boys on one side and the girls on the other, on long benches and were
wrapped up in studying their communion-book and listening to an old nun,
who explained it to them in drawling, snuffling tones. After that, they
had to say their lesson, one by one; and this all went so quietly, so
modestly, so easily, ‘twas as if they had the open book before them.
Half-way through the morning, they went two and two through the village
to the church, where the priest was waiting to hear their catechism. This
also went quietly; and the questions and answers sounded hollow in that
empty church.
Horieneke sat at the head of the girls; she had caught up almost half of
them because she always knew her lessons so well and listened so
attentively. She was allowed to lead the prayers and was the first
examined; then she sat looking at the priest and listening to what came
from his lips. He always gave her a kind smile and held her up to the
others as an example of good conduct. After the catechism, they had leave
to go and play in the convent-garden. In the afternoon, there were new
lessons to be learnt and new explanations; and then quietly home.
So they lived quite secluded, alone, in their own little world of modesty
and piety, preparing for the great day. The other youngsters, who went
their several ways, felt a certain awe for these school-fellows who once
used to romp and fight with them and who were now so good, so earnest, so
neat in their clothes and so polite. The “first-communicants:” the word
had something sacred about it which they respected; and the little ones
counted on their fingers how many years they would have to wait before
they too were learning their catechism and having leave to play in the
convent-garden.
To her brothers Horieneke had now become a sacred thing, like a guardian
angel who watched over them everywhere; and they dared do no mischief
when she was by. She no longer played with them after school; she was now
their “big sister,” to whom they softly whispered the favours which they
wished to get out of mother.
When Trientje saw her sister coming home in the distance, she put out her
little arms and then would not let her go. For mother, Horieneke had to
wash the dishes, darn the stockings and, when the baby cried, sit for
hours rocking it in the cradle or dandling it on her lap, like a little
young mother.
Holding Trientje by the hand and carrying the other on her arm, she would
walk along the paths of the garden and then put them both down on the
bench in the box arbour, while she tended the plants and shrubs that were
beginning to shoot.
In the evening, when the bell rang for benediction, she called all her
little brothers and they went off to church together. From every side
came wives in hooded cloaks and lads in wooden shoes that stamped on the
great floor till it echoed in the silent nave.
The choir was a semicircular, homely little chapel, with narrow pointed
windows, black at this hour, like deep holes, with leads outlining saints
in shapeless dark patches of colour. The altar was a mass of burning
candles; and a flickering gleam fell on the brass candlesticks, the
little gold leaves and the artificial flowers and on the corners of the
silver monstrance, which stood glittering high up in a little white satin
house. All of this was clouded in a blue smoke which rose from the holes
of the censer continuously swung to and fro by the arm of a roguish
serving-boy. Far at the back, in the dark, in the black stripes of shadow
cast by the pillars or under the cold bright patch of a lamp or a stand
of votive candles was an old wife, huddled under her hood, with bent
back, praying, and here and there a troop of boys who by turns dropped
their wooden shoes or fought with one another’s rosaries.
Near the communion-bench knelt Horieneke, her eyes wide open, full of
brightness and gladness and ecstacy, face to face with Our Lord. The
incense smelt so good and the whole little church was filled with the
trailing chords of the organ and with soft, plaintive Latin chant. Her
lips muttered automatically and the beads glided through her fingers:
numbered Hail Marys like so many roses that were to adorn her heart
against the coming of the great God. Her thoughts wafted her up to Heaven
in that wide temple full of glittering lights where, against the high
walls full of pedestals and niches, the saints, all stiff with gold and
jewels, stood smiling under their haloes and the nimble angels flew all
around on their white-plaster wings. She had something to ask of every
one of them and they received her prayer in turns. When the priest stood
up in his gleaming silver cope, climbed the three steps and took the
Blessed Sacrament in his white hands to give the benediction; when the
bell tinkled and the censer flew on high and the organ opened all its
throats and the glittering monstrance slowly made a cross in the air and
above the heads of the worshippers, she fell forward over her
praying-stool and lay like that, swooning in mute adoration, until all
was silent again, the candles out and she sitting alone there in the dark
with a few black shapes of cloaked women who wandered discreetly from one
station of the Cross to the next. Outside she heard her brothers playing
in the church-square. There she joined the little girls of her school;
and, arm in arm, they walked along past the dark houses and the silent
trees, each whispering her own tale: about her new dress, her veil, her
white shoes, her long taper with golden bows; about flowers and beads and
prayers....
After supper, Horieneke had to rock the baby to sleep, while mother moved
about, and then to say the evening prayers out loud, after which they all
of them went to bed. On reaching her little bedroom, she visited all the
prints and images hanging on the walls. She then undressed and listened
whether any one was still awake or up. Next she carefully crept down the
three stairs[6] in her little shift and clambered up the ladder to the
loft, where all her little brothers lay playing in a great box-bed. They
knew that she would come and had kept a place for her in the middle. She
sank deep in the straw and, when they all lay still, she went on with the
tale which she had broken off yesterday half-way. It was all made up of
long, long stories out of _The Golden Legend_ and wonderful adventures of
far beyond the sea in unknown lands. She told it all so prettily, so
leisurely; and the children listened like eager little birds. High up in
the dusk of the rafters they saw all those things happening before their
eyes in the black depths and saw the mad fairy-dance there, until they
dreamed off for good and all and Horieneke was left the only one awake,
still telling her story. Then she crept carefully back to her room and
into bed, where she lay counting: how many more days, how many times
sleeping and getting up and how many more lessons to learn ... and then
the great day! The great day! Slowly she made all the days, with their
special happenings, appear before her eyes; and she enjoyed beforehand
all those beautiful things which had kept her so long a-longing. When, in
her thoughts, it came to Saturday evening and at last, slowly--like a box
with something wonderful inside which you daren’t open--to that Sunday
morning, then her heart began to flutter, a thrill ran through her body
and, so that she shouldn’t weep for gladness, she bit her lips, squeezed
her hands between her knees and rubbed them until the ecstasy was passed
and she again lay smiling in supreme content and shivering with delight.
[6] The bedroom behind the kitchen or living-room, in the Flemish
cottages, is over the cellar; but this cellar is not entirely
underground and is lighted by a very low window at the back.
Consequently, the floor of the bedroom is a little higher than that
of the living-room and is approached by a flight of two or three
steps.
Time dragged on; cold weather came and rain and it seemed as if it never
would be summer. And that constant repetition of getting up and going to
bed and learning her lessons and counting the hours and the minutes
became so dreary and seemed to go round and round in an endless circle.
To-day at last was the long-awaited holiday when Horieneke might go into
town with mother to buy clothes. Her heart throbbed; and she walked
beside mother, with eyes wide-open, looking round at every window, up one
street and down another, crying aloud each time for joy when she saw
pretty things displayed. They bought white slippers with little bows, a
splendid wreath of white lilies of the valley, a great veil of woven
lace, a white-ivory prayer-book, a mother-of-pearl rosary with a little
glass peep-hole in the silver crucifix, showing all manner of pretty
things. Horieneke sighed with happiness. Mother haggled and bargained,
said within herself that it was “foolishness to waste all that money,”
but bought and went on buying; and, every time something new went into
the big basket, it was:
“Don’t tell father what it cost, Rieneke!”
All those pretty things were locked away in the bedroom at home and hung
up in the oak press, while father was still at work.
On another evening, when mother and Horieneke were alone at home, the
seamstress brought the new clothes: a whole load of white muslin in stiff
white folds full of satin bows and ribbons and white lace. They had to be
tried on; and Horieneke stood there, for the first time in her life, all
in white, like an angel. But the happiness lasted only for a spell: there
came a noise and every one in the room fled and the clothes were hastily
taken off and put away.
Every day, when the boys were at school and father in the fields,
neighbours came to look at the clothes. Piece after piece was carefully
taken out of the press and spread out for show on the great bed. The
wives felt and tested the material, examined the tucks and seams and the
knots and the lining, the bows and ribbons and clapped their hands
together in admiration. It became known all over the village that
Horieneke would be the finest of all in the church.
The counted days crept slowly by, the sun climbed higher every day and
the mornings and evenings lengthened. Things out of doors changed and
grew as you looked: the young green stood twinkling on every hand; the
fields lay like coloured carpets, sharply outlined; and the trees grew
long, pale branches with leaves which stood out like stately plumes
against the sky, so full of youth and freshness and free from dust as yet
and tender. In course of time, white buds came peeping, gleaming amid the
delicate young leaves, till all looked like a spotted altar-cloth: a
promising splendour of white blossoms. Here and there in the garden an
early flower came creeping out. Yonder, in the dark-blue wood, patches of
brown and of pale colour stood out clearly, with a whole variety of vivid
hues. And it had all come so unexpectedly, all of a sudden, as though, by
some magic of the night, it was all set forth to adorn and grace a great
festival.
In the fields, the folk were hard at work. The land was turned up and
torn and broken by the gleaming plough and lay steaming in purple clods
in the sun’s life-giving rays. Everything swarmed with life and movement.
The houses were done up and coated with fresh whitewash, the shutters
painted green, till it all shouted from afar in a glad mosaic, with the
blue of the sky and the young leafage of the trees, under the brown,
moss-grown roofs.
And the days crept on, each counted and marked off: so many white stripes
on the rafters and black stripes on the almanack; they fell away one by
one and the Saturday came, the long-expected eve of the great Sunday.
Quite early, before sunrise, the linen hung outside, the white smocks and
shirts waving, like fluttering pennons, from the clothes-lines in the
white orchard. Horieneke also was up betimes and helping mother in her
work. From top to bottom everything had to be altered and done over again
and cleansed. It was only with difficulty that she got to school. The
last time! To-day, the great examination of conscience, the general
confession and the communion-practice; and, to-night, everything to be
laid out ready for to-morrow morning: all this kept running anyhow
through her head and among the lines of her lesson-book.
Half-way through the morning they went to church. The children there all
looked so glad, so happy and so clean and neat in their second-best
clothes and so nicely washed. They now made their confessions for the
last time; and it all went so pleasantly: they had done no wrong for such
a long while and all their sins had already been forgiven two or three
times over, yesterday and the day before. They sat in two long rows
waiting their turns and thinking over, right away back to their far-off
babyhood, whether nothing had been forgotten or omitted: their little
hearts must be quite stainless now and pure. When they were tired of
examining their consciences, they fell to praying, with their eyes fixed
upon the saint who stood before them on his pedestal, or else watched the
other youngsters going in and out by turns.
The little church looked its best, neat as a new pin: the floor was
freshly scrubbed and the chairs placed side by side in straight rows; the
brasswork shone like gold; and a new communion-cloth hung, like a
snow-white barrier, in front of the sanctuary. The velvet banners were
stripped of their linen covers; and the blue vases, with bright flowers
and silver bunches of grapes, were put out on the altar, as on
feast-days. And all of this was for to-morrow! And for them!
All the time it was deathly still, with not a sound but that of the
youngsters going in and out of the creaking confessional. Now and then
the church-door flapped open and banged to, when one of the children had
finished and went away. Their little souls were white as new-fallen snow
and bedight with indulgences and prayers. On their faces lay the fresh
innocence of babes brought to baptism or of laughing angels’ heads and in
their wide eyes everything was reflected festively and at its best; they
felt so light and lived on little but longing and a holy fear of their
own worthiness: that great, incredible thing of the morrow was suddenly
going to change them from children into grown-up people!
They just gave themselves time to have their dinners in a hurry; and then
back to school, where they were to learn how to receive communion. A few
benches placed next to one another represented the communion-rails; and
there they practised the whole afternoon: with studied piety, their hands
folded and their heads bowed, they learnt how to genuflect, how to rise,
how to approach in ranks and return at a sign from the old nun, who
tapped with a key on the arm of her chair each time that a new row of
youngsters had to start, kneel or go back. In a short time this went as
exactly, as evenly as could be, just like soldiers drilling. Finally,
they had to recite once more their acts of faith, adoration and
thanksgiving; and Horieneke and the first of the little boys had to write
out on large sheets of paper the preparation and thanks which they had
learnt by heart, to be read to-morrow in church. After that, they were
drawn up in line and silently and mysteriously led into the convent.
The children held their breath and walked carefully down long passages,
between high, white walls, past closed doors with inscriptions in Gothic
letters and a smell of clean linen and apples: ever on and on, through
more passages, till they reached a large hall full of chairs where Mother
Prioress--a fat and stately nun, with her great big head covered by her
cap and her hands in her sleeves--sat upon a throne. They had to file
past her, one by one, with a low bow, and then sit down.
Mother Prioress settled herself in her seat, coughed and, in a rich,
throaty voice, began by telling the youngsters how they were to address
Our Lord; told stories of children who had become saints; and she ended
by slowly and cautiously producing a little glass case in which a thorn
out of Our Lord’s crown lay exposed on a red-velvet cushion. And then
they were sent home.
On the way, Horieneke came upon her brothers playing in the sand. They
had scooped it up in their wooden shoes and poured it into a heap in the
middle of the road and then wetted it; and now they were boring all sorts
of holes in it and tunnels and passages and making it into a
rats’-castle. She let them be, gathered up her little skirts, so as not
to dirty them, and passed by on one side.
Mother was up to her elbows in the golden dough of the cakebread,
stirring and beating and patting the jumble of eggs and flour and milk.
Horieneke took the crying baby out of the cradle, shaking and tossing it
in the air, and went into the garden just outside the door. The golden
afternoon sun lay all around and everything was radiant with translucid
green. The little path lay neatly raked and the yellow daffodils stood,
like brass trumpets, closely ranked on their stalks; under the shrubs
bright violets peeped out with raised eyebrows, like the grinning faces
of little old wives. The whole garden was filled with a scent of fresh
jasmine and a cool fragrance of cherry-blossom and peach.
It was all so still and peaceful that Horieneke, who had begun to sing,
stopped in the middle and stood listening to the chaffinches and siskins
chattering pell-mell.
From there she went to her little bedroom, laid the child on her bed and
drew the curtains before the window which let in the sun in a thousand
slender beams of dusty light. The pictures and images gleamed on the wall
and the saints seemed to smile with happiness in that cool air, fragrant
of gillyflowers and white jasmine. She took out her new prayer-book,
flicked the silver clasp open and shut and played with the little shaft
of light which the gilt edge sent running all round the white walls. Then
she stood musing for a long time, gazing out through the little curtains
at those white trees in blossom, around and above which the golden pollen
danced, and at all that huge green field and the everlasting sun and all
the blue on the horizon. And, feeling tired, she laid her head on the bed
beside the baby and lingered there, dreaming of all the delight and
beauty of the morrow.
Mother called her and Horieneke came down. Mam’selle Julie was there, who
had promised to come and curl the child’s hair. Mam’selle put on a great
apron and began to undress Horieneke; then a great tub of rain-water was
carried in and the girl was scrubbed and washed with scented soap till
the whole tub was full of suds. Her head was washed as well and her hair
plaited into little braids, which were rolled up one by one and wound in
curl-papers and fastened to her head, under a net. Her cheeks and neck
shone like transparent china with the rosy blood coursing underneath.
When she was done, Mam’selle Julie went off to the other communicants.
The boys were lying on their backs, under the walnut-tree, talking, when
Horieneke came past. They looked at the funny twists on her head and went
on talking: Wartje longed most of all to put on his new breeches; Fonske
was glad that Uncle Petrus was coming to-morrow and Aunt Stanske and
Cousin Isidoor; Bertje because of the dog-cart[7] and the dogs and the
chance of a ride; Wartje because of all that aunt would bring with her in
her great wicker basket; and Dolfke longed for father to come home from
work, so that he might help to clean the rabbits.
[7] The Flemish low-wheeled cart drawn by dogs.
The sun played with the gold in the leaves of the walnut-tree; and the
radiant tree-top was all aswarm and astir and little golden shafts were
shooting in all directions. The first butterfly of the year rocked like a
white flower through the air.
“I smell something!” said Dolfke.
They all sniffed and:
“Mates! They’re taking the cake-bread out of the oven!”
They rushed indoors one on top of the other. On the table lay four
golden-yellow brown-crusted loaves, as big as cart-wheels, steaming till
the whole house smelt of them.
“First let it cool! Then you can eat it,” said mother and gave each of
them a flat scone.
“Yes, mother.”
And they trotted round the kitchen holding their treasures high above
their heads and screaming with delight.
Behind the elder-hedge they heard father’s voice humming:
When the sorrel shows,
‘Tis then the month of May, O!...
They ran to him, took the tools out of his hands and:
“Father, the rabbits! The rabbits now, father?”
“Will it be fine weather to-morrow?” asked Horieneke.
“For sure, child: just see how clear the sun is setting.”
He pointed to the west; and the boys stood on tip-toe to see the sinking,
dull-glowing disk hang glittering in its gulf of orange cloud-reefs,
pierced through and through with bright rays that melted away high in the
pale blue and grey, while that disk hung there so calmly, as though
frozen into the sky for ever.
Father had one or two things to do and then the boys might come along to
the rabbits.
“The two white ones, eh, father?”
Father nodded yes; and Sarelke and Dolfke skipped along the boards to the
hutch and came back each carrying a long white rabbit by the ears.
Dolfke held his close to the ground, hidden behind a tree, so that it
shouldn’t see the other’s blood and foresee its own death. While father
was sharpening his knife, Fonske took a cord and tied the hind-legs of
Sarelke’s rabbit and hung it, head down, on a nail under the eaves.
Father struck it behind the ears so that it was dazed and, rolling its
eyes, remained hanging stock-still. Before it had time to scream, the
knife was in its neck and the throat was cut open. A little stream of
dark blood trickled to the ground and clotted; and some of it hung like
an icicle from the beard, which dripped incessantly with red drops.
Fonske carefully put his finger to the rabbit’s nose and licked off a
drop of blood.
“It’s going home,” said Sarelke.
“Is it dead, father?” sighed Wartje.
“Stone-dead, my boy.”
He ripped one buttock with his knife and pulled off the skin; then the
other, so that the blue flesh was laid bare and the little purple veins.
One more tug and the creature hung disfigured beyond all knowledge, in
its bare buttocks and its fat, bulging paunch, with its head all over
blood and its eyes sticking out. The belly and breast were cut open from
end to end and the guts removed; the gall-bladder was flung into the
cess-pool; two bits of stick, to keep the hind-legs and the skin of the
stomach apart, and the thing was done. The other was treated likewise;
and the two rabbits hung skinned and cleaned, stiffening high up on the
gable-end.
Meanwhile mother had got supper ready: a heap of steaming potatoes
soaking in melted butter and, after that, bread-and-butter and a pan of
porridge. Horieneke, by way of a treat, got a couple of eggs and a slice
of the new cakebread; and she sat enjoying this at the small table. After
supper, the boys had to be washed and cleaned. They started undressing
here and undressing there; serge breeches and jackets flew over the
floor; and one after the other they were taken in hand by mother, beside
a kettle of water, where they were rubbed and rinsed with foaming
soap-suds. Then each was given a clean shirt; and away to bed with them!
They jumped and, with their shirt-tails waving behind them, skipped about
and smacked one another until father came along and stopped their game.
Mother had still her floor to scrub; and Horieneke read out evening
prayers while the boys knelt beside their bed.
Now all grew still. Father smoked a pipe and took a stroll in the
moonlight through the orchard, where he had always something to look
after or to do. Indoors the broom went steadily over the floor; whole
kettlefuls of water were poured out and swept away and rubbed dry. Then
the stove was lit; and, while mother blacked the shoes, father made the
coffee. They mumbled a bit together--about to-morrow’s doings, about the
children, the work, the hard times and their troublesome landlord, the
farmer of the woodside--when there came a noise from the little bedroom
and the door creaked softly. Horieneke suddenly appeared in the middle of
the floor in her little nightgown; and, before father and mother had got
over their surprise, the child was on her knees, asking:
“Forgive me, father and mother, for all the wrong that I have done you in
my life; and I promise you now to be always good and obedient....”
Mother was furious at first; and then, at the sight of the kneeling
figure and the sound of the tearful little voice, her anger fell and she
felt like crying. Father hated all that sentimental rubbish:
“Come, you baggage, quick to bed!... Forgive you? What for?... Nonsense,
nonsense!”
The child kept on weeping:
“Father, please, it’s my first communion to-morrow and we must first
receive forgiveness: Sister at school said so....”