and entirely incompetent to fill any office in Bœotia. He did not
attempt to deny this. After having advised his villagers to have
patience, he left the place with his wife and children, taking nothing
with him but his lute. His house was occupied by a new mayor, who, it
may be supposed, was less unworthy, in the opinion of the Theban
magistrates, and who, also, seemed to be on very good terms with the
very robbers whom the stupid Chresos had wanted to exterminate. At any
rate, there were no more complaints of violence, although the robbers
still remained in the neighbourhood.
With difficulty, Chresos obtained access to the Areopagus, and related
what had happened to him. He pointed to his family, who were perishing
of want—through a misunderstanding on the part of the magistrates; for
he still thought that the whole matter arose out of a misunderstanding.
I have already told you that he was not really a Bœotian by birth. This
was why he held such mistaken opinions.
But the Areopagus took no notice. Chresos asked his wife to have
patience, which was not necessary, and consoled himself by playing the
lute. He was no great musician, but there is something peculiar in the
playing of a father who sees his family starving; this was why they
listened to him, not because Chresos played well. There was something
that tickled coarse ears. There were many coarse ears in Bœotia.
When they said, “Well played, Chresos; go on,” his hand fell limply
down, and the tears stood in his eyes at the thought that this undesired
praise was the price of his children’s hunger.
Yet he played from time to time, because he could do no other. And his
family bore their hunger patiently.
Again and again he appealed to the Areopagus. At last he received the
following answer:—
“The Court of Areopagus, &c., having heard the complaints of the
ex-mayor Chresos as to the outrages in the village of——, &c.
[Illustration:
“HE PLAYED FROM TIME TO TIME.”
]
“Having likewise heard his request for a decision between him and the
Theban magistrates, &c.
“And whereas the said Chresos declares that he and his family are in a
position of great distress, in consequence of a misunderstanding which
induced the said magistrates to take the side of the robbers who
plundered the village,
“And whereas, moreover, many witnesses declare that they have heard the
said Chresos playing on the lute,
“In pursuance of, &c., &c.,
“The sentence of the Court is, that the said Chresos continue playing on
the lute, and pay all costs.”
The Areopagus had been bribed,—and its name was HOLLAND.
MULTATULI.
(_Minnebrieven._)
_THE FAIRY TALE THAT FANCY TOLD WOUTER._
FANCY’S FAIRY TALE.
Wouter had found out that he was a prince. His princedom lay in the
region of the moon ... no, much farther off than that.
This is how he came to it:—
Long before the beginning of this story,—yes, very, very long ago, there
was a Queen of Spirits, just as in _Hans Heiling_. Her name was A—OO.
She did not live in a cave, as did the one in _Hans_, but held her court
far above the clouds, which is more airy, and also more fitting for a
queen.
She wore a necklace of stars, and a sun was set in her signet-ring.
When she went out, the nebulæ flew up like dust, and she scattered the
firmaments with a stroke of her fan.
[Illustration:
“HER NAME WAS A—OO.”
]
Her children played with planets for marbles, and complained that they
were so hard to find when they rolled away among the furniture. This
made Prince Upsilon—the queen’s little son—very cross, and he kept
asking for some other kind of toys.
The queen had a box full of Sirii given him, but in a little while these
too were lost. But that was Upsilon’s own fault. He ought to have taken
better care of his playthings. People did what they could to content
him. But whatever was given him, he kept calling for something
else—something more and bigger. This was a fault in the little prince’s
character.
His mother, who, as Queen of Spirits, was a very sensible woman,
understood that it would be a good thing for the youngster to get
accustomed to _doing without_ for a little. So she said that Upsilon was
to be left without any playthings at all.
This was done. They took away everything from him,—even the comet with
which he and his little sister Omicron were playing at battledore and
shuttlecock.
Prince Upsilon was of a passionate temper, and so far forgot himself as
to say something very disrespectful about his mother.
Princess Omicron, too, led astray by his example (for nothing is more
ruinous than bad examples), angrily threw her battledore at the
Universe. Which was not nice in a little girl.
Now in the kingdom of Spirits there was a law that whoever lost sight of
the respect due to the Queen, or threw anything at the Universe, should
be punished for the same by a temporary loss of all rank and dignity.
Prince Upsilon became a grain of sand.
After having behaved well for a couple of thousand years, he received
the joyful tidings that he was promoted to the rank of a tuft of moss.
In this capacity he kept his duty in mind, and did everything that a
good moss tuft ought to do. And on a certain morning he awoke as a
polype.
This happened about the time when human beings first began to prepare
their food by means of fire.
He built one or two continents, and in about two thousand years’ time he
was rewarded for his zeal by being changed into a shrimp.
In this position, also, no one had the slightest reason to complain of
his conduct, and in due course he was transferred to the class of
sea-serpents.
He amused himself, innocently enough, by playing at hide-and-seek with
the sailors, but did no one any harm; and some time afterwards he
received four feet and the rank of mastodon, with the privilege of
disporting himself on shore.
With philosophic calm he adapted himself to his new circumstances, and
occupied himself with geological observations. A few million ages
later....
When I speak of ages, it must be borne in mind that all this time taken
together was only a short quarter of an hour in the land of Spirits, ...
or rather that it was absolutely nothing. For _time_ was invented for
the convenience of mankind, as we give spelling-books to children. For
Spirits, _then_, _now_, and _in the future_ is exactly the same thing.
They comprehend _yesterday_, _to-day_, and _to-morrow_ in one
glance,—just as we read a word without spelling. What _was_ and _shall
be_, _is_.
The Egyptians and Phœnicians knew this very well, but we seem to have
forgotten it.
A few million years later, then, he rose to the rank of an elephant;
and, a spirit-minute or so after that,—that is ten years, I mean human
years this time—before the beginning of my story, he was transferred to
the class of human beings.
What he had done amiss, as an elephant, I do not know.
But, FANCY had said, if he did not want to be put back another step,
instead of being shortly restored to his rank as a prince of Spirits, he
must look to his ways as a human being; not make any more verses about
brigands, or sell any more Bibles; and then, why, perhaps it might come
to pass.
Alas, he would have to put up with Juffrouw Pieterse’s not wearing a
train. “That,” said Fancy, “is so, and can’t be helped.”
Fancy appeared to be a sort of maid-of-honour of Wouter’s mother, who
came to visit him in his banishment, so as to cheer him up a bit, and
tell him to take courage, for the temporary punishment that had fallen
to his lot did not mean that people had ceased to love him.
She promised to come and see him from time to time.
“But,” Wouter had asked, “how is my little sister?”
“Your sister has been punished too—you know the law. But she is a dear
child. She is submitting to it patiently, and promises to do better in
the future. In the beginning she was a bubble of air, and conducted
herself irreproachably as such. Then she became a moonbeam, and in this
capacity also no one had any fault to find with her. She shone so that
it was a pleasure to see her, and your mother had need of all her
strength of mind to keep from granting her a respite. So she was soon
promoted to be a perfume, and filled the Universe to such a degree that
she gave us a headache. This happened about the time when you were
beginning to eat grass. Then she became a butterfly. But your mother
found that this was not a suitable position for a girl, and therefore
soon changed her into a constellation—see, there she is—below us.”
Wouter looked for Omicron, but could not find her.
It often happens that we miss something because it is too big.
“See,” said Fancy, “there—to the right—no—rather farther
off—there—there—the Pole Star. That’s her left eye. You can’t see the
right, because she is stooping after Orion, her doll. She is holding him
on her lap and playing with him.”
Wouter now saw her clearly, and cried “Omicron! Omicron!”
“No, no,” said the maid-of-honour, “that won’t do, prince. The queen
expressly directed that your confinement was to be on the cellular
system. It is only as a great favour that you two are shut up within the
same universe. When your brothers spoilt the Milky Way some time ago by
letting floods loose over it, they were put very much farther apart.”
Wouter was greatly grieved at this. He would so have liked to kiss all
those stars, with the doll in their lap, which were his little sister.
“Oh! Fancy,” he cried, “do let me be with Omicron!”
Fancy said neither yes nor no. There was something in her manner as if
she were thinking over the possibility of bringing a very difficult
matter to pass.
But Wouter, taking courage from her hesitation, repeated his prayer:
“Oh! let me be with my little sister. I don’t mind if I have to eat
grass again, or build continents. I will do my very best at it, if I may
only be with Omicron!”
It seems as though Fancy were afraid to promise what might be out of her
power, and, at the same time, that it pained her not to be able to give
the promise.
“I will ask,” she whispered; “and now....”
Wouter rubbed his eyes ... he was standing on the little bridge over the
canal.
MULTATULI.
(_Ideen._)
_HALF-AN-HOUR AT THE HAIR-DRESSER’S._
FARCE.
I.
FOURNICHON, _the hair-dresser, discovered in his shop, busy finishing a
lady’s chignon_.
_Fournichon._ There ought to be a machine invented to make our work
easier, ... say, some simple arrangement in which you throw in a handful
of hair on one side and take out a _perruque perfectionnée_ on the
other. I shall certainly bring up my son as a mechanician, and entrust
him with the invention of this indispensable machine. Let me see, whose
turn is it now? Ah! Mevrouw Priddeau,—_a chignon à la sauvage_, of at
least three kilos? ... _Mille tonnerres!_ I am quite out of black hair!
Hi! Pierre!
[_He sends his assistants to purchase the necessary supplies; almost
immediately after his shop is hastily entered by two students,
Charles and John, who drop into chairs, as though completely
exhausted._]
_Fournichon_ (_rising_). How can I serve you, gentlemen?
_Charles_ (_gasping_). A glass of water, if you please.
[_Fournichon supplies them both, and goes on._] How you startled me,
gentlemen! to rush in breathlessly like that! Yet it’s not the season
for mad dogs!
_Charles._ If it had only been a mad dog!
_Fournichon._ Surely no tiger has broken loose from the Zoological
Gardens?
_John._ If it had only been a tiger!
_Fournichon._ Come, come, I shall not make myself uneasy. You have been
up to some mischief, haven’t you? You were pursued by the police, and
you saw no other refuge but the hospitable establishment of _M.
Fournichon, Coiffeur des Deux Sexes_. Now, am I not right?
[Illustration:
FOURNICHON, THE HAIR-DRESSER.
]
_Charles._ Yes, that’s it,—the contemptible wretch ... the
scoundrel! ... The same low cad who got me in for three weeks’ solitary
last year. Far worse than the maddest dog, or the most savage tiger!
_John._ The fellow never will learn to understand that a couple of
rix-dollars are worth far more than his so-called official honour, which
involves him in the constant risk of incurring a thrashing.
_Fournichon._ But what has happened, after all? Surely, gentlemen, you
did not come running here in such haste to tell me that you got into
quod last year?
_Charles._ What has happened? Nothing, strictly speaking ... but a whole
lot _may_ happen.
_John._ And that must be prevented,—and that is why we have come to seek
comfort, counsel, and help from the hospitable Fournichon.
_Charles._ I’ll tell you all about it. We were just coming quietly and
comfortably from lecture together, when we passed a baker’s shop, when
the servant girl was just washing the windows. John took it into his
head that we might lend a hand, and I seized a pail of water, intending
to throw the contents at the window, when the pail itself slipped from
my hands, and flew right through the plate-glass window into the middle
of the currant-buns and cakes! Unhappily, the aforesaid incorruptible
policeman just happened to be in the neighbourhood, so that he caught us
red-handed, and we had to make good use of our legs to escape being
locked up at once.
_John._ You will understand that we did not intend any mischief,—it was
a harmless joke, which turned out badly.
_Fournichon._ Of course. And not only so, but there was provocation on
the baker’s part. If he had chosen another time of day to have his
windows cleaned, it could not possibly have turned out so. In any case,
there are plenty of extenuating circumstances, and I don’t understand
why you gentlemen should have such a violent objection to a day or two
under lock and key. That happens often enough, and young gentlemen don’t
usually think so much of it.
_John._ That is true, but to-day is an extraordinary occasion. We were
going to the fancy-dress ball to-night, and should be very sorry to miss
it. So you see us in a fearful scrape, with a gendarme at our heels, and
you must help us. [_A ring at the bell._] What’s that?
_Fournichon._ I don’t know; we shall see in a minute. [_Steps are heard
coming up the stairs._]
_Charles._ John, get out of sight. [_They hide._]
_Pierre_ (_entering_). Sir, Vrouw Krullemie has just sold her hair this
morning for seventy-five cents.
[_The students come out again._]
_John._ Bother your Krullemie! Say, Fournichon, if your visitors are in
the habit of dropping in unannounced after this fashion, we are not
altogether safe here.
_Fournichon._ Well, look here, gentlemen, you suggested an idea
yourselves. Your costumes for the ball must be quite ready by this time;
why don’t you disguise yourselves in them?
_Charles._ A fine lark! In the first place they are not here....
_John._ That would matter less, for we might send for them, but we could
scarcely show ourselves in the streets in them.
_Fournichon._ How so?
_John._ Well, I was going to appear as the Avenger of Innocence.
_Charles._ And I as the Four Seasons.
_Fournichon._ You are right, that would never do; but I have another
proposal to make. I too intend going to the ball, and have had costumes
made for myself and one of my friends, which will no doubt suit you
better. You can have those, and give us yours.
_John._ All right, if they are better suited to the purpose than ours.
_Fournichon._ Oh! just perfect! You shall see. [_Opens two chests in the
foreground, and takes out costumes. These should be so made as to be put
on, on the stage, without much trouble._] We were going as an old lady
and her granddaughter. The dresses are very simple, and I think they
will do admirably.
[Illustration:
“I AM QUITE LOST IN THIS CAP.”
]
_Charles._ Done! I accept that. Now, quick! before any one has time to
surprise us.
_John._ Say, Charles, will you be the grandmother?
_Charles._ All right, and you the girl.
_Fournichon._ Don’t make any mistakes; the crinoline belongs to this
skirt.
_Charles._ I am quite lost in this cap.
_Fournichon._ You must have a wig on first.
_John._ Just look here, Fournichon, this dress isn’t long enough.
_Fournichon._ Why, of course, you’re only in short skirts as yet.
_John._ Ah! is that it?
_Charles._ John, don’t I look charming?
_John._ Quite enchanting! If you were my grandmother, I should certainly
fall in love with you.
_Charles._ Where’s my wig?
_Fournichon._ Here are plenty, just choose one for yourself.
_John._ These curls are what will suit me. [_Puts on the wig, and a
round straw hat on the top of it._]
_Charles._ This grey one will just do for me. [_Puts it on, and then the
cap._] Now, I’m ready! Sapristi! How hot it is. There’s the bell.
_John._ Good gracious, now we’ve got it!
_Fournichon._ Quiet now; sit down before it’s too late.
_Charles._ What’s the good of that? our voices will betray us.
_Fournichon._ You must not talk. Just you trust to me, and it will be
all right.
II.
CHARLES _and_ JOHN _seated at a table, with their backs to the other
actors. Enter_ BOM DE SAC, _the police agent, fuming and swearing_.
_Bom de Sac._ When I was with the First regiment, and was three times
wounded in two battles.... Ah! good-morning, Mr Hairdresser ... three
times wounded,—it would never have happened to me to let two scoundrels
escape. Never!
_Fournichon._ What’s your pleasure, Mr—Mr——
_Bom de Sac._ Bom de Sac, if you please—with the Third regiment—in four
battles, five wounds.
_Fournichon._ Does M. Bom de Sac want his hair cut?
_Bom de Sac._ Many thanks, I always do that myself. I learnt that with
the Fourth ... when I was six times wounded in five battles. But, sir,
that is not the point at present. I was just going to say that this
morning two scoundrels——
_Fournichon._ Scoundrels?
_Bom de Sac._ Scoundrels, or students, whichever you like to call them.
_Fournichon._ Well, and what did they do?
_Bom de Sac._ Just imagine, sir. I was at the baker’s, and the maid was
standing on a ladder outside cleaning the window, when two
good-for-nothing vagabonds came up, took up a pail of water, and threw
it at the girl, and the girl fell right through the window in among the
currant-buns!
_Fournichon._ Not killed, I hope.
_Bom de Sac._ No, the buns had broken her fall. But I was out of the
house in a flash, and after the fellows. _Sacré nom de guerre!_ if I
could still run as I could when I was in the Fifth ... and wounded seven
times in six battles ... they would never have escaped me! But they are
here!
_Fournichon._ Have a glass?
_Bom de Sac._ If you please. [_Drinks._] Thank you. I am told they came
into this house, and if so, they’ll have to come out, sir!
_Fournichon._ Here! How is it possible? You are quite free to search the
room if you like. These ladies are my grandmother and my cousin.
_Bom de Sac_ (_seeing them for the first time, salutes_). Ah! _Honneur
aux dames_, as we used to say in the Sixth. I hope you won’t mind,
ladies.
_Fournichon._ You need not give yourself the trouble of speaking to
them. The old lady is stone deaf, and won’t understand a word, and she
watches over her granddaughter so carefully that she cannot bear to see
a gentleman speak to the girl, because she cannot hear what he is
saying.
[Illustration:
“SACRE NOM DE GUERRE!”
]
_Bom de Sac._ Well, where in the thunder can they have got to? I was
quite certain of finding them here.
_Fournichon._ And I am quite certain you will do no such thing. [_Looks
out of window._]
_Bom de Sac._ But—_nom de nom!_—how is it possible?
_Fournichon._ Just look here, Monsieur Bom de Sac, could these be the
gentlemen that have just passed laughing? Both of them have white hats.
_Bom de Sac_ (_rushing to the window_). Where?
_Fournichon._ Ah! what a pity! they have just this moment gone round the
corner towards the Botermarkt.
_Bom de Sac._ White hats, you say? The devil!—that must be they, and
they shan’t escape me this time. [_Exit._] It’s not for nothing that I
had ten wounds in nine battles when serving with the Eighth.
_Charles._ Bad luck to the fellow! he has made it warm for us!
_John._ If it had lasted any longer, I am sure I should have made some
remarks on my own account. If some one else comes, we really must find
some other place, for I really can’t sit still so long in these blessed
skirts.
_Charles._ Shall we stand up then?
_John._ Why not. [_Jumps on one of the chests._] Look here, I’ll bet you
anything you like I can stand half-an-hour like this without moving.
Don’t I look like a waxwork figure of summer?
_Charles._ The devil you are! [_Gets on the other chest._] And I winter,
to match.
_Fournichon._ Splendid, gentlemen, it couldn’t be finer. Just stand
still like that. [_A ring at the bell._]
_Charles_ (_getting down_). Preserve us!—now we’re in for it.
_John._ No, Charles, stick to your post.
_Charles._ I can’t possibly stand still all that time.
_Fournichon._ It won’t be necessary. Just stand in any easy attitude,
and you can change your position quietly from time to time, without our
tiresome visitor becoming aware of it.
_Charles._ Well, I’ll see what I can do. [_Climbs up again._]
_Fournichon._ Hush! he’s coming!
_Enter_ MEIJER.
_Meijer._ Good-day, Monsieur Fournichon. Good-day, ladies. (_To
Fournichon._) Why are you laughing?
_Fournichon._ At your taking those waxworks for ladies. Ha! ha! ha!
_Meijer._ Waxworks, you say! How astonishingly lifelike! It’s true,
though, it would be a queer position for living beings to stand in.
_Fournichon._ Well done, are they not? It is an allegorical
representation of winter and summer.
_Meijer._ Very pretty, very pretty indeed! You hair-dressers have always
something curious on hand.
_Fournichon._ That’s to say, sir, they are not my property. They have
been sent to me to look after the _coiffures_, and they are to go to
London,—to Madame Tousseau’s museum.
_Meijer._ Oh, indeed!—indeed! Well, art has made great strides.
_Fournichon._ Great strides, sir! You’re quite right there. Just feel
now—elastic as india-rubber—quite like a human being.
_Meijer._ Wonderful! wonderful! But I am in a hurry—can you shave me?
_Fournichon._ Certainly, sir, sit down! [_Gives him a chair between John
and Charles, but rather more towards the back of the shop. Goes on
shaving him, and talking at the same time._] Your barber, sir, does not
know his business. Your skin and complexion are quite spoilt.
[_John changes his position._]
_Meijer_ (_starting up_). Good heavens!
_Fournichon._ No need to be uneasy, sir; there is nothing really
dangerous.
_Meijer._ No, that’s not what I was thinking of,—but that doll of
yours—the summer one—is moving!
_Fournichon._ Oh! that is nothing surprising—perhaps I stepped on the
floor rather heavily. You must know these figures are full of steel
springs inside, and the slightest vibration makes them move. Just look
now!
[_Stamps on the floor. John and Charles immediately change their
positions._]
_Meijer._ Ah! thank you for your explanation. I really never should have
understood it.
[_Sits down again, and Fournichon goes on shaving him till he has
finished. Meijer rises._]
_Meijer._ Thanks. Can you give me change?
_Fournichon._ I’ll go and get it.
[_Exit. Meijer goes to look at the waxworks._]
_Meijer._ They _are_ curious, though! I have often seen waxworks before,
but never so graceful, so lifelike as these. Whenever any one stamps on
the floor, they move. [_Stamps—John and Charles again change their
attitudes._] Just look at that! how pretty! Once more! Sublime! And
that’s the way they keep on! [_Stamps again, and continues to do so,
faster and faster—John and Charles changing their position with every
stamp; but at length they begin to grow tired of it—they jump down from
their pedestals, seize Meijer, and hold him fast, saying_, “You rascal!
this is too much of a good thing!” _They strike him, and push him out at
the door—losing their wigs in the struggle—after which they burst out
laughing, and drop exhausted into their chairs. Enter F._]
_Fournichon._ Gentlemen! what have you been up to now? Such an infernal
row I never heard before! You’ll wake all the babies in the
neighbourhood.
_Charles_ (_laughing_). Oh! the conceited blockhead!
_John._ The worshipper of waxwork groups!
_Fournichon._ Well—where is he? What have you done with him?
_Charles._ We have put him out at the door as quietly and deliberately
as possible.
_Fournichon._ Well—and why?
_John._ Because he bored us too much. He was so delighted with the
mechanism of the figures, that we might have kept on dancing till
to-morrow morning if we had not put an end to the business ourselves.
_Fournichon._ And what about your coiffures?
_Charles._ Why, that’s true! What can have become of them!
_Fournichon._ Oh! good heavens! here they are, lying on the ground like
any old rubbish! [_Picks them up, along with the hat and cap._] Just
look!—they are not worth a cent now!
_John._ Oh! just put the things away—we don’t want them any more,—and if
they’re spoilt, we’ll pay for them.