hero had fought in Napoleon’s wars, and was for his valour promoted by
the great Emperor to the rank of general. In all battles he had been
foremost, and many a wound bore witness to his courage. Napoleon had
even chosen out a kingdom for him; when fortune changed, and all nations
rose to free themselves from the power of the great conqueror.
Then my hero had left his place in the army, and his exalted offices,
and had ranged himself under his country’s flag to serve her as a
private soldier.
After giving numerous proofs of courage, he was so severely wounded at
the battle of Waterloo,—where he defended the colours of his regiment,
single-handed, against a large number of the foe,—that he felt his end
approaching. And when he knew that the victory was won, he dragged
himself home to his native town to die.
His funeral was a splendid one, and the fallen hero was buried in a spot
apart from others, who were not thought worthy to be near him, even in
death.
This last circumstance I added, after long consideration, to explain the
isolated position of my hero’s grave.
Another difficulty, however, presented itself. Why was there no monument
erected to him?
The solution of this question cost me no little trouble. In our church
there were two splendid monuments, with beautiful Latin verses on them;
and the men who slept under them were of far less importance than my
hero. But here, too, there was an explanation. My hero himself had said
on his deathbed that he did not wish for a monument, but preferred to
rest simply under the green grass;—his name would live well enough
without one!
This, however, raised a new difficulty. I had never heard of any hero
buried in the former burying-ground close to the church. Happily,
however, I remembered to have read somewhere that “ingratitude is the
world’s reward.”
He was forgotten!
That grieved me deeply; but I determined with myself to revive the
memory of his name, when I should be somewhat older, and could write in
the papers, and become a member of the Useful Knowledge Society. Then I
would tell people how great my hero had been, and how ungratefully the
world had treated him. Till then, he should remain my secret.
Of course I had adorned him with all sorts of chivalric qualities. I had
seen him in my thoughts as the protector of helpless women, as the
avenger of wrong; I had seen him risk his life at the command of his
superiors, and in order to win one look from his lady.
And I had ended by endowing him with the crowning grace of modesty. Of
this I was not a little proud. I knew for certain that all the other
boys’ heroes would be brutal and arrogant, and set upon getting
monuments for themselves.
Mine, however, was modest ... and his reward was oblivion.... Yes—till I
should arise ... _then_ my hero should be greater than all others.
Happy that now I knew _all_ about my hero, youth and excitement were too
much for me, and I fell asleep.
Next morning I arose, no longer a boy—not even a man. I was a great man.
I had a task before me. I must give back to my hero his just fame and
honours.
I had even assumed a new manner!—marbles and suchlike games were now
beneath me,—and I thought the other boys uninteresting and childish.
They, on their part, soon found that I had become tiresome and pedantic,
and asked me if I had come in for a fortune, and was now too much of a
swell for them. I only laughed, and wrapped myself once more in my own
glory.
This lasted a few days, and then I began to find out that the solitary
enjoyment of glory and a secret was not so great a pleasure as I had
thought. Happily I had two bosom friends—Wil and Ed.
I resolved, after many heart searchings of heart, to share my wealth
with these two. After I had sworn them to secrecy, and also exacted a
solemn promise that they would not endeavour to appropriate my hero to
themselves, I told them of my discovery, and all I knew of him,—for what
I had myself imagined now seemed like truth to me. I enjoyed their
evident jealousy, and, still more, their admiration and reverence for
me.
“But, Con,” said Wil at last, “what is the hero’s name, really?”
I stood aghast. I had never thought of that! But they shall never exult
over me because I did not know the name of my own hero. So I mentioned
the first name that came into my head—“Jan Liller.”
[Illustration:
“AFTER I HAD SWORN THEM TO SECRECY.”
]
Happily, they believed me.
From that day forward there was a constant whispering among us, a
mystery in our conversation, even on the most unimportant subjects,
which drove all the other boys wild with curiosity. But we revealed
nothing. We had even determined, for fear of discovery, never to speak
of my hero otherwise than as “L. J.”—even when we were alone. J. L.
seemed to us much too dangerous.
Sometimes little boys were sent out to listen to us, under pretence of
carrying on their games in our neighbourhood. But we were on our guard,
and only talked all sorts of nonsense when the small spies were within
hearing. Thus my secret did not leak out. Yet we could not be silent
altogether.
In school, when the master told us about the great men of our country,
from Claudius Civilis to William the Silent, we smiled pityingly, and
said to each other, afterwards—
“L. J. could have done better than that!”—or, “They ought to have tried
L. J.; he could have taught them something!”—and the like—so that we
began to be called “L. J.’s.” But we took great care that no one should
find us out, and were very proud of our secret.
I say _our_ secret,—yet, after all, it was really mine, for I had shown
the bullets, the metal plate, and the bones neither to Wil nor to Ed.
They thus only knew the half—and no more than I had thought fit to tell
them. The finest and most important part of all was unknown to them. Of
course they acted as if they had been _au fait_ in the whole thing; but
they were nothing of the sort.
At home, my changed behaviour began gradually to attract general
attention. I had assumed a mysteriousness of demeanour, from which my
father—judging from long experience—argued that there must be some
special piece of mischief on hand.
As I frequently remained lost in thought, and no longer cared for games
as I used to do (I thought them childish since the discovery of my
hero), my mother came to the conclusion that I was not well; while my
little sister, of course, was as curious as a girl can be. Therefore the
three, each for his or her own reason, were constantly at my heels. I
soon noticed this, and it was no small hindrance to my doings and
projects.
I scarcely dared to produce my hero, for fear some one should come to my
room unawares and surprise me in the midst of my relics, and so discover
my secret.
My plans, more especially, were in danger!
I wished—as a homage to the glorious Jan Liller—to make an elegant
little casket, lined with precious bits of silk, plush, and lace, to
preserve therein his precious relics, and the glorious evidences of his
heroic existence. I intended to make the fretwork casket myself,—but I
durst not do it in the general sitting-room. Whenever I could, I stole
away to my own little room, and went to work there. Once I was surprised
by my mother when very busy; but when she saw my work, she pretended not
to have noticed anything. My conscience reproached me bitterly; for I
understood that my dear mother had thought I was working at a present
for her approaching birthday.
But, for the moment, my hero took precedence of everything. I hoped to
be able to buy something for my mother’s birthday, trusting to the ready
aid of my father’s purse.
On a certain day, when I was out for a walk with my father, he suddenly
said to me, “Well, Con, is the digging in the Kerkplein all over? I have
not been there for some time. I suppose you have been there to see
whether anything in your line has been turned up?”
Did my father suspect anything? and was he fishing?
I answered evasively.
“I have not been there since last week.”
[Illustration:
“DID MY FATHER SUSPECT ANYTHING?”
]
That was true—for just a week ago I had found my hero—and after I had
found him, I was satisfied. The charm of rooting about among the graves
had vanished. There was nothing more to find now.
“I only thought,” said my father, jokingly, “that you had found a
treasure—you are so mysterious lately. Say, my boy, have you grown rich,
and are you going to keep your money all to yourself?”
“I have never found anything, father,” I stammered, full of shame at the
lie, and yet full of satisfaction at my courage—in daring to tell a
falsehood to save my hero from discovery.
Happily my father changed the subject, by asking me if I had any present
in view for mother’s birthday. To be honest, I had to answer no, for my
hero had taken up all my thoughts and energies. But just as I was
thinking what to say, a great, a glorious idea rose up in me. What could
be a better present for my mother than my hero?
At the sacrifice of my secret,—of my own discovery,—I would surprise her
with the revelation of my find, and share my hero with her! It was a
hard struggle, but, once resolved, I could say with cheerful assurance,
“Yes, father, I have something very, very nice!”
“That’s good, my boy!” said my father, as he patted me approvingly on
the shoulder. “Do your best to make it so, for your mother deserves it.”
Since the old churchyard had been mentioned, I was eager to find out if
my father knew anything about my hero. Therefore I asked, with as
careless an air as I could assume—
“Say, father, who used to be buried in that place round the church?”
“Why, my boy, I don’t know. It must be at least fifty years since that
burying-ground was used. When I came to live here the new cemetery was
already opened, and I really do not know who was buried in the old
place.”
“But, father, did you never hear of _any_ one that was buried there?”
“No,” said my father; but, after thinking a little, he went on: “Yes, I
do, though! they buried Kees Van Assen there. I heard so the other day
from Notary Van Tefelen.”
Could that be my hero? It might well be, why else should the old
burying-ground have been mentioned at the notary’s?
Surely, then, he must have been a great-uncle or distant cousin of that
odious Alfred, whom we always called “the Muff,” because he never would
join our games for fear of getting bruised and scratched, or soiling his
clothes and hands.
“Was Van Assen a hero, father?” I uttered the words with difficulty.
“A hero, my boy? No, certainly not. No, quite the contrary!”
“A coward, father? I thought as much.”
“Indeed, and why?”
“Because that stupid boy of the minister’s is Van Assen too, and he _is_
a coward!”
“That does not follow. This Van Assen was not in any way related to the
minister’s family. At least I believe not. But he was not a coward, he
was far worse. He was a traitor to his country. He betrayed the town to
the French.”
“And what did they do to a low fellow like that?” I asked, full of pain
and indignation that a countryman of mine could have betrayed his native
town to the enemy.
“At first, nothing; for at that time he was protected by the French. But
when they were gone, his fellow-townsmen razed his house to the ground,
and he was shot.”
“Then he was buried in the churchyard?”
“Well, yes; because his family was a rich and distinguished one, they
consented to bury him in the churchyard; but, of course, it was done
without show or splendour. I know no more about it.”
“Don’t you know in which corner he was buried?”
“Yes, the corner by the baker’s shop.”
Now there were two corners of the churchyard which had a baker’s shop
near them. Near one of them, I had found my hero; but he was called Jan
Liller, and not Van Assen! I resolved never more to buy tarts or buns in
the corner where the traitor was buried,—that was accursed from
henceforth. We had been in the habit of going there, because we got far
more for our money than elsewhere.
It now at once became clear to me that this baker knew of the traitor’s
neighbourhood, and was afraid of losing his customers unless he sold his
goods very cheap!
I had not thus gained much information by my inquiries. Only I had found
a new point of comparison, my hero _versus_ Van Assen! Jan Liller was
dearer to me than before, now that I could contrast him with a
contemptible Van Assen! My hero had become greater than ever!
As soon as I reached home, I ran to my own little room, in order to gaze
my fill on his relics—to steep my soul in his greatness.
On the stairs I felt for my key.
What was that? It was not in my pocket! I had not lost it—I was certain
of that. Then I must have left it sticking in my box, and in that case
my secret—my hero was lost!
A terrible fear overcame me. My steps dragged on the stairs. With a
sinking heart I opened my door,—my presentiment had not deceived me!
There stood my little sister before the open box!
“You horrid girl—what are you doing with my things? Keep off!” I
screamed, when I saw my secret revealed.
“But, Con! you had left the key in the lock, and I just looked in!”
cried my sister, terrified.
[Illustration:
“DASHED THEM ON THE GROUND!”
]
“Yes—it’s just like girls—always bothering about things that don’t
concern them. You’re always meddling with everything, and spoiling other
people’s things!”
“Oh, Con! don’t be so angry! I only just wanted to look! And, just
see,—I’ve been cleaning up this dirty little brass plate that was
inside. I’ve made it look quite nice—and there’s some writing on it.”
At the same time she thrust the now glittering brass plate into my
hands.
I looked at it.
Everything seemed to turn round with me. Everything was black. I could
see nothing but the glittering yellow plate, and the name engraved on
it:—
KEES VAN ASSEN,
1813.
I dropped the brass plate, seized the bones and the bullets out of the
box, and dashed them on the ground.
There lay my hero!
CONRAD VAN DER LIEDE.
_NEWSPAPER HUMOUR._
To keep apples from spoiling, they should be placed in a cool room in
the house occupied by a family with eight children.
* * * * *
_Florist._ “Look at the blush on these roses, sir.”
_Bachelor_ (_with a look at his purse_). “I see. They must be blushing
at the exorbitant price you charge for them.”
[Illustration:
FLORIST: “LOOK AT THE BLUSH ON THESE ROSES, SIR.”
]
* * * * *
DOMESTIC MORALITY.
“You have not been looking sharp, Bet; the butcher has given you more
bones than meat again.”
_Bet._ “Well, I told him so at the time. I said, _if it was for myself I
wouldn’t take it_.”
* * * * *
_Actor._ “When I was last acting here, the public were so enthusiastic,
you can’t imagine. Why, they insisted on _carrying_ me back to the
hotel, when I left the theatre.”
_Critic._ “Man, man, you don’t mean to say you were so far gone as
_that?_”
* * * * *
_Patient._ “Doctor, I think I have had an attack of the gout.”
_Doctor._ “Stuff and nonsense! if you had really had one, you couldn’t
_think_—you’d know it.”
* * * * *
“Father,” inquired a small boy, “what does a ‘Paradise’ mean?”
“A Paradise, my son, is the corner by the fire when your mother has gone
to stay with her friends for a few days.”
* * * * *
A HARMLESS INSECT.
_Traveller._ “Waiter, how can you give me soup like this?—there’s a fly
in it.”
_Waiter._ “Oh! _that_ won’t hurt you—it’s quite dead.”
* * * * *
A lady having engaged a new man-servant, answering to the name of
Joseph, told him that she would always ring once for him, and twice for
her maid.
A short time after this, she rang the bell, but Joseph failed to appear.
She grew impatient, and pulled the bell-rope again. The maid entered.
“I did not ring for you; I wanted Joseph. Why does he not come?”
“Joseph,” replied the maid, “is sitting by the fire, reading Madame’s
paper. When Madame rang the first time, he told me to look out, for he
should not wonder if you were to ring again. And when Madame did so, he
turned to me, and said, ‘See? that’s for you.’”
* * * * *
“Why, ma’am,” said the housemaid, when she heard that her mistress had
been very unwell during the night, “why didn’t you tell me when you felt
ill?”
“I didn’t want to wake you, you had been working hard all day, and——”
“Oh! that’s nothing; you might have called me all the same. I sleep so
sound that you would never have waked me.”
_A RASCALLY VALET._
_A room in a hotel. Tables and chairs are covered with portmanteaus,
carpet-bags, clothes, &c. On a table (L.) is an open jewel-case,
(R.) a sofa; in the background a bed. Frans (Jonker Van Bergen’s
man) is discovered half-reclining on the sofa, smoking a cigar._
_Frans_ (_sings_).
“Mon maître est un filou,
Et moi j’ n’ suis pas bête, la, la....”
That was indeed a barbarous idea—leaving me at home. “Charité bien
ordonnée commence par soi-même,” as we used to say at Paris. My
gentleman’s gone out a-courting, and I may just sit and grumble in these
confounded lodgings! He hasn’t the smallest grain of feeling. Why
couldn’t he remember that while he’s busy making love to his silly
cousin, and flattering his cracked old aunt,—that is, making fools of
both of them,—I might, in the meanwhile, very appropriately amuse myself
with the maid!
Pretty little thing, that Sophie! Just a little bit _bête_, still—but
that will come all right in time—I’ll educate her fast enough. We
haven’t been to Paris for nothing. I had views on her already, when we
were here eighteen months ago. She was then a mere child, and I had not
yet seen Notre Dame and the Pont-Neuf. In point of fact, come to think
of it, I was still very young, and not _au fait_ about life. I can
clearly remember getting quite confused when the postman’s flaxen-haired
daughter scolded me for ... come, Frans, let those things rest ... she’s
at rest herself.... How could I help it, if the girl was so gone on me?
Why didn’t her father take better care of her? What is a father for, if
not to look after his daughter?
What a difference, when I think of those days! Confused! ashamed!—why, I
don’t know the meaning of the words. The only thing I’m ashamed of now,
is that I ever had the _faiblesse_ to be ashamed of anything. And now
that, thanks to my education in the _guinguettes_, I have become quite a
_jeune homme accompli_,—now that I might have begun a nice diversion
with the _suivante_ of my master’s intended, ... now I’m got rid off
with a gruff, “Frans, stay and look after the room!”
He’ll talk in a different tune when he finds he needs me again to get
him out of some scrape or other. Then it is, “Frans, dear Frans, save
me; I don’t know what I’m to do!” Frans is good enough for that. But
besides this, _au fond_, it’s unjust to leave me here indoors. A man is
a man, and has reason and freewill. Jonker Van Bergen goes out courting.
So we see that beings with reason and freewill do go courting. But I too
am a man; I have freewill and reason—therefore I ought to go out
courting too. That is clear and undeniable.
Glorious logic! Precious philosophy! Invaluable gift of Heaven, which is
scattered with generous hand at Paris. Beloved nurse of all that ...
that....
And with all that I’m sitting here indoors, like Job, on his ancient
sofa. It is annoying; it’s very annoying! It’s the most annoying thing
in the world! It could not possibly be worse; it’s _ennuyant_,
_étouffant_, _embêtant_!
[_Jumps up angrily, and walks backwards and forwards, smoking._]
I’m curious to know whether he’ll get through with his business, and
succeed better than last year. The devil grant he may! Otherwise it’s
all up with him—all up—and he’s ruined! If he hasn’t made his
lady-cousin his own, with all that belongs to her [_goes through the
gestures of counting money_], within a month, he’s a dead man!
Physically dead, financially dead, civilly dead,—dead in every possible
way! Dead to _chambertin_, _baronfayol_, and champagne; dead to the
_bouillotte_ table; _dead pour tout ce qui porte un jupon ...
enfin_—burst up!
This wouldn’t really matter so much if these gentlemen hadn’t the
disagreeable habit of dragging down every one about them in their fall.
[_Makes a wry face._] The cheques! the cheques!
I am anything but _à monaise_, as we used to say at Paris. We have only
a month before us. Before that time we must have money to pay up, or the
whole thing will go smash. And then he’s quite capable of saying that it
was I who forged the cheques. Then come examinations and
cross-examinations, witnesses _à charge_ and _à décharge_; reply,
duplicate, triplicate, or whatever they call it; and the end of it is
that the President puts on the black cap—grim fashion that!—and has a
sentence read out, in which poor Frans is very badly used on the score
of ... complicity!
I might indeed get hold of a lawyer who has studied the _circonstances
atténuantes_, as we used to say at Paris; but what’s the good, when the
stupid bench don’t understand them? Civilisation is at such a low ebb in
this land of ours. Quite otherwise over there. I attended a trial in
France ... a woman who had committed the _sottise_ of hacking her child
to pieces, chopping it up small, and cooking it ... what further could
you have? It would have been a bad look-out for her in this country.
Over there, she simply had to take the precaution of providing
_circonstances atténuantes_, ... and she got off all right. That’s what
I call philanthropy—civilisation! Just look for civilisation _here_!
there’s nothing of the sort. Everything is taken ill here. If your
scales or your weights are not quite right, they take it ill of you! If
you call a man a thief or a scoundrel, in the friendliest way in the
world, and can’t produce your proofs on the spot, they take it ill of
you! Just as if those were not the biggest scoundrels of all against
whom nothing can be proved! If you happen to swear falsely, they take
that ill too! Why, not long ago I heard of a man undergoing very
unpleasant treatment in public, because he—it seems incredible—because
he had set his own house on fire! Stupid nation this! Not the faintest
notion of the universal rights of mankind! The house belonged to him;
what business was it of people’s what he did with it? Why shouldn’t he
make a bonfire of it as soon as smoke this “light brown”? (Good cigar,
too!) Yes, they say, but ... his _next-door neighbour_! Stuff and
nonsense! Am _I_ not to illuminate, because somebody else prefers to sit
in darkness? If my next-door neighbour has cat’s eyes, he had better go
and live somewhere else.
No, no,—that delicate feeling,—that tact,—that talent for making black
white with all the facility in the world, and without fear of
contradiction,—and above all, the glorious _circonstances
atténuantes_,—_all these_ you find only in France!
Splendid invention, those _circonstances atténuantes_! They are the
lightning-conductor of the Procureur du Roi’s wrath, as we used to say
at Paris. They are galvanism applied to the Code Napoléon. They are ...
in short, they are anything you please.
Oh, pleasant France! beloved France! When I say France, I mean Paris.
Paris, with its _bals-musard_! Paris, with its _rendezvous_ on the
Boulevards and in the Bois de Boulogne! Paris, with its _limonadières_,
_fruitières_, _bouquetières_, and all other _ières_!
[_Begins to recite, with exaggerated action._]
“O France! O precious land! O paradise o’ the world!
I greet thee, though the marsh and mud ... marsh and mud....”
... well, never mind; I shall hit it some other time. How is one to find
a rhyme to “world”? I ought to have begun differently. But what I mean
is, that if ever I find myself mixed up in this _fâcheuse affaire_ of
the cheques, I shall at once make my native country a present of my
citizenship, and take shares in France. Then I shall have the right of
being attended to by a French court, take a few _circonstances
atténuantes_ with me, and Frans is all right—quits the court without a
stain on his character!
A greater fool than that young Huser I never saw in all my born days.
Who ever heard of a man letting himself be ill-treated in the place of
another? I never could understand that story. The imbecile! I wish I
knew where to find him; I should go to him, and say, “Huser, my dear
boy, we’ve made a mistake again about a signature or two; do make
yourself responsible for the error—there’s a good fellow.” I believe,
upon my soul! the man would be fool enough to do it over again. I can’t
explain the matter, but I dare swear that Huser, in spite of his sour
face, was the most faithful chum in the world. I would bet something
that he had been brought up at Paris, or at least had a French nurse or
a Swiss _bonne_. Sacrifices like that it would be vain to look for
elsewhere ... [_A knock at the door._] Ho, hey! _entrez_.
[_Sits down on a chair in the middle of the stage, stretching his
legs straight out in front of him._]