“Oh, the one of the great club?”
“No—greater still.”
“The President of the Tribunal, then?”
“No; greater still—a president of a republic!”
“Of a republic, you say? No, I never shaved one—never in my life!”
“Do you know what he looks like?”
“Why, yes—like a gentleman.”
“Very good, my boy; I see you understand. Now, that’s the way you’ve got
to shave me—for I’m one.”
“You a president of a republic? Ha! ha! ha!”
“What are you laughing at, boy?”
“Because you’re trying to make a fool of me.”
“Indeed and I’m not. I’m Drikus the First, President of the Independent
Republic of Altenet.”
The lad laughed no longer; he looked round in alarm, convinced that he
had a madman in the room with him.
“Shave my beard off!” commanded Bloemstein.
“Very well, Mr ... President.”
“_À la bonne heure_, my lad! I like that—you know how to behave.”
[Illustration:
“SEE HERE, LAD, DID YOU EVER SHAVE A PRESIDENT?”
]
As speedily as possible the wish of this strange customer was gratified.
“Now just wait a bit, my boy. I must see how the moustache looks by
itself,” and the ruler of the republic placed himself before the mirror.
He remained for some time lost in admiration, then began to turn the
points of his moustache first up and then down.
“What do you think of it, lad? Is it good enough for a president of a
republic?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hold your tongue, then, can’t you?”
“Very good, Mr ... President ... as you please.”
Suddenly honest Bloemstein turned round and fairly snorted at the poor
youth. “Just shave this side off,” he blustered, pointing to the right
half of his countenance.
The youthful Figaro hastened to comply, having heard that a madman must
not be contradicted or he may become violent. His request having been
complied with, the President rose in order to admire himself in the
mirror. He covered first one and then the other half of his face with
one hand, in order to convince himself which style was most becoming to
the presidential dignity.
The attractions of the clean-shaven half at length prevailed, and the
last remaining hair was removed.
“What have you got to get?” asked Bloemstein, when this was done.
“Ten centimes ... Mr President.”
“There are two groschen for you.”
“I have to give you two centimes change.”
“Never mind that—you may keep them. A president of a republic has
nothing mean about him.”
And with a proud and stately demeanour he departed in the direction of
the photographer’s. Scarcely had he left the barber’s, when the boy
hastened to the police-office, to relate how he had just been shaving a
fellow who must certainly have just escaped from the lunatic asylum, for
he had told him quite seriously that he was the president of a republic.
A policeman started immediately with the terrified barber’s boy to
search the streets of Maastricht for the lunatic.
It was, however, in vain. Bloemstein had already entered the studio of a
neighbouring photographer, muttering, “I shall have to explain myself
differently here. It seems as though these Maastricht people had never
heard of the president of a republic.”
When the photographer appeared, he accordingly delivered himself as
follows: “I want my photograph taken, but it must be properly done, for
I am a king.”
“Very good, sir. Shall I give you a gun, then, or do you prefer a bow?”
“A gun!—a bow! What for?”
“Why, I’ve photographed a whole number of kings, and they——”
“Ah! you know how to do it then?”
“Of course I do.”
“What kings have you taken?”
“Why, only yesterday the Gronsveld one, and a few days ago one from
Neer-Itteren.”
“How—what—kings of Gronsveld and Neer-Itteren?”
“Yes, of course—those of the archery competition.”
“You confounded idiot!—did I get shaved for that? Do I look like a king
of the archery competition? Why, I am king of a country—of a republic—an
independent republic! Do you understand now?”
“Oh heavens!” cried the artist to himself, “the fellow is certainly
touched in the upper storey, and I shall have to look out, or he’ll
knock the whole shop to pieces.” He made his visitor a low bow, and
said,—
“Very pleased, sir, to be honoured with your custom. May I ask your
Majesty to take a seat.... How would you like your portrait,
full-length, or bust only?”
“Nothing but the bust; it’s for the stamps of the country, do you
understand?”
“Certainly, certainly, sir, and will you kindly look through this
thing?”
[Illustration:
“NOW YOU CAN GO AHEAD.”
]
“Very good, but remember that I want it to look respectable—do you
hear? ... And just wait a bit—I must see if my hair is all right;” and
he hastened to the looking-glass, moistened his palms, smoothed his head
with them, and took his place, with a last self-satisfied look at his
own image.
“Now you can go ahead.”
The photographer placed himself in front of his apparatus, and declared,
a moment later, that the picture was a splendid success, notwithstanding
the fact that it was impossible to pronounce on that point with any
degree of certainty, since he had not the courage to go into the dark
room and leave his eccentric customer alone.
“When will they be finished?” asked Bloemstein.
“Oh! as soon as your Majesty likes to have them.”
“Can I have them next week? All right then, just send them to Drikus the
First, King of the Independent Republic of Altenet.”
“I’ll do so without fail, your Majesty.”
“If they turn out well, I’ll come back and bring my wife the queen, and
my daughter the princess; and I’ll give you leave to hang out a fine
gilt signboard with your own name on it, and after that ‘Photographer to
the King of the Republic of Altenet.’”
“I’ll do my best, your Majesty.”
The photographer too, immediately after his visitor’s departure,
hastened away to the temple of Justice, with the tidings that a fellow
as mad as a hatter, calling himself king of a republic, had just been at
his studio. Another gendarme was at once sent in pursuit.
Meanwhile the object of their solicitude had entered the church of St
Servaas. It had struck him that, since his august head ought certainly
to be adorned with a crown, he might here find a pattern for the same in
painting or sculpture. He remained standing a long time before a picture
representing the Adoration of the Magi, but none of the three crowns
worn by those royal personages suited his fancy. “They haven’t got
points enough,” he muttered, and searched further, but in vain, till at
last he came to a statue of the Madonna, which realised his ideal. There
was the crown he had always imagined—with points standing straight up
all round it.
He delayed not a moment, but hastened out into the street, and entered
the first coppersmith’s shop he came to.
“Can you make me a crown like Our Lady’s in St Servaas’s?” he asked.
“Oh! yes, sir. What size do you want it?”
[Illustration:
“HIS AUGUST HEAD OUGHT CERTAINLY TO BE ADORNED WITH A CROWN.”
]
“As big as my head; you can take the measure now.”
“What for? You don’t want to wear it, do you?”
“Of course I do—nothing is more certain.”
“Sir, are you mad? or might you happen to be a Freemason?”
“Mad! mad! Mad yourself, fellow!”
“Just wait a bit, and I’ll show you which of us is mad!” and before the
poor president could assume a defensive attitude, the smith had seized
him and thrown him into the street.
This roused Bloemstein’s wrath, and his objurgations speedily collected
a crowd in the street.
“There he is!” a voice cried suddenly, echoed by “Now you’ve got him!”
from another quarter, as the barber’s boy and the photographer appeared
on the scene, escorted by a policeman apiece. In the twinkling of an eye
the two officials had mastered the furious president, and in spite of
his vigorous resistance, and his protestation that, as President of
Altenet, his person was inviolable, the unhappy man was lugged off to
the little dark hole known to the population of Maastricht as “the
larder.”
“What is your name?” was the first question asked him by the police
commissioner.
“You might ask it a little more civilly,” was the reply.
The commissioner immediately complied with this request.
“Will you be so kind as to tell me whom I have the honour of speaking
to?”
“That’s the proper way to speak, and now I shall answer you. I am Wullem
Drikus Bloemstein, President of the Independent Republic of Altenet.”
“And where do you live?”
“Well, I should have thought you had no need to ask. At Altenet, the
capital of the Republic of Altenet.”
“Thank you.”
One of the inspectors was immediately despatched to Altenet to make
inquiries on the spot as to the personality of the prisoner.
[Illustration:
“THERE HE IS!”
]
The officer returned the same day, with the tidings that all Altenet was
one great lunatic asylum; that every human being he had met and spoken
to there was even madder than the one who had been caught; everything he
had seen and heard was sheer nonsense and delirium, and so he had been
obliged to return as he came.
Medical aid was summoned, but all in vain; the gentlemen were unable to
agree, one asserting that the patient was suffering from _aberratio
mentalis_, while another thought things were not so bad as that.
“After all, what business is it of ours?” said one at last. “Send him
back to his home, and let them settle it among themselves.”
This counsel met with unanimous approbation, and was, in fact, the most
practical, and at the same time the easiest, way of disposing of the
prisoner.
Bloemstein was furious; and when the gendarmes who escorted him took
leave of him at the frontier, he was almost beside himself with rage. He
would have liked to take them with him into his dominions, where he was
undisputed lord and master; he would then have summoned the commander of
the local rifles, and ordered him to shut up the Maastricht officials
for a whole day in the cellar below the council-chamber. But, alas! fate
was against him, he could not gratify his desire for vengeance; but
being forced to relieve his feelings in some way, he did so by
indignantly shouting after their retreating figures, “You Dutch
cheese-heads, you!”
With hasty steps he forthwith sought his chief counsellor, the Minister
for Home Affairs, the tailor Holzert. In excited language, and with wild
gestures, he related the story of the outrage suffered by him at
Maastricht, and asked, in conclusion, “What are we to do?”
The tailor put his hand to his head, and remained for some little time
lost in thought.
“What are we to do?” repeated Bloemstein; “we can’t let a thing like
that pass.”
“What are we to do?” replied Holzert, speaking slowly and solemnly.
“Why, we must declare war against Holland.”
“Declare war against Holland?”
“Yes.”
“And what for?”
“For high treason.”
“You’re right, you’re right; we must send for Bauer at once.”
“No, not so fast; we must have the stamps first, with your head on them,
and then the Hollanders can see whom they have to deal with.”
“You’re right again, tailor,” said Drikus I., flattered not a little by
these words.
“Besides that, I haven’t finished the ministers’ suits yet, and we can
do nothing without them; everything has got to be respectable.”
“Of course.”
During the next few days an unheard-of political commotion prevailed in
the usually calm atmosphere of Altenet.
Every evening, when work was over, Bauer’s rifles assembled in the
Minister of Finance’s public-house, in order to exchange ideas as to the
coming war with Holland.
Guesses were given as to where the first battle would be fought, and
calculations were made as to how soon they would be before the gates of
Amsterdam, and how many thousand millions they would make the Dutch pay
as war indemnity.
Bloemstein, meanwhile, wrote innumerable letters to all the powers of
Europe, to give them notice of his accession. All of them were enclosed
in large square envelopes, and laid out in a long row on the table.
“And when once I’ve stuck on the stamps, with my head on them, why,
then, I shall be no end of a fellow, Marieke,” he repeatedly remarked to
his daughter.
The portraits, however, did not arrive.
[Illustration:
“WROTE INNUMERABLE LETTERS TO ALL THE POWERS OF EUROPE.”
]
After the lapse of a fortnight, Bloemstein’s ploughman—for he had no
intention of going to Maastricht again himself—was sent to the
photographer’s, to ask whether the portraits of the President of the
Republic of Altenet were not yet ready.
“Do you really want them?—seriously?” inquired the artist.
“I suppose so, seeing as how I had to come here a-purpose.”
“Very well, I’ll send them next week.”
At the appointed time the impatiently awaited packet at last arrived at
the house of Altenet’s ruler. Something else arrived as well,—the long
royal mantle promised by the tailor, richly ornamented with gold fringe.
Bloemstein was quite excited with joy. Without a moment’s delay he flung
the royal insignia round his shoulders, and then stood before the
mirror, admiring his front and back view by turns. He was
satisfied—perfectly and entirely satisfied—both with the garment and him
who wore it!
“The other fellows must see that too! Thunder! how they’ll stare!”
Immediately Bloemstein’s man was sent to summon the council, and before
long Marbaise, Klessens, Conrads, Bauer, and Holzert entered—all clad in
their uniforms, consisting of long coats trimmed with gold lace,
knee-breeches, long woollen stockings of a doubtful white, and swords
dangling at their sides.
It was quite evident that Holzert had given his whole time and attention
to the job, as was, moreover, irrefutably proved by an unexpected
incident.
When all were gathered round the big table, loudly uttering their
admiration of their ruler’s portrait, long Kwoib Hermes suddenly rushed
into the room, in his red baize drawers, with the tails of a blue shirt
fluttering above them, and shouted aloud—“Thou accursed tailor, where
are my trousers? I must go to early mass to-morrow, and I have no
trousers!”
“You shall have them to-morrow; to-morrow morning early, Kwoib,” replied
the indignant tradesman.
“No, I want them to-night. You’ve promised me them all the week, and I’m
going to have those trousers of mine to-night.”
“Man, don’t make such a scandalous row! Just think where you are—before
the ministers of the republican council!”
“The ministers and the council and the whole republic may be stolen, for
all I care! I want my trousers, and I’m not going away from here before
I get them.” And therewith he took a chair, and seated himself among the
ministers of the crown.
“Will you get out or not?” asked Bauer, threateningly.
“No; I’m not going before I get my trousers.”
Suddenly Bloemstein heard the steps of his wife and daughter, who were
coming to see what the noise was. Fearing that they might come in for
this unseemly spectacle, he thrust the intruder into the next room, with
the words, “There; you’ll find some trousers in there; just put them on
in the meantime.”
Not long after, Hermes appeared in a garment much too short for him,
which, however, by way of compensation, was also a great deal too wide.
The assembly was now able to finish its deliberations in peace and
quiet. The portraits having been unanimously approved of, No. 2 of the
Agenda came up for discussion. This was, “Declaration of war against
Holland on the ground of high treason.” The debate was lively and
confused.
Bauer wanted to summon his men at once, surprise Maastricht the same
night, take the garrison prisoners, and march farther into the country.
Conrads, on the other hand, could see no good in such incautious haste.
“Let’s wait till we get the corn in; then we can bake bread for our men
through the war.”
“No need of that!” shouted Bauer. “We’ll get all the bread we want from
the Dutch.”
Holzert was inclined to agree with Conrads, but for other reasons. “We
must ask for explanations first; that’s always the way,” he declared.
“We ought to give them time to investigate the outrage committed on our
president, and make their apologies. Besides that,” he added, “till we
have stamps of our own we can’t declare war.”
“That’s true, that’s true!” cried several voices, “it would never do to
declare war on Holland with Prussian stamps.”
“Very well, then,” raged Bauer, “but you must get them made directly,
Bloemstein!”
“I’ll promise that,” replied the President.
Herewith the solemn session concluded.
[Illustration]
A few weeks later the longed-for stamps appeared. They looked neat
enough. A striking likeness of Bloemstein was surrounded by a garland of
intertwined spades and pickaxes—symbols of labour—and above, in good
bold letters, ALTENET.
There were blue, red, and green ones—of one, two, and three groschen
respectively.
“Marieke! Marieke!” cried the delighted Bloemstein. “Come here, child;
I’ve something to show you. What do you think of that?”
“Oh, quite beautiful, father!”
“Really, child?”
“And will they be sent to all the kings and emperors—all in the whole
world?”
“All in the whole world.”
“To Bismarck too?”
“He’s going to get one as well; but it won’t please him, I assure you,
Marieke.”
“Now you’ll need to send them off at once; may I help you to put the
stamps on?”
“Surely, Marieke.”
The father and daughter sat down before the table, on which lay the long
row of already written letters.
“Here’s Bismarck’s!” cried the girl suddenly.
“Put double stamps on that,” said Bloemstein.
Instead of obeying this order, Marieke contrived to slip the letter into
her pocket.
“Shall I take them to the post-office now, father?”
“Yes, do, child—only mind you don’t lose any, specially the one to
Bismarck.”
“You needn’t be afraid,” and she skipped out of the room to fetch her
hat, and perhaps also the letter she had received from her _fiancé_.
It was not long before an answer came from Berlin.
Bloemstein summoned his faithful councillors at once, in order to open
the official document in their midst. The ministers hastened to the
council-chamber, as fast as their legs could carry them. They took up
positions behind their President, and stuck their heads together, trying
to see with their own eyes the answer from the German Empire.
With trembling hand Bloemstein opened the missive, and in a voice
quivering with emotion, he began to read, in German:—
“_Verehrter Herr Präsident._
“In reply to your letter, I have received orders from my Emperor to
declare war on your Republic, and send off an army of 150,000 men to
the frontier, because—
“1. You have caused postage-stamps to be made without permission from
the German Government.
“2. It is known to us that you have been taking upon yourself to
oppose your daughter’s marriage to our loyal subject, Dr Heinrich
Olthausen.
“3. You want to force that charming and lovely girl to marry an
objectionable, crooked tailor.
“We give you a week to comply with our conditions.
“BISMARCK.”
There was a moment’s painful silence. There it was, in great fat round
letters—“BISMARCK.” There was no possible doubt about it.
[Illustration:
“DECLARE WAR!”
]
“The confounded low _Schwerenöther_ of a Prussian!” yelled Holzert at
last, crimson with passion, and quivering on his little bow-legs.
“Declare war, Bloemstein! declare war!” he went on. “Let them come, the
low _canaille!_ we’ll blow up the mine as soon as they get on top of it,
and then there’ll be an end of them!” and suddenly turning to the
Minister of War, he added, “Bauer, how many men have you?”
[Illustration:
“HASTENED TO THE COUNCIL-CHAMBER.”
]
“A hundred and twenty-three, counting the band,” was the answer.
“That’s not one to a thousand,” suggested Conrads; “and besides that,
we’ve got the war with Holland on our hands,—it won’t do—it won’t do!
What do you think yourself, Bauer?”
“What I think? I think you’re a coward, Conrads, to talk so—a coward, do
you understand? Conquer or die, that’s our cry!”
“Yes, but we can’t conquer, and dying isn’t much good. Holzert won’t get
his Marieke by it if we do!”
“But in that case the Prussian pig-dog won’t have her either!” shouted
Holzert, banging the table with his fists.
At this, however, Bloemstein’s paternal feelings revolted. His daughter,
his pretty Marieke—dead! No, he would rather see her married to the
Prussian doctor, for the Prussians were not so bad after all! Nay, they
even knew how to appreciate beauty—had not Bismarck himself written that
she was a “charming, lovely girl”?
Klessens also was for peace, and so was Marbaise. “Against 150,000
Prussians,” said the latter, “and a few thousand Hollanders on top of
those, you, Bauer, with your hundred and twenty men——”
“A hundred and twenty-three!” interrupted the commander of the Altenet
forces.
“Well, a hundred and twenty-three, if you like—but you can’t do anything
with them!”
A great deal more talking and shouting took place, and at last the
President determined to end the debate by putting the question to the
vote.
“War!” yelled Holzert. “Peace!” “Peace!” “Peace!” muttered Conrads,
Marbaise, and Klessens, in succession.
“War!” thundered Bauer; and “I’m for peace,” said the President in
conclusion.
Peace was therefore resolved on by a majority of two votes.
Several months have passed. The miners are at work again; the farmer is
ploughing his fields; the lark sings high in air; the Altenet
postage-stamps have been destroyed; and Marieke is the happy wife of Dr
Olthausen.
No answer was ever received from the rest of the kings and emperors,—it
is just possible that Marieke may have forgotten to post the letters
entrusted to her care.
L. H. J. LAMBERTS-HURRELBRINCK.
_NEWSPAPER HUMOUR_.
“LOOK here, waiter!” cried a gentleman in a restaurant, “here’s a hair
in my soup!”
For all answer and excuse, the waiter removed his cap, showing a head as
bare and smooth as a billiard ball.
“Yes, I see,” resumed the customer, “I see it was your last hair; that’s
all right, it will never happen again!”
* * * * *
“So you’ve written a play, M. Vermorcken?”
“Yes, my friend, I have that honour.”
“And it is quite finished?”
“Yes—no—yes; that is to say, not the play itself, yet—but my speech,
that I am to make, when I thank them for calling me out on the stage.”
_FICTION AT SEA._
It is quiet now on deck. The singing forward has ceased, the watch is
set, and the larboard watch, who are to come on at midnight, are
below—including the tall corporal of marines, whom we heard just now
singing bass. But the little monkey of a boy, who took the tenor part in
“O Julia!” belongs to the starboard watch, and now has another
occupation on hand.
Seated on a tub turned upside down, close to the foremast, he is reading
aloud, by the light of a lantern, out of an “awfully fine” book.
The boy (his name is Jozef) can read “real first-rate”; and from each of
the listeners seated round him he is to receive the sum of two cents.
The book which he now has before him, and which is covered with
oil-stains, because he has to hold it so close to the lantern,—the book
which is so “awfully fine,” is entitled “Count Matatskai; or, The Bandit
with the Grey Beard: A Story from the Mountains.”
Count Matatskai is a youthful nobleman who has fallen in love with a
mountain maiden, the beautiful but fierce Krimhelia, daughter of a
chamois-hunter. After various meetings on the rocks by moonlight, with a
faithful old servitor _incognito_ in the background, Krimhelia makes up
her mind to accept the Count’s love, and fly with him to a distant
country, where counts and the daughters of chamois-hunters stand
precisely on the same social footing. But now a difficulty occurs, and
it is this: Krimhelia has sworn an oath to avenge the death of her
father, who has been killed in a fight with the band commanded by the
Grey-Bearded Brigand.
This is the point Jozef has reached in the story. Several of his
audience have already dropped asleep; but the reader does not notice
it—he is too much absorbed in his narrative,—and continues, in his
“first-rate” manner, which—heard at a distance—reminds one of nothing so
much as of the soft but continuous murmur of a babbling brook—commas and
other stops being, in this method, so entirely left in the background,
or else occurring in such remarkable places, that a reporter would have
been forced to reproduce his text somewhat as follows:—
“Krimhelia looked the Count straight in the face.