180
Chapter XXIII
How one may become a "prodigal" by studying the story of the
Prodigal Son 194
Chapter XXIV
Why Walter did not see Femke—The worldliness of a servant of the church—The secret of Father Jansen's deafness in his left ear 201
Chapter XXV
Kings and doughnuts—How the masses soar and fall—Walter's cowardice and remorse of conscience—A good remedy for the blues 211
Chapter XXVI
Our hero retires thinking of Princess Erika, to be aroused by robbers and murderers, who are in collusion with Juffrouw Laps 225
Chapter XXVII
Walter alone with a pious lady, or Juffrouw Laps on the war-path 240
Chapter XXVIII
A midnight kiss—A wonderful statue in the "Juniper Berry"—
Republicans and True Dutch hearts—A sailor with—Femke? 245
Chapter XXIX
Sunrise on the "Dam"—An exciting encounter with a water-nymph—A letter from heaven—America, a haven for prodigal sons 260
Chapter XXX
A message from Femke, which Walter fails to understand—Dr. Holsma to the rescue—Femke and family portraits—Femke, and once more Femke 270
Chapter XXXI
Stoffel's view of the matter—Juffrouw Laps's distress, and
Juffrouw Pieterse's elation—Elephants and butterflies, and
Kaatje's conception of heredity 279
Chapter XXXII
A theatrical performance under difficulties—The contest between Napoleon and King Minos of Crete—A Goddess on Mt. Olympus—Kisses and rosebuds 286
Chapter XXXIII
Conclusion 298
WALTER PIETERSE
CHAPTER I
I don't know the year; but, since the reader will be interested to know the time when this story begins, I will give him a few facts to serve as landmarks.
My mother complained that provisions were dear, and fuel as well. So it must have been before the discovery of Political Economy. Our servant-girl married the barber's assistant, who had only one leg. "Such a saving of shoe-leather," the good little soul argued. But from this fact one might infer that the science of Political Economy had already been discovered.
At all events, it was a long time ago. Amsterdam had no sidewalks, import duties were still levied, in some civilized countries there were still gallows, and people didn't die every day of nervousness. Yes, it was a long time ago.
The Hartenstraat! I have never comprehended why this street should be called thus. Perhaps it is an error, and one ought to write Hertenstraat, or something else. I have never found more "heartiness" there than elsewhere; besides, "harts" were not particularly plentiful, although the place could boast of a poulterer and dealer in venison.
I haven't been there for a long time, and I only remember that the Straat connects two main canal-streets, canals that I would fill up if I had the power to make Amsterdam one of the most beautiful cities of Europe.
My predilection for Amsterdam, our metropolis, does not make me blind to her faults. Among these I would mention first her complete inability to serve as the scene of things romantic. One finds here no masked Dominos on the street, the common people are everywhere open to inspection, no Ghetto, no Templebar, no Chinese quarter, no mysterious courtyard. Whoever commits murder is hanged; and the girls are called "Mietje" and "Jansje"—everything prose.
It requires courage to begin a story in a place ending with "dam." There it is difficult to have "Emeranties" and "Héloises"; but even these would be of little use, since all of these belles have already been profaned.
How do the French authors manage, though, to dress up their "Margots" and "Marions" as ideals and protect their "Henris" and "Ernestes" from the trite and trivial? These last remind one of M'sieu Henri or M'sieu Erneste just about like our castle embankments remind one of filthy water.
Goethe was a courageous man: Gretchen, Klärchen——
But I, in the Hartenstraat!
However, I am not writing a romance; and even if I should write one, I don't see why I shouldn't publish it as a true story. For it is a true story, the story of one who in his youth was in love with a sawmill and had to endure this torture for a long time.
For love is torture, even if it is only love for a sawmill.
It will be seen that the story is going to be quite simple, in fact too frail to stand alone. So here and there I am going to plait something in with the thread of the narrative, just as the Chinaman does with his pigtail when it is too thin. He has no Eau de Lob or oil from Macassar—but I admit that I have never found at Macassar any berries which yielded the required oil.
To begin, in the Hartenstraat was a book-shop and circulating library. A small boy with a city complexion stood on the step and seemed to be unable to open the door. It was evident that he was trying to do something that was beyond his strength.
He stretched out his hand towards the door knob repeatedly, but every time he interrupted this motion either by stopping to pull unnecessarily at a big square-cut collar that rested on his shoulders like a yoke, or by uselessly lifting his hand to screen an ingenuous cough.
He was apparently lost in the contemplation of the pictures that covered the panes of glass in the door, turning them into a model chart of inconceivable animals, four-cornered trees and impossible soldiers. He was glancing continually to one side, like a criminal who fears that he is going to be caught in the act. It was manifest that he had something in view which must be concealed from passers-by, and from posterity, for that matter. His left hand was thrust under the skirts of his little coat, clutching convulsively at something concealed in his trousers pocket. To look at him one would have thought that Walter contemplated a burglary, or something of the kind.
For
