was nicknamed “The Ferret,” by what authority I cannot say—probably
according to the accommodating law of contrariety, for there was
nothing pertaining to him at all suggestive of that sprightly little
quadruped. The ideal curve of beauty was straightened and flattened
into obtuse angles in his contour in a way to make old Apelles or
Phidias lament, however prized he might be as a subject for the pencil
of Teniers. His features, too, were wanting in the seraphic beam of Fra
Bartolomeo’s cherubs. Nevertheless, in form and feature he was
sufficiently quaint to make one laugh at and love him. At a little
distance he resembled a well-stuffed pillow on short legs. On closer
view a head was discernible, something like those sometimes seen on
old-fashioned door-knockers. Large, puffy cheeks, half-hiding a pretty
little turn-up nose, a pair of small but bright blue eyes, no eyebrows,
but an enormous mouth, and still more enormous chin—these belonged to a
face in hue and texture very like putty, and formed altogether a
combination which, if not very beautiful, had this counterbalancing
attraction: that it was somewhat out of the commonplace.
But no delineation of pen or pencil could do justice to his expression.
The wells of laughter and of tears, assuredly close beneath the
surface, were for ever commingling in his organization; and so evenly
were the external symptoms balanced that my grandaunt, a close
observer, who had seen him often (and from whom, by the way, we had
most of these details), could not for the life of her tell whether he
was going to laugh or to cry at times when, in fact, he had no desire
or intention to do either, so indeterminate was his habitual and
passive expression.
The wooden hands of Pilzer’s Dutch clock pointed twenty-five minutes
past eleven as these itinerants entered. Mine host was half-sitting,
half-reclining in a large, square, straw-bottomed chair just inside of
and facing the glass door that separated the travellers’ parlor from
the front part of his premises. On hearing them enter he slowly roused
from his semi-lethargy, and, taking his long pipe from between his
lips, eyed the new-comers with a dubious glance, as if not quite
satisfied whether they were customers or cut-throats, when Floog,
drawing nearer to the glass door, brought him within range of that
gentleman’s mild eye and reassured him. Floog on his part hesitated
with an embarrassed air, and looked cautiously around, as if he had got
into a coffin-maker’s shop by mistake. Presently he plucked up courage,
and beckoning The Ferret, who stood sniffling at the front door, to
follow him, advanced and knocked timidly at the dividing door.
The presiding genius of the “Admiral” was a very Machiavel of
innkeepers. An experience of twenty-seven years had taught him a system
of deportment toward, and treatment of, his customers measured and
regulated—a sort of mental gradient, of which the gauge was the
prospective length of his guest’s purse; and, to do him justice, he
seldom erred in his calculations. On opening the door and confronting
the strangers it was plainly visible that he was about to commence at
zero in his welcome; for there was little prospect of pecuniary reward
in the appearance of the man, his speculative gains being rendered
still more doubtful by the additional allowance of a liberal discount
for the appearance of the boy. His first word of chilly greeting
removed all misgiving at one fell swoop; for, true to his system, at
zero he began.
“What do you want at this time o’ night?” Just then he caught sight of
a large portmanteau or travelling-wallet which Floog on entering had
deposited on the floor. It was a favorable diversion, for no sooner had
Pilzer espied it than his scale ascended two or three degrees, and,
without waiting for an answer to his first inquiry, he added in a
slightly altered tone: “What can I do for you?”
“I want lodging for me and my nephew,” said Floog bravely, and with a
cheerful disregard of syntax. “We can pay for it; we’re not tramps.”
“This is a lovely night, and a pretty hour of this lovely night to come
looking for lodging,” said the innkeeper, with facile irony, at which
he was an adept; “but if ye are respectable, and can prove it, and let
me know what brings ye here when all honest folk is abed, I’ll see what
I can do.”
If Floog considered the last part of this speech with reference to its
applicability to the maker of it, he kept his thoughts discreetly to
himself.
“We are strangers in the town. We arrived from Arnhem an hour ago, and
this is the only public-house we can find open. This boy’s father,
Mynheer Underdonk, the merchant, died in Amsterdam last Thursday, and
they sent me a letter to bring the boy, and make no delay, as they want
to make a settlement for him. You see,” he went on, growing
confidential, “my brother left home eight years ago and no one knew
what became of him. His poor forsaken wife died, and I took care of the
orphan.”
All this he uttered rapidly, with few pauses, as if he had learnt it by
heart. So he had. Alas! poor Floog, thou wert no hero, not even
morally; but shall we, entrenched in a castle of virtue, thrown stones
at thee? No, albeit there was no more truth in thy story than suited
thy own purposes.
II.
The Ferret was of ancient and noble lineage. There, that secret is out.
Frank like himself, his historian scorns the subterfuge of keeping it
till the end for the purpose of giving _éclat_ to his exit, as they do
in romances and on the stage. He was descended from Adam and Eve. This
I am prepared to maintain in the face of the world, learned or
unlearned. If any one wishes to be considered as descended from an
oyster or an atom, we who are not so ambitious shall not cavil at their
genealogy, but hope they find their protoplasms subjects of pleasant
reflection. As for my hero, he was of a different breed. Whether the
bars in his escutcheon were dexter or sinister did not concern him and
need not concern us. Heraldry, in fact, disowned him; therein, however,
heraldry was no worse than his own father. In his tenth year he was
taken from the Asylum for Foundlings and indentured to Mme. Gemmel, who
kept a manufactory of toys at Arnhem. On the day of his departure he
went out into the large paved yard surrounded by an unbroken line of
low stone buildings—his well-known and familiar playground, the only
_Arcadia_ he had ever known. Now that he was to bid it and his childish
companions a long good-by, he felt irresolute and the farewell stuck in
his throat. He tried hard to be brave, while little Hans, his
inseparable playmate and bedfellow, stood regarding him with a sullen
scowl, as if he considered it a personal insult to be thus suddenly
left alone. The poor Ferret was entirely at his wits’ end and quite
dumbfounded. Another look at Hans broke the unutterable spell; for he
saw stealing down the chubby cheek of that smirched cherub a big tear,
marking its course by a light streak on his smutty little face. Gulping
down his sobs and forcing back the tears that now suffused his own
eyes, he laid his hand lovingly on the shoulder of little Hans, and,
bending down until their faces were on a level, he looked at him, and
said in a voice broken by varying emotions and the poignant sorrow of
childhood:
“Don’t—don’t cry, Hans; and when—and when I earn a hundred guilders I
will come back for you, and we will have lots of puddin’ and new
clothes, and I will buy you a pair of new skates.”
Then taking from his trousers’ pocket all his treasures—a large piece
of gingerbread and a small old knife with a broken blade—he pressed his
little friend to take them, forcing them into his unresisting hand,
looked around once by way of final adieu, and ran through the passage
that led to the front hall, where Mme. Gemmel’s man was waiting for
him, and left poor little Hans bellowing as if his heart would break.
The moral supervision exercised by Mme. Gemmel over her new charge was
radical. Its cardinal principles were, first, the duty of obedience and
gratitude, and, secondly, the healthfulness of abstinence. These
principles she inculcated by precept and enforced in practice by
prescribing due penalties for their infraction. The good lady taught
her apprentice, by every means within her power, that his life-long
devotion to her service would ill repay her for the inestimable
blessing she conferred in removing him from the Foundling Asylum and
taking him under her own fostering roof. She was mindful of his health,
too, for among her sanitary tenets was one to the effect that butter is
injurious to immature years; and this she was in the habit of
persistently enforcing for the special benefit of her charge. Inasmuch
as temptation is dangerous, especially to the weak, she prudently
adopted preventive measures by removing at once the temptation and the
butter whenever he appeared at meals. So well did he profit by her
discipline that after six months’ involuntary practice of it he
determined to run away.
In spite of these drawbacks, in spite of the discipline and the dry
bread, he made famous progress at his trade, and felt an artist’s glow
of enthusiasm whenever he finished to his satisfaction the staring blue
eyes and carmine cheeks of his waxen beauties. He felt, Pygmalion like,
able to fall in love with them, could he but find the Promethean
secret—not, indeed, that his thoughts ever took the classic shape, for
he had never heard of the old Grecian fable; these were only the vague
and undefined feelings of his heart. True it is he had little else to
love, so that his affections, being narrowed down to the dolls,
increased for them in the ratio that it diminished for their owner.
Yet there was one golden hour in his leaden existence—the hour of nine
_post meridian_, when he was dismissed to bed. Although behind her back
he sometimes made faces at madame, and even went so far as to set up an
image of her for the perverse pleasure of sticking pins in it, he
forgave all at bedtime. After saying his prayers he would, with all the
ecstasy of which his phlegmatic nature was capable, jump into his straw
pallet, bound to solve an abstruse but agreeable problem which had
engaged his thoughts nightly since his advent in his new home—viz.,
What to do with his first hundred guilders when he had earned them? But
he never got much beyond the disposal of a twentieth part of the sum.
That much he generously devoted to little Hans; but before he could
decide whether the latter should have the skates, a miniature ship, a
new jacket, or unlimited gingerbread, or all of these good things
together, his fancies and finances became entangled. Hans’ face shone
with guilders; gingerbread sailors, in blue jackets, floated serenely
away in a big ship till quite out of sight; anon they trooped rapidly
past his entranced eyes, now scurrying all together, now slowly one by
one; then there was a blank; again starting into view, the last
fleeting image swept softly down the dim vista, fading—fading—gone! and
he was a king in happy oblivion.
Thus time passed tardily enough with The Ferret, the all-absorbing
thought of his waking hours now being how to escape.
Among the customers of Mme. Gemmel was one who had had several business
transactions with her. This was a peripatetic showman, the delight of
gaping children at country fairs. His entertainment consisted of music
(mangled fragments of opera airs on a weazened key-bugle) and his
wonderful and versatile puppets. These latter, when they had become too
well known as hunters and huzzars, he would transform into knights and
ladies, or Chinese mandarins, as circumstances might require or fancy
suggest. The transforming process was very simple; it consisted merely
of supplying them with new costumes and coats—of paint—at Mme.
Gemmel’s.
This worthy was none other than our friend Floog. Even such as he have
their place in art. They are pioneers who lead to the base of an
æsthetic temple whose dome is elevated in circling azure, surrounded by
golden stars.
In the practice of his art, The Ferret it was on whom now devolved the
duty of transforming Floog’s automatons and kindred jobs. Whether owing
to the satisfaction he gave, or to the occult, and often unaccountable,
influences governing our sympathies and antipathies, certain it is that
Floog had taken a violent fancy to him, and determined to entice him
away at the first opportunity. The showman’s moral sensibilities were,
as has already been intimated, somewhat flexible, and yielded too
readily, I am afraid, to the exigencies of the situation.
Alas! how rigid are the inexorable verities of history. I cannot
picture him as I would—not even as a half-formed Bayard, who, if not
quite _sans peur_, might be at least _sans reproche_; but as I had no
hand in the formation of his character, I am not the apologist of his
delinquencies. Did he recognize the violation of a right in his
contemplated procedure? Oh! no; he placed his motive on a high moral
pedestal, triumphant, unassailable—the interests of humanity, the
welfare of the boy. He never told us how far _his own welfare_ entered
into his calculations. He felt, therefore, no scrupulous qualms as to
the rectitude of his determination. What puzzled him was the _how_. Of
that, however, he had no notion. Indeed, his thoughts upon the subject,
so far from assuming a practical shape, were rather the pleasant
emotions experienced in the contemplation of a cherished project,
leaving out of sight the means of its attainment, even the possibility
of its realization. A few days previous to his appearance in
Steenwijkerwold he left his puppets to undergo the customary
metamorphosis at Mme. Gemmel’s, his head full of the pleasing fancy of
securing The Ferret as a travelling companion and assistant. More than
all this, he came to regard him with a rapture akin to that of an
enamored lover for the mistress of his heart.
The short winter day was closing in misty and chill around Arnhem. Away
in the northwest the sun was setting through yellowish fog into the
gray cold sea; the restless wail of the wind was heard now and again,
presaging a storm. It was about half-past four o’clock in the afternoon
of this same day that Floog, undaunted by the threatening aspect of the
weather, and pensively whistling his musical programme by way of
rehearsal, arrived at Mme. Gemmel’s. He found, upon inquiry, that his
puppets were not quite finished. Wouldn’t he wait? She expected them
ready in a few minutes, and escorted him to the workshop in the third
story, where they found The Ferret as busily engaged as his chill nose,
his numb fingers, and the light of two tallow candles would allow. His
mistress, after an authoritative command to her subordinate to make
haste and finish his work, went down-stairs, leaving Floog to direct
the work as he might see fit. The Ferret was shy by nature and by
reason of his forced seclusion, and though the interruption
disconcerted him a good deal, he made pretence of continuing labor
without appearing to notice his visitor, whom he had several times
seen, but never spoken to. Floog, after eyeing him a moment, asked if
he was cold. The answer, though not quite courtly, was sufficiently
explicit: “Yes, I am.” “Why don’t you work down-stairs in the back
room, where ’tis warmer?” A frown passed over the boy’s face, but he
made no reply. “Here,” said Floog in a kindlier tone, and, taking from
his pocket a handful of lozenges, offered them to The Ferret, who
hesitated a moment, looking at the donor, and then took them with a
“Thank you, sir.” In that moment the child’s heart was gained and a
deep sympathy established between the two, reciprocal, self-satisfying.
Floog was no more a diplomat than a hero; for his next proposal was
illogical, and would have been startling but for the peculiar
circumstances that rendered it acceptable. “Run away from Mme. Gemmel
and come with me,” he said. The Ferret did not hesitate this time, but
answered eagerly: “I will; I hate Mme. Gemmel. Let us go away now.”
This ready acquiescence staggered Floog, who, not being prepared for
it, was at a loss how to proceed. Gathering all his faculties to meet
the requirements of the crisis, he tried to devise some means of escape
for The Ferret; but the more he pondered the more undecided he became,
till at length, in sheer desperation, he said: “When Mme. Gemmel sends
you home with the puppets to-night we will go away together.” With that
he hurried down-stairs, paid for the puppets, asked Mme. Gemmel if she
would send them to his lodging, stating that he would want them for an
exhibition early the next day. This the obliging lady promised to do,
whereupon Floog took his departure, his agitated manner escaping the
notice of the doll-maker, who, although she had the vision of a lynx
for money, to everything into which money did not enter as a factor was
as blind as Cupid. Less than two hours after The Ferret, Floog, and the
precious puppets were all in the mail-coach, rattling along for freedom
and Steenwykerwold.
As not unfrequently happens, mere chance afforded a better opportunity
than elaborately-concocted plans would have done; for when, by
appointment, The Ferret came, Floog precipitately, and without taking
time to think of their destination, hurried with him to the coach-yard,
where he learned that the night coach going north was ready to start,
and secured passage for Steenwykerwold, whither Mme. Gemmel would be
little likely to follow. So they arrived in the manner already related,
amid hail and storm.
III.
After a storm comes a calm. Who was it that enshrined that remark in
the sanctity of a proverb? This is like saying that day comes after
night—a truism that most of us will believe without the aid of any
proverbial philosophy. If the calm comes not _after_ the storm, a
person disposed to be critical might ask, _When_ does it come? We will
leave the solution of this problem to interpreters as profound as the
proverb-maker, and follow the fortunes of Floog and The Ferret.
Calm _had_ succeeded storm as they turned their backs to the hostelry
of Mijnheer Pilzer and bade adieu to its professional hospitalities.
Not the listless calm of summer skies, of dreamy fields and waters.
Clear and cutting, the icy air of morning quickened the nerves and
caused the blood in livelier currents to tingle in the veins, so that
even the sluggish Ferret, wincing, heightened his pace to a sturdy trot
to keep abreast of Floog. The sun was up, burnishing the chimney-pots
and sharp gables of the tall, bistre-colored houses, and converting
into rare jewelry the fantastic frost-wreaths that adorned their eaves.
Early as it was, the _Nieu Strasse_ was astir with pedestrians. The
shop-windows, already unshuttered, were decorated gaily with ivy and
palm. Unusual bustle and activity were everywhere discernible; and why
not? Was it not Christmas Eve and fête-day at Van der Meer Castle?
It was a beautiful and time-honored custom at Van der Meer Castle on
every Christmas Eve to give a party to all the children of the
neighborhood. Rich and poor, lofty and lowly, all were welcome. But
although all were welcome, all did not come. The children of the rich,
and those who had the means of indulging in the season’s festivities at
home, mostly kept aloof, or were made to keep aloof, lest they should
incur by implication a suspicion of that fearful malady, poverty; for
the light of nineteenth-century civilization had penetrated the by-ways
of the world, and even Steenwykerwold had caught some of its oblique
rays—those that distort instead of illuminating, by which poverty is
made to appear as the sum of all social crime. Well, then, the poor
children for many years had had the party and banquet all to
themselves, and such, in fact, was the desire of their present
entertainer.
The proprietor of the place and inheritor of its wealth and traditions
was Leopoldine Van der Meer, who had been left an orphan in early
childhood. I saw her once, and can never forget that sweet, serene
face; for it is ineffaceably stamped on my memory. Although time had
then added another score of years to her term of life, and sprinkled
with silver the bands of dark-brown hair smoothed on either side of her
placid forehead, still it dealt gently with that gentle lady, as if the
old reaper had thrown down his reluctant sickle, unwilling to mark his
passage by any tell-tale furrow, but softly breathed on her in passing,
lulling her into a more perfect repose. At the time when the incidents
I am relating took place, however, she was young and fresh and fair
beyond expression. Her features, clear and well defined, possessed the
delicate tracery and perfection of outline that sculptors dream of. Her
air and carriage, her every gesture, from the movement of her shapely
head to the light footfall, all queenly yet unaffected, might have
inspired the genius of Buonarotti when he painted his wonderful Sibyls,
while the gentle, half-shy, liquid gray eyes, tenderly glancing from
behind their silken-fringed lids, would have graced the canvas of
Murillo.
These external graces were but tokens of a kindly heart and true soul—a
nature that imparted a breath of its own sweet essence to all who came
within the charmed sphere of its influence. The festival looked forward
to with such ardent longings by the young ones was now near at hand. It
was Christmas Eve.
The festival was held in the spacious banqueting-hall of the castle—an
oblong apartment, across the upper end of which extended a gallery for
musicians, reached by a balustraded stairway on either side. The walls
were gracefully festooned with wreaths of bright evergreens gemmed with
haws and scarlet berries. In the centre stood a large table, upon which
was placed a gigantic Christmas tree, sparkling with a thousand colored
crystals and loaded with every variety of toy.
Floog, who was acquainted with the annual custom, desirous of
recompensing his youthful friend, made haste to conduct him thither.
The Ferret needed neither introduction nor credential, his age and
appearance being sufficient passports. He was kindly welcomed and
ushered in. The grand hall, beaming with lustrous lamps and adorned
with varied decorations, dazzled his eyes. The splendor, the music, and
the toys nearly overpowered him, and he stood as if fixed in a trance,
so like a brilliant dream did it all seem, which a stir, a breath might
dispel. Gradually recovering his dazed faculties, he began to revel in
the thrilling sense of its reality—yes, real for himself as well as for
the rest.
When the children were all assembled they were marshalled into ranks
two deep, the girls first, and marched twice round the room, singing.
It was a simple Christmas carol, the refrain familiar to most of them;
for it had been sung on similar occasions by similar choirs from time
immemorial, and is, I hope, sung there yet:
“Christmas time at Van der Meer,
Love, and mirth, and pleasant cheer;
Happy hearts from year to year
Hail each coming Christmas.”
If any misgivings had crept into their minds that they were to undergo
the trying ordeal of a regular school drill for the delectation of
patronizing visitors, their apprehensions were soon quieted. With the
song ended all the formality. They appreciated their freedom, made the
most of it, and abandoned themselves to unrestrained fun in uproarious
hilarity. The Ferret caught the infection. Though not quite recovered
from the fatigue of the last twenty-four hours, he forgot it, forgot
his little cares, forgot his solitude, forgot all in the blessed
dissipation of the hour. Unfortunately, he outdid himself.
Floog had meanwhile betaken himself to the nearest tavern, intending to
come for his little friend when the festivities were over. He did not
retire to bed, but paid for a lodging on a settee in the tap-room. In a
few minutes he was sound asleep. How long he slept he did not know, but
some time during the night he awoke with a sudden start. A bell was
pealing wildly in the still night air. A man partially dressed, his
heavy shoes in his hand, dashed past and out into the street.
Immediately there was commotion, and the sound of voices was heard in
loud and eager discussion. In another moment the tap-room was full of
men. Floog hurriedly arose, and, joining the excited group, they all
went out. When they came to the triangular opening formed by the
confluence of three streets—The Square, as it was rather
inappropriately called—they were met by a crowd of men and women as
anxious and excited as themselves, and all evidently at a loss what to
do or whither to proceed.
Louder and more clamorous the bell rang out its portentous notes;
fitfully and frantically it rang in the ears of the now aroused
populace. All at once it would stop suddenly, but for a moment only, as
if pausing to take breath and gather fresh strength; then it would
recommence wilder than before, producing an effect weird and
terrifying. It was the old alarm-bell at Van der Meer Castle.