Part 4 (2/2)

”It's all the same to me,” Juffrouw Pieterse continued, ”whether the Juffrouw downstairs comes or not. I don't care a fig about it.--Four, five--Louw can sit there, but he must keep his legs still--and a chair there--yes--so! It's a good thing she's not coming; it would have been too crowded. Leentje, go to work--do blow your nose! No, run over to Juffrouw Laps's and ask the Juffrouw if the Juffrouw could spare a few stools--without backs, you understand; because the chairs there by the chimney--yes, ask the Juffrouw for a few stools, and tell the Juffrouw that they are for me, and that I expect the Juffrouws about seven. Give my compliments to the Juffrouw and wipe your nose.”

Juffrouw Pieterse didn't like to use personal p.r.o.nouns; it was impolite.

On this afternoon Walter went to his bridge early. It was now not so useless as usual, for the rain of the day before had filled the ditch with water, which was even running, so that the straws which Walter thoughtlessly, or full of thought--both are about the same thing--threw into the water were carried down to the pond, where the logs lay that were to be sawed up by the ”Eagle” and the ”Early Hour.” These were the names of the sawmills that for some weeks had been the witnesses of Walter's daydreams.

Glorioso was gone, and could not be replaced; but on those afternoons when he was free Walter returned involuntarily to the spot where he had had his first glimpse of the world of romance. How rough and crude the colors in that first picture! Perhaps it was the very roughness of the colors that attracted him and changed him, till he could not conceive how he had ever found enjoyment in the little cakes on the corner.

A peculiar prospective had opened up before him. He dreamed of things that he could not name; but they made him bitterly dissatisfied with his present condition. He was anxious to do everything prescribed to get to Heaven; but he thought it would be much easier to pray in such a cave with wax candles. And as for honoring his mother, a point upon which she always laid great stress--why didn't she have a train like the countess? Certainly he ought not to have sold the Bible; and he wouldn't do it any more--he had vowed it; but then he ought to have had a box filled with florins, and a feather in his cap, just as it was in the book.

He was disgusted with his brother Stoffel, and his sisters, and Juffrouw Laps, and the preacher and everything. He couldn't understand why the whole family didn't go to Italy and form a respectable robber-band. But Pennewip and Keesje shouldn't go; that was certain.

He wondered what had become of his verses. Every Wednesday such pupils as had been well-behaved, and, for that reason, deemed worthy to contest for the ”laurel,” handed in a poem written on some subject suggested by the teacher. This time the subject a.s.signed to Walter was ”Goodness,” which probably had some reference to his former behavior, and was a hint for the improvement of his moral character. But Walter had already put goodness into rhyme so often, and found the subject so dry and tedious and worn-out that he had taken the liberty of ”singing”

something else. He selected the theme nearest his heart--robbers!

Like all authors he was greatly infatuated with his work. He was convinced that the teacher, too, would see the excellencies of his poem and forgive him for deviating from the path of goodness. The verses would undoubtedly be sent to the mayor, and he would pa.s.s them on to the Pope, who would then summon Walter and appoint him ”Court-robber.”

And thus he dreamed and threw his straws into the stream. They moved away slowly and disappeared between the moss-covered timbers. Involuntarily his fancy had trans.m.u.ted them into the characters of his world of romance. There went the countess with her long train, which got caught in the moss and held the countess fast. The virtuous Amalia met with no better luck; she got tangled up in the water lentils. And now came Walter himself. He approached Amalia, in her green robes, and was just about to rescue her, when he was swallowed by a duck. This was most unkind of the duck, for it was Walter's last stalk of gra.s.s; and now in the rattling and buzzing of the sawmills below he could hear Amalia repeating in a reproachful voice:

”Warre, warre, warre, we; Where is warre, warre, wall-- Walter, who will rescue me?”

This annoyed him, and he could not resist the temptation to throw a rock at the duck whose greediness had caused Amalia to doubt his chivalry.

The duck chose the better part, and retired after she had done Walter all the damage she could. But the sawmills paid no attention to these happenings and continued to rattle away.

Walter heard now in the noisy clatter of the mills all kinds of songs and stories, and, listening to these, he soon forgot Amalia and the Pope. That the reader may not get a wrong impression of these mills, I hasten to say that there was really nothing extraordinary about them. They buzzed and rattled just like other sawmills.

It often happens that we think we perceive something which comes from the external world, when in fact it is only a subjective product in ourselves. Similarly, we may think we have just imagined something, when really it came to us from the world of the senses.

This is a kind of ventriloquism that often gives cause for annoyance and enmity.

I wonder which turns the faster?--Walter listened to the mills. Now--I think--no, begin together. Good! No, the Eagle was ahead! Once more--now!

Which will get there first? No, that won't do. Once more together. Look sharp, Morning Hour,--out again! I can't hold my eye on it--what a whirling and buzzing!

You are tired, are you? I believe it.

If I might only sit on such a big wing, wouldn't I hold on tight? And wouldn't the sawyer look?

Why are you called ”Morning Hour”? Have you gold in your mouth? And ”Eagle”! Can you fly? Take me with you. What a big play-ground up there, and no school!

I wonder how the first school began. Which came first, the school, or the teacher? But the first teacher must have attended a school. And the first school must have had a teacher.

So the first school must have just started itself. But that is impossible. ”Eagle,” can you turn yourself?--with the wind? Can you turn yourself some other way? Try it. Beat ”Morning Hour.” Quick, quick--beautiful!

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