whether it was not counted new-fangled in its day; or how soon the same
thing may be said of us. However that may be, the man was addressed as
“_meester_,” and his school was called a _school_, and not an
_institution_. In his school, where, according to the simple fashion of
the time, boys and girls sat side by side, you learned—or you could
learn, if so minded—reading, arithmetic, writing, the history of your
own country, psalm-singing, wool-work, knitting, marking, and religion.
All this was in the ordinary curriculum; but any pupil who particularly
distinguished him or herself by talent, application, or obedience,
received, over and above, lessons in verse-making,—an art wherein the
soul of Dominie Pennewip greatly delighted. He “finished” the boys to
the point of complete fitness for “acceptance”;[11] and, with the help
of his wife, brought the girls the length of a sampler, with a red text
on a black ground, or a spitted heart between two flowerpots. Then their
education was complete, and they were quite fit, if so minded, to become
the grandmothers of our present generation of citizens.
* * * * *
The school was empty, and the forms looked as though the pupils had left
all their weariness behind them there. The map of Europe looked
ill-temperedly down on the pile of copy-books, next to which lay the
quill pens, worn down to the gums, so to speak, in the pot-hooks and
hangers which have opened the gate of access to all learning so long
that the memory of man goeth not to the contrary. The difficult sum in
fractions was still visible, in all its glory, on the blackboard; but
yet, the school was no school; its spirit had fled—it was a corpse.
Yes, the informing mind had departed with the children. For that these
carried about with them a large quantity of the above article shall
speedily be made evident.
It was the great day on which Dominie Pennewip was to judge of the
fruits of his pupils’ poetic genius. There he sat. His much-moved wig
shared in the emotions which filled him on reading the poems; and we
will be indiscreet enough to look over his shoulder, so as, in our turn,
to be touched by impressions of never-sufficiently-to-be-appreciated
artistic enjoyment.
Wig to the right, and at rest.
TRYNTJE FOP, ON HER CAP.
“My name is Tryntje Fop,
I have a cap on my head atop.”
“Not bad; but—let us see—yes, that is better. The superfluous words, ‘on
my head,’ weaken the impression of the whole.”
He scored through the superfluous words, and now Tryntje Fop has simply
a cap on, without a head.
“This is the sort of terse and concise style I like.”
Wig somewhat to the left.
LUCAS DE BRYER, ON OUR COUNTRY.
“Fatherland, cake, and almonds also,
In the moonlight I a-walking go;
Cake, Fatherland, and brandy-wine,
I go a-walking in the moonshine.
Five fingers have I upon my hand,
In honour of our dear Fatherland.”
“Melodious,” said the master; “it runs quite melodiously. And there is
depth in the cake and the brandy, with the Fatherland in between them.”
Wig to the right.
LYSJE WEBBELAAR, ON HER FATHER’S TRADE.
“The cat fell downstairs to-day;
My father, he sells pota-
Toes and onions.”
“Original; but I do not like her dividing the word potatoes.”
Wig to the left.
JANNETJE RAST, ON A WEATHERCOCK.
“He stands on a chimney, all soot below,
And shows the wind the way it must blow.”
“This is not quite accurate; for, strictly speaking——, but, as a
poetical license, it may pass.”
Wig to the front.
GRIETJE WANZER, ON A CATERPILLAR.
“The little caterpillar, without fear,
Jumps round upon the trees, both far and near.”
“Descriptive poetry. There is a certain boldness in the idea of the
caterpillar fearlessly jumping about.”
Wig at rest.
LEENDERT SNELLEMAN, ON SPRING.
“In the spring all is bright and gay;
My brother’s birthday is in May;
But now he has chilblains on his feet.
So we’ll praise the spring, as it is meet.
Then we’ll go for walks together,
And look for eggs at Easter.”
“It is a pity that the rhyme is so very careless. His ideas are really
uncommon, and well developed. The transition to the egg is quite
characteristic.”
Wig pushed down to the back of his neck.
KEESJE, THE BUTCHER’S SON—EULOGY OF THE DOMINIE.
“My father has killed many an ox with his knife,
But Master Pennewip is still in life.
Sometimes they were lean, and sometimes fat,
And he wears a wig underneath his hat.”
The wig was pushed to one side—very far to one side.
“H’m—strange—what shall I say about it?”
The wig went back again to the extreme right.
“What have I got to do with the oxen?”
The wig protested, with some impressive movements, against all such
bovine relationships.
[Illustration:
“WIG PUSHED DOWN TO THE BACK OF HIS NECK.”
]
“H’m—could that be what these new-fangled writers call _humour?_”
The wig was drawn forward to Dominie Pennewip’s eyebrows, which denotes
doubt.[12]
“I must take that boy in hand one of these days.”
The wig came to anchor on the zenith, by way of expressing its
satisfaction at the Dominie’s intention of taking Butcher’s Keesje
seriously in hand.
LUCAS DE WILDE, ON RELIGION.
“Religion’s a good thing indeed,
Of which all people have great need.”
“The fundamental idea is correct and beautiful,” said Pennewip, “but it
ought to have been further developed.”
The wig nodded assent.
TRUITJE GIER, ON MRS PENNEWIP.
“The path of virtue she does show,—
Who would not gladly with her go?
And at odd moments, as is fit,
She teaches us to darn and knit.”
The wig gave a leap of joy, and its curls embraced one another. The
master could not refrain from calling his wife to share in the enjoyment
of Truitje Gier’s effusion, which was pasted on a piece of cardboard,
and hung up above the mantelpiece in honour both of the poetess and her
subject....
LOUWTJE DE WILDE, ON FRIENDSHIP.
“Friendship is a good thing indeed,
Of which all people have great need.”
The wig did not appear quite satisfied. Lucas de Wilde’s “Religion” was
brought to light, and placed for comparison beside Louwtje’s
“Friendship.”
“H’m ... well ... it might be possible. Instances do occur of the same
idea springing up simultaneously in two different minds.... It might ...
or could ... be so....”
WIMPJE DE WILDE, ON ANGLING.
“Angling is ...”
“How! What is that?”
Yes, indeed! there it was—
“Angling is a good thing indeed,
Of which all people have great need.”
The wig was in perpetual motion; it seemed as though it too were taking
part in the angling operations.
Master Pennewip hastily turned over the papers he had not yet examined,
sorted out the productions of the whole Wilde family, and ... yes,
indeed! Mietje de Wilde, Kees de Wilde, Piet and Jan de Wilde, declared,
with touching unanimity, that religion, friendship, fishing, dreaming,
cauliflower, and conjuring are good things indeed, of which all people
have great need. It was an overwhelming flood of good things and human
need!
What was an honest wig to do? It did the best thing that could be done
under the circumstances, and more cannot be required of any one. After
perceiving the fruitlessness of its efforts to find out any difference
between fishing and friendship, conjuring and dreaming, cauliflower and
religion, it behaved as though the matter did not concern it in the
least, and assumed a neutral position, with an air, on the part of its
little curls, of looking forward with interest to the sequel—as the
reader is no doubt doing.
[Illustration:
“ANGLING IS A GOOD THING INDEED.”
]
LEENTJE DE HAAS, ON ADMIRAL DE RUYTER.
“He climbed to the top of a tower,
And twisted ropes on the same;
Then he went to sea in a vessel,
And was crowned with eternal fame.
“He did great deeds and glorious,
And overthrew Sallee;
The States named him victorious,
Our hero of the sea.
“Then to marauding England
He went in wrath so dire,
The same he, most intrepid,
Besieged and set on fire.
“How many Christian captives
He freed from slavery’s chains!
Then Netherland’s valiant warriors
Broke all his window-panes.
“For terror of all traitors
What time he sailed the sea,
His title it was ‘Daddy’—
His wife was ‘Granny,’ she!
“He gave the Lord the glory,
A Christian life he led,—
Then got he through his garments
A bullet, and was dead!”
The wig clapped its curls applaudingly. It seemed delighted. Alas! the
joy of such a wig does not last long. This, too, was soon to——But we
will not anticipate.... We shall know only too soon.
“WOUTER PIETERSE—THE SONG OF THE BRIGAND.”
“Hey! What’s this? And Virtue—where is Virtue?”
[Illustration:
“ADMIRAL DE RUYTER.”
]
Dominie Pennewip could not trust his own eyes. He turned the sheet over
and looked at the back, to see if the Virtue he had given Wouter as a
subject was hidden there.
Alas, alas! there was no trace of virtue in Wouter’s composition.
Poor wig!
Yes—poor wig! For after having made it to undergo what no wig ever
underwent before,—after having tugged, plucked, ill-used, and tormented
it to an extent which would have taken more than the imagination of the
whole De Wilde family to conceive,—Dominie Pennewip tore it from his
head, doubled it up between his convulsively clenched hands,—stammered,
“Heaven and earth! Gracious goodness! where in nature did he pick that
up?”—banged it down on his head again, clapped his venerable
three-cornered hat atop of it, and flew out of the front door like a man
possessed. He went straight to the Pieterses’ house.
Juffrouw Pieterse, Wouter’s mother, had been entertaining a few of her
friends and neighbours at a “little evening,” with tea and cake.
“Good evening, Juffrouw Pieterse; I am your obedient servant. I see you
have company,—but——”
“Don’t mention it, sir! Just come in and sit down!... Will you take a
cup with us—sage-milk?”
“Juffrouw Pieterse,” replied the master, solemnly, “I did not come here
to drink sage-milk!”
“But please sit down, Dominie——”
It was not easy, under the circumstances, but the ladies shifted their
chairs a little, and the Dominie was finally installed in his. He was
coughing with overwhelming seriousness. He looked round on the company,
drew out a roll of papers, pulled his wig to one side, and spoke:
“Juffrouw Pieterse! you are an honest, respectable woman,—and your late
husband—sold shoes——”
Juffrouw Pieterse cast on Juffrouw Laps a glance of vindictive triumph.
“Yes, sir, he did!”
“Don’t interrupt me, Juffrouw Pieterse. Your deceased consort sold
shoes. I have had your children at my school, from the time when they
were _so_ high, to their confirmation. Is not that true, Juffrouw
Pieterse?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, somewhat uneasily, for she began to be
frightened at the impressive solemnity of Pennewip’s tone. “Yes, that’s
true, Dominie!”
“And I ask you, Juffrouw Pieterse, whether you, so long as you, through
the means of your children, have had anything to do with my school, have
had any complaints—I mean, well-founded complaints, Juffrouw Pieterse—to
make of the way in which I—with the help of my wife—have given your
numerous offspring instruction in reading, writing, arithmetic, Dutch
history, psalm-singing, sewing, knitting, marking, and religion? That is
what I ask you, Juffrouw Pieterse.”
A ghastly silence. The neighbour in the back-room downstairs, who had
repeatedly complained of the noise during the evening, had every reason
to be satisfied.
“That is what I ask you, Juffrouw Pieterse,” repeated the Dominie,
putting on the _pince-nez_, which was considered antiquated in those
days—destined, as it was, to become the height of fashion some decades
later.
“But, Dominie——”
“No buts, Juffrouw Pieterse. I ask of you—or I ask you,—for it is quite
allowable, Juffrouw Pieterse, in this case, to omit the preposition,—I
ask you if you have any complaints to make—I mean, of course,
well-founded complaints—of the instruction given by me in reading,
writing——”
“Goodness, no, Dominie!—I have no complaints; but——”
“Is that so? No complaints? Well, then, I declare to you—— Where is your
son Wouter?”
“Wouter? Why—oh! he went out, so he did! Hasn’t he come in yet, Trui?
Wouter is out for a walk, Dominie, with the little Hallemans—very
nicely-behaved children, Dominie,—and they live——”
“Eh! what?—with the Hallemans, is he?—the Hallemans who go to the French
school? oh! indeed—yes! So it’s from the Hallemans he learns such
things—it must be——... loose morals ... utter depravity ... the French
school...! Well, in short, Juffrouw Pieterse,—I say that your son——”
“Eh?”
“I tell you that your son Wouter——”
“Well—what has Wouter been doing now?” asked Juffrouw Laps, rejoiced,
pious person that she was, at the new misdeed she was to hear of.
Just as Pennewip was about to open the indictment, there was another
ring at the bell,—and the unfortunate delinquent entered the room.
“Juffrouw Pieterse,” Pennewip began, “my school is known as a good
school even so far off as Kattenburg[13]—do you hear that, and
understand it?”
“Oh yes, Dominie!”
“I repeat it,—well known; and more especially so on account of the good
moral tone which prevails there,—I mean, of course, in my school.
Religion and virtue are put foremost. I could show you verses on such
subjects that—but I will pass over that for the present. Let it suffice
you to know that my school is known as far as ... what do I say?—I have
even taught the son of a resident in Wittenburg,[13]—a block-maker he
was—and once, indeed, I was consulted in writing as to what was to be
done with a boy whose father lived no nearer than Muiderberg!”
“Very good, Dominie!”
“Yes, Juffrouw Pieterse! I am still in possession of the letter—which I
could show you if I chose; the man was a sexton, and the youth had
fallen into a sad habit of drawing unseemly figures on the
tombstones—but just on that account—I mean for the sake of the religion
and virtue for which I am so well known—I feel it my duty to take this
opportunity of informing you that I do not choose to see the good name
of my school ruined by means of that good-for-nothing rascal of a son of
yours, who stands there!”
Poor Wouter was aghast. That sounded very unlike the appointment he had
been dreaming of—brigand-in-chief to the Pope of Rome,—which, however,
he no longer desired, having thought of a different position which would
suit him better.
His mother was about to proceed to what she called “_her_ religion,” and
administer chastisement on the spot, in order to satisfy the Dominie,
and show him that, in her house, too, religion and sound morals had the
first place. But the schoolmaster thought it better to inform the
company what was toward, and thereby bring the culprit to a deeper sense
of his delinquencies.
“Your son, Juffrouw Pieterse, belongs to the class of robbers,
murderers, and fire-raisers!” ...
No more than that!
“Gracious goodness! Merciful justice! What next! Oh! my gracious
patience! How is it possible? What human beings have to endure!”
Something like this—for I will not answer for textual accuracy—was the
flood of exclamations which overwhelmed the ten-year-old robber,
murderer, and fire-raiser. Poor Wouter!
“I will read you a piece in his own handwriting,” said the Dominie, “and
any one who, after this, can still doubt the utter depravity of this
boy——”
The whole company promised with one voice not to doubt it. The poem,
indeed, which Master Pennewip thereupon proceeded to read, was of a kind
which rendered doubt on that head very difficult; and I myself, though I
have chosen Wouter as my hero, shall not find it easy to convince the
reader that he was not so bad as would appear from his atrocious—
SONG OF THE BRIGAND.
“With my sword—
On my steed—
And my helmet on head,
Ride at them! The foeman’s skull cloven in twain,—
And forward!—”
“Christian souls!” cried the whole company, “is he mad?”
“And forward!—
And never draw rein
Along the high-road,
The brigand’s abode,—
With a thrust and a blow;
Drive back the Dragoons—the Viscount’s laid low!” ...
“Dear heavens above us!” moaned Wouter’s mother, “what in the world has
this Viscount done to him?”
“For the spoil”—
“Look at that now,—for the spoil!” said Juffrouw Laps, “_I_ always
say,—they begin with a Bible, and then——”
“And the spoil
Is my bride.”
“Did ever any one hear the like?—his bride! Why, the boy’s only just
cutting his second set of teeth!”
“And the spoil
Is my bride,
Bought for mine own with the sword at my side——”
“With the sword at his side!!”
“And the spoil is my bride,
Bought for mine own with the sword at my side.
Like a feather I bear her right into the hall,
To the grotto——”
“Gracious patience! what does he want in a grotto?”
“As swift as the wind
I ride on with my prey,—
And I heed not her weeping—her groans are my joy,
What delight!——”
“Mercy on us! does he call that delight? It makes me go cold all over!”
“Then again
Up and down,
East and west through the land!”
“There he goes again!”
“Then again
Up and down,
East and west through the land,
Here a villa to raze—there a convent ablaze—
With rifling of treasure:
My pleasure!——”
“The devil must be in the boy ... his pleasure!”
“And then we are gone!—
Ride on! ever on,
New adventures to seek—
My path it is marked by the steel and the fire—
On, on, ever on, let me hasten—nor tire,
My vengeance to wreak!”
“Gracious goodness! what can they have done to him?”
“For revenge is the task
He would ask—
The king of the wood——”
“Is the boy mad? I’ll king him!”
“For revenge is the task
He would ask—
The king of the wood—
Who alone, against all, his sceptre holds good——”
“What sort of a thing is that?”
“Who alone, against all, his sceptre holds good,
And his banner of might!—
Up! Hurrah!
Who will come to the fight?”
The company shuddered audibly at this invitation.
“Up! Hurrah!
Who will come to the fight?
We will spare no creature that ever was born—
Now we’ll hang all the men——”
“_Lodderyn!_[14] Trui! you see I——”
“We’ll hang all the men, and the women——”
“Lodderyn! lodderyn! lodderyn! Trui!”
“And the women shall mourn,
For our joy and delight!”
“Our joy and delight!” repeated Pennewip in a sepulchral voice,—“our joy
and delight!... He ... does ... these ... things ... for ... his ...
delight!”.
The whole company was near swooning. Stoffel’s pipe had gone out. But
Wouter had a sort of passive strength in his nature; and when his mother
had thrashed him enough to secure her own return to consciousness, he
lay down, not altogether discontented, in his corner of the back room,
and soon fell asleep, to dream of Fancy.
MULTATULI.
(_Ideen._)
_GOING INTO BUSINESS._
The plan of “going into business” was quite attractive to Wouter.
Perhaps because he did not quite know what it meant. He asked his
brother Stoffel about it.
“Well—don’t you understand _that_? ‘In business’ means the same thing
as—as being a merchant.”
“But what shall I have to sell? And how shall I know what people want?”
“Oh, you must not imagine that you will have to go about with a
peddler’s pack, and ring at people’s front doors to know if they want to
buy anything. You’re a stupid; you never will understand anything. ‘In
business,’ you see, means—it means——”
Stoffel began to stammer. He was not the first to stumble over a
definition—and will not be the last. But there are few who, in such a
case, have an ally at home to help them out.
“How can you always talk such nonsense, Wouter?” cried his mother.
“There’s Stoffel, now, explaining everything to you so clearly, and
there you are again making out you don’t understand. Who in the world
ever told you that you would have to go about the street with a pack on
your back, like an oilman or a _mersan de la perreplu_?[15] Is that what
I have brought you up for, and made you take the highest place in the
school? You are an ungrateful child. What is the good of your knowing so
much, and being able to make such fine letters, with curls and
flourishes to them, if you must insult your own mother?”
Readers who care anything for justice, will find it strange, and perhaps
unfair, that Wouter should have been overwhelmed with this flood of
reproach. Unfair? Certainly! But—strange? Why, no! I solemnly affirm my
accuracy in depicting a certain manner of carrying on a controversy, of
which Juffrouw Pieterse was unquestionably mistress.
But now, supposing Wouter had, in all humility, remarked that he had
given no occasion for the above sermon? Well, in that case he would have
been overwhelmed with a second lecture on the far-reaching and infamous
wickedness of being in the right, which, indeed, under certain
circumstances, _is_ a fault—and a bad one.
MULTATULI.
(_Ideen._)
_TWO PARABLES._
A Professor of Ichthyology was delivering his lecture. The students were
listening—well, pretty attentively as students go—not to mention
students of _Ichthyology_.
“The carp, gentlemen, the carp——”
Then followed some facts about the carp.
“Now the carp, gentlemen, as I was saying——”
At that moment a carp came swimming into the lectureroom. How the beast
did it, considering how dry it was there, does not concern us. The poor
students had suffered from drought for ever so long,—and, after all, a
carp is no better than a student.
“There he is himself!” they cried, with one voice.
So they left the professor in the lurch with his lecture on the carp,
and went to look at the carp for themselves. Now I think this quite
right and natural on the part of the students. But I wish we could do
the same, and try to look at men—and women too—for ourselves, instead of
listening to somebody’s dicta about Man!
MULTATULI.
(_Ideen._)
[Illustration:
“AM I NOT JUST LIKE PLATO?”
]
_THERSITES AND PLATO._
Plato once had a bad cold—so bad that it was evident to every one.
Thersites imitated his way of coughing, and said:
“Am I not just like Plato?”
However, this was not the worst—any man is free to ask a question. The
worst of it was that thousands upon thousands of people immediately
replied, “Just so. Hurrah for Thersites, the new philosopher!”
The man founded a school on the spot. And, therefore: _Cave_, _caveto_,
_caveto_, _cavete_, _cavetote_, _caveunto_!
MULTATULI.
(_Ideen._)
_EGOTISM._
“You talk a great deal about yourself,” say many who never get talked
about, either by themselves or other people. “This is against the tone
of good society.”
“I advise you to seek better society than mine.”
“You talk a great deal about yourself——”
“Yes. Would you prefer me to speak of you, ... or your cat, ... or your
dog, ... or your ass?”
Do you wish that? Well, content yourself, I have often done so, but you
did not know it at the time, because you are always confusing yourself
with your neighbour’s donkey. Your neighbour has also been complaining;
he says that I have been all the time talking about _your_ donkeys.
Compensation! The donkeys themselves have never complained, the good,
dumb beasts.
“You talk a great deal about yourself——”
“Yes. I want to be honest.”
“You talk a great deal about yourself——”
“Yes. I am my own latest love. I had loved long, and often, and
ardently, before _that_ love was born. But now that it does exist, ...
and is the last....”
“You talk a great deal about yourself——”
“Yes. If it wearies you, what hinders your exchanging me for the
_Aglaia_? What hinders your becoming a subscriber to ‘The Life,
Fortunes, and Business of the Kappelman Family’—in one vol., cloth
gilt?”
“You talk a great deal about yourself——”
“Quite so. When you do what Havelaar did, and the rich young man in
Matthew xix. did _not_ do, I will talk about you.”
MULTATULI.
(_Ideen._)
_THE STORY OF CHRESOS._
Chresos lived in Bœotia. By profession he was mayor of a little village,
whose name I do not know, neither can I tell you how he had strayed into
Bœotia, since his family belonged to Athens—nay, I think he was even
related to Alcibiades, who was a Frenchman born too soon. Chresos was a
good sort of man, and lived contentedly. He looked after his village as
well as he could, and amused himself, in his spare hours, by playing on
the lute; but he only did this at home, and never annoyed any one with
his music.
And, behold, there came robbers, who ill-treated the inhabitants of the
village over which Chresos had authority. He laid aside his lute, and
tried to drive the robbers away; but he was told that he ought not to
have done this, because the robbers were under the protection of the
magistrates in the capital.
Chresos did not believe this, because it seemed to him too bad to be
credible. He continued to resist the robbers, and, their force being too
great for him, he sent a messenger to Thebes, to ask for help.