they played beautifully; and then the
curtain went up, and there was a great forest, and a woman wept under
a tree. There was a Baron who made her son a prisoner, because he was
a hunter--but he spoke so nice, and his mother, too. The Baron said
he was master on his place, and that he would punish such thieves. He
was in a great rage. And then the mother said--no, somebody else
came and said--but then the curtain went down. The dressmaker bought
waffles that were being passed around, and we drank chocolate. The
dressmaker said that every day wasn't a feast day. A man sat behind us
and explained everything and took our cups when they were empty. Then
the band played, 'Pretty girls and pretty flowers.'"
"Shame!" cried the three young ladies. For it was a common street song.
"And then the curtain went up again of its own accord; but the
gentleman behind us said somebody raised it--perhaps the 'Child of
Love' himself, for he was not in prison when the curtain was down. The
dressmaker gave him a peppermint-drop, and he said: 'Watch the stage,
Juffrouw, for you have paid to see it.' It cost twelve stivers,
without the waffles and chocolate. Then the Baron said--but I can't
tell it all exactly as it was. I will only say that the old woman
wept all the time, and she could not be reconciled, because she was so
unhappy. You see, Juffrouw, the child of love was her own child; and it
was also the Baron's child of love. That was bad--because it was just
a child of love, you see; and that is always bad. He had no papers,
no credentials; nor the mother, either. And he was to die because he
had hunted. Oh, it was beautiful, Juffrouw! And then the curtain went
down again and we ate another waffle. The gentleman behind us said it
was well that they gave plays with prison scenes in them. There were
so many bad people in the hall, such as pickpockets and the like,
and this would be a warning for them. The dressmaker was going to
offer him another mint-drop, when she saw that her box was gone. It
was silver. The gentleman said of course some pickpocket had taken it."
"He was the pickpocket!" exclaimed several.
Leentje was indignant at the idea.
"No, no! Don't say that; it's a sin. He was a very respectable
gentleman, and addressed me as Juffrouw, just as he did the
dressmaker. He tried to find the thief. He asked where the Juffrouw
lived, and said that if he found the box he would bring it to her. He
wore a fancy vest--no, no, no. Don't say that of him!"
"Well, tell some more about the child of love." All were interested.
"Oh, the music was so nice! And a gentleman showed them with a stick
how to play."
"But tell us about the comedy!"
"That is not so easy. It was very beautiful. It must be seen; it can't
be told. The Baron saw that the hunter in prison was his own son;
because a long time before, you see, that is--formerly, he had been
acquainted with--you understand----"
Poor Leentje turned as red as fire, and left her audience in a
temporary suspense.
"Yes, he had known the old woman formerly, and then they were good
friends, and were often together--I will just tell it that way--and
they were to marry, but something came between them; and so--and--for
that reason the comedy was called the 'Child of Love.'"
Walter listened with as much interest as the others; but he was less
affected than the girls, who sat quietly staring into space. Stoffel
felt called upon to say something.
"That's it! He abused her chastity--that's the way it's spoken of--and
she was left to bear the disgrace. The youth of to-day cannot be
warned enough against this. How often have I told the boys at school!"
"Listen, Walter, and pay attention to what Stoffel says!"
Encouraged by the approval of his mother, Stoffel continued.
"Yes, mother, virtue must be revered. That is God's will; and what God
does is well done. Of all sins sensual pleasure is--a very great sin,
because it is forbidden; and because all sins are punished, either
in this world or in the next."
"Do you hear, Walter?"
"Here, or in the next world, mother! Innocent pleasure, yes; but
sensual pleasure--it is forbidden! It loosens all the ties of human
society. You see that such a comedy can be very fine. Only you must
understand it properly--that's the idea."
"And what did the Baron do then?"
"Ah, Juffrouw, what shall I say! He talked a whole lot to the old
woman, and was very sad because he had--away back there--because
he had----"
"Seduced her," added Stoffel, seeing that Leentje couldn't find the
word. "That's what it's called."
"Yes, that's what she said, too; and he promised never to do it
again. And then he told the child of love always to follow the path
of virtue, and that he would marry the old woman. She was satisfied
with the arrangement."
"I suppose so," cried the three girls in a breath. "She will be a
rich baroness!"
"Yes," said Leentje, "she became a great lady. And then the child of
love fell on the Baron's neck; and they played 'Bridal Wreath.' The
'Child of Love' became a hussar and sang, 'I'm full of honor, I'm
full of honor; Oh, I'm a man of honor!' I don't know what became of
the old Baron. And then we went home; but the dressmaker took no more
pleasure in the play now, because her silver box was gone. I don't
know whether the gentleman ever brought it to her, or not."
The play was out.
The girls thought: "Baroness!"
Stoffel was thinking: "Virtue!"
The mother's thoughts ran: "Twelve stivers for a ticket, and waffles
and chocolate extra!"
Walter was saying to himself: "A hunter! A whole year in the forest,
in the great forest, and alone. I'd like to do it, too."
He took up his brush and looked at Ophelia: "To be alone in the great
forest with--Femke!"
But the theatre question was far from being settled. Leentje had to
clear up many doubtful points yet. For instance, Pietro wanted to
know how old the woman was when the Baron finally married her. Leentje
thought she must have been about sixty.
Also Juffrouw Laps had to express her opinion. She declared that she
was opposed to everything "worldly," and insisted that Walter be sent
to church.
Later she got into a big dispute over the theatre with Master
Pennewip, whom Stoffel had brought in to reinforce his position. He
had brought with him "Floris the Fifth," that powerful comedy by the
noble Bilderdyk. With many declensions and conjugations and remarks
on rhyme and metre, he explained, firstly, that "Floris the Fifth"
was a play from which much could be learned; and, secondly, that the
theatre was something very moral and thoroughly respectable.
To be sure, he failed to convince Juffrouw Laps. Nor was Walter
greatly impressed by that masterpiece, despite the fact that there
were three deaths in it. He much preferred the beautiful story of
Glorioso, or the Peruvian story--or even Little Red Riding Hood.