"Do you think stivers grow on my back?" asked the mother the next
day. "You still don't earn a doit! Do you have to buy tobacco for
old soldiers?"
Walter had nothing to say. Recently his mother had given him a shilling
to give to Holsma's maid. Walter neglected to do this, and spent one
stiver of the money on snuff for an old soldier.
The mother continued her tirade, making use of the word "prodigue,"
prodigal.
"No, mother," said Stoffel, "that isn't it. He's behind in
everything. He doesn't know yet how to handle money, that's it!"
"Yes. He doesn't know how to handle money! All the other children at
his age--when they have a stiver they either save it or buy themselves
something. And he--what does he do? He goes and gives it away! Boy,
boy, will you never learn any sense?"
Walter was cut to the quick by the accusation of wastefulness and
prodigality. In his eyes a prodigal was somebody, a man! "Prodigue,
prodigue," he murmured. He knew the word.
In one of the bedrooms hung a series of crude, highly colored pictures
illustrating the story of the prodigal son. The pictures were French;
and a study of the titles convinced the family that "prodigue" could
mean nothing but prodigal in the worst sense, i. e., "lost." Stoffel
had maintained this proposition against one of his colleagues, till
that one drew a lexicon on him.
After much argument it was decided to compromise on the "mistake"
in the French Bible by allowing "prodigue" to have sometimes the
meaning of "extravagant." Those pictures had afforded Walter much
food for thought.
First picture: The "lost" or prodigal son tells his father
good-bye. The old gentleman wears a purple coat. Very pretty--but the
prodigal himself! A mantle floated about his shoulders--it seemed to
be windy in the colonnade. It was princely; and his turkish trousers
were of pure gold. At his side was a bent sabre, and on his head a
turban, with a stone in it--certainly onyx, or sardonox, or a pearl,
or a precious stone--or whatever it might be!
The old gentleman seemed to be out of humor; but no wonder--all those
loaded camels, and the slaves, and all the accessories for that long,
long journey! A negro, as black as pitch, was holding a horse by
the rein. Another negro was holding the stirrup, and seemed to say:
"Off to the Devil; prodigal, get on!"
What boy wouldn't have been a prodigal son? The bent sabre alone was
worth the sin.
Second picture: Hm--hm. Wicked, wicked! Why, certainly; but not for
Walter, who in his innocence attached no importance to the extravagant
dresses of the "Juffrouwen." It was sufficient that all were eating
and drinking bountifully, and that they were in good spirits and
enjoying themselves. How prettily one of the girls, in glossy silk,
was leaning over the shoulder of the "lost" one! How much nicer to be
lost than found!--anyway, that was the impression the feast made on
Walter. The true purpose of the picture--to deter people from a life of
dissoluteness--escaped Walter entirely. Perhaps he knew what it meant;
but in his heart he felt that it meant something else. What attracted
him most was not the food and drink, under which the table "groaned,"
nor the sinful sensuality painted on the faces of the ladies. It was
the freedom and unconventionality of the company that charmed him. In
order to emphasize the idea of prodigality, the painter had allowed
some big dogs to upset an open cask of wine.
The wine was streaming, and straying away as if it were the lost
sinner. This pleased Walter immensely. None of the guests seemed to
notice such a small trifle, not even the waiters. This ought to have
happened just once in the Pieterse home--and even if it were only a
stein of beer!
The artist says to himself, Do you suppose I didn't foresee the
seductive influence of such a picture? The next one makes it all right!
Well, maybe so.
Third picture: Magnificent. How romantic this wilderness! Oh, to
sit there on that boulder and stare into the immeasurable depths of
the universe--alone!
To think, think, think!
No schoolmaster, no mother, brother, or anyone to say what he
must do with his heart, with his time, with his elbows, or with his
breeches! That's the way Walter saw it. The young man there didn't even
have on breeches; and he looked as if he wouldn't have been ashamed
to stretch himself out on his back, with his arms over his head, and
watch with wide-open eyes the passing of the moon and stars. Walter
asked himself what he would think of when he had founded such an
empire of solitude.
Hm! Femke could sit on the boulder with him. Prodigal son--oh,
sin divine with her! He was surprised that in the whole Bible there
was only one prodigal son. Of all sins this seemed to him the most
seductive.
And the desert was so--endurable. There were trees in it, which one
could climb, when one really got lost, or use to build a nice little
cabin--for Femke, of course.
The prodigal in the picture didn't seem to have thought of all
that. Why wasn't the Juffrouw in green silk with him? She will come
soon, Walter said to himself. Perhaps she's not quite through with
her prodigality. If she would only hurry up and come! He longs for
her. But that is the only annoyance that a genuine prodigal takes
with him from the profane world into that capital wilderness.
It must be remarked in passing, however, that the hogs with which
that picture was equipped looked ugly. The pious artist had made them
shield-bearers of sin, and had supplied their physiognomies with all
kinds of horrible features. And, too, the trough looked dirty.
If it happens to me, said Walter, I'll take sheep with me; and Femke
can card the wool.
The artist ought to admit that even this third picture is inadequate
to inspire a proper disgust for prodigality.
And the fourth one? No better.
The old gentleman is excessively friendly. We are again in the
colonnade, where the camels have just waited so patiently. One of the
slaves clasps his hands and looks toward heaven--because he's glad,
of course, that little Walter has come back.
He? The real Walter? Returned home, and friendly received in his high
rank of a "has-been" and "recovered" prodigal? Oh, no!
And that fatted calf! In direct opposition to the custom that was
familiar to Walter! It worried the boy. Juffrouw Pieterse never
slaughtered anything. She ran a weekly account with Keesje's father;
and even a roast was a rarity.
There was no prospect of a fatted calf, whether he became a prodigal
or not. But that didn't keep the rank of a prodigal from being higher
than that of a stupid boy who didn't know how to handle money.
He was encouraged to think that he was indebted to his friendly
enemy, Juffrouw Laps, for something. She always cited the Bible,
and spoke continually of feeding swine. Walter wanted to answer:
"That's very nice, Juffrouw Laps, but can't it be sheep this time?"
He knew very well that she had never had any passion for carding,
and consequently was not interested in that blue muffler, which would
be so becoming to Femke's favorite sheep.
But she assured him that he was a prodigal; and that was enough.
"That's what I've always said!" replied Juffrouw Pieterse. "What
does he do but squander his mother's money? If that man wants snuff,
let him buy it. The king pays him. I have to work too hard for my
money. Don't I, Stoffel?"
"Yes, mother; but it's only childishness in Walter!"
"Childishness! That's what I call it."
"No it isn't!" cried the pious Laps. "He's on the straight road to
the trough of Luke 15. He will eat husks! Do you think the Master
doesn't carry out his parables? Just send him to me. The pastors are
to blame for it. They don't explain the Bible. Send him to me."
"If I only knew how he gets such things into his head!"
"You don't know? It's arrogance!"
She spoke the truth.
"Arrogance, Arrogance pure and simple--just as it was in Belshazzar,
or Sennacherib, or Nebuchadnezzar."
How thankful Walter was! If at this moment he had had a letter to
write--preferably to Femke--he would have boasted of being as wicked
as three old kings put together.
"Arrogance!" repeated Juffrouw Laps. "Gold on top, iron in the middle,
and feet of clay. The Master will overthrow him. Send him to me."
This invitation to turn over the royal villain to her for religious
instruction was repeated so often that it was necessary to give her
an answer.
"But, dear Juffrouw, the boy don't want to. He's stubborn; and what
can one do with such a child?"
Walter knew that his mother was not quite truthful; but, after his
former experience with his friendly enemy, he found it desirable to
keep quiet. When pressed, however, for an explanation he said:
"The man wanted snuff, and nobody would give him any; so I----"
Juffrouw Laps knew enough. Walter was as good as her prisoner: she
now knew exactly how to take his fortifications, if they could be
taken at all.
"If he doesn't want to come to me, don't compel him," she said sweetly
on leaving. "To force him won't do any good. Let him exercise his own
pleasure. I'm afraid you pick at the child too much, anyway. What an
awful fuss we've made over a stiver!"
"That's what I say, too," replied the mother. "It looks as if we
begrudged him the money! We could have spared another stiver, and we
wouldn't have missed it, would we, Stoffel?"
"Yes, mother, but it's time for Walter----"
"Goodness, what a hullaballoo to raise about a few pinches of
snuff! The Master will repay it seven times seventy times. Whatever
ye have done to the least of my brothers----"
With this consoling passage on her lips she took her leave of the
astonished family.
Yes, it wasn't so easy to see through Juffrouw Laps!