Juffrouw Pieterse was climbing the ladder of respectability. Moving out of a side street into one of the princ.i.p.al avenues, giving the children French names, calling in a doctor whose coachman wears furs--that is what lifts us up.

CHAPTER XVIII

Walter's illness now took a favorable turn. As soon as he was strong enough to leave his bed, the whole family noticed that he had grown. All remarked about it and called each other's attention to it. No one was better convinced of the fact than Juffrouw Pieterse; for "that boy" had "outgrown all of his clothes," and it would not be easy "to fit him out respectably again." So much interesting notoriety and respectability had been reaped from Walter's illness that it was only natural that his convalescence should be turned to the best account.

The child would sit and fill in the colors in pictures. The doctor had presented him the pictures and a box of colors. The latter, so Stoffel said, were the genuine English article.

Oh, such pictures!

Walter was interested especially by pictures from the opera and the tragedy. There were pictures from Macbeth, Oth.e.l.lo, Lear, Hamlet, from "The Magic Flute," "The Barber of Seville," "Der Freischutz,"

and from still a few more--each one always more romantic than the last. In selecting suitable colors for his heroes and heroines, Walter had the advice of the entire family, including Leentje. Usually there was disagreement, but that only made the matter more important. In only two details were they agreed: faces and hands were to have flesh-color, and lips were to be painted red. It had always been that way; otherwise, why was it called flesh-color? On account of this arrangement Hamlet came off rather badly, receiving a much more animated countenance than was suited to his melancholy.

"I wish I knew what the dolls mean," said Walter. He was talking about his pictures.

"It's only necessary to ask Stoffel," his mother replied. "Wait till he comes from school."

Walter asked him. Stoffel--there are more such people in the world--would never admit that he did not know a thing; and he always knew how to appear knowing.

"What the dolls mean? Well, you see--those are, so to say, the pictures of various persons. There, for instance, the one with a crown on his head--that is a king."

"I told you Stoffel could explain them," corroborated his mother.

"Yes, but I should have liked to know what king, and what he did."

"Well! There it is at the bottom. You can read it, can't you?"

"Macbeth?"

"Certainly. It's Macbeth, a famous king of ancient times."

"And that one there with a sword in his hand?"

"Also a king, or a general, or a hero, or something of the kind--somebody that wants to fight. Perhaps David, or Saul, or Alexander the Great. That's not to be taken so exactly."

"And the lady with the flowers? She seems to be tearing them up."

"That one? Show her to me: Ophelia. Yes, that's Ophelia. Don't you know?"

"Yes. Why does she throw the leaves on the ground?"

"Why? why? The questions you do ask!"

Here the mother came to the rescue of her eldest son.

"Yes, Walter, you mustn't ask more questions than anybody can answer."

Walter did not ask any more questions, but he determined to get to the bottom of the matter at the first opportunity. His imagination roamed over immeasurable domains--such an insatiate conqueror was the little emperor Walter in his night-jacket!

He a.s.sociated the heroes of his pictures with the doctor, who had been so friendly to him, and with his immortal Glorioso. The Peruvian story, too, furnished a few subjects for his empire. He married Telasco to Juliet; and the priests of the sun got their rights again. Master Pennewip received a new wig, but of gold-colored threads, on the model of the straw crown of a certain King Lear. Persons that he could see from the window were numbered among his subjects. He had to do something; and this foreign material was preferable to that in his immediate surroundings. Even Lady Macbeth, who was washing her hands and not looking particularly pleasing, seemed to him to be of a higher order than his mother or Juffrouw Laps.

In fact, for him those pictures were the greatest things in the world. He was carried away with the crowns, diadems, plumes, iron gratings over the faces, with the swords and the daggers with cross-hilts to swear on--with the trains and puff-sleeves and girdles with pendents of gold--and the pages. All this had nothing in common with his everyday surroundings. How is it possible, he thought, that anyone who has such beautiful pictures should sell them? The doctor must have inherited them!

Even if he had known that Lady Macbeth was the personification of crime, it would still have seemed to him a profanation to bring her into contact with the plebeian commonness around him.

All at once something in Ophelia's form reminded him of Femke. She too could stand that way, plucking the petals from the flowers and strewing them on the ground.

He had dim recollections of what had happened, and occasionally he would ask indifferently about "that girl." He was afraid to speak her name before Gertrude, Mina, and Pietro. He was always answered in tones that showed him that there was no room for his romance there; but he promised himself to visit her as soon as he got up.

"When you're better you must go to see the doctor and thank him for curing you--but thank G.o.d first; and then you can show him what you've painted."

"Of course, mother! I will give her the Prince of Denmark--I mean him, the doctor."

"But be careful not to soil it; and don't forget that the ghost of the old knight must be very pale. Stoffel said so--because it's a ghost, you see."

"Yes, mother, I'll make it white."

"Good. And you'll make the lady there yellow?" pointing with a knitting-needle to Ophelia.

"No, no," cried Walter quickly, "she was blue!"

"She was? Who was?"

"I only mean that I have so much yellow already, and I wanted to make her--this one--Ophelia--I wanted to make her blue. That one washing her hands can stay yellow."

"So far as I'm concerned," the mother said, "but don't soil it!"

Stoffel, in the meantime, had got on the track of those pictures. He was slick and had an inquiring mind. One of his colleagues at school, who was in some way connected with the stage, told him that such costume-pictures were of great value to players. He also told him other things about these pictures and about the play in general.

It was fortunate for Walter that Stoffel brought this knowledge home with him. Even to-day there are people who find something immoral in the words "Theatre" and "Player"; but at that time it was still worse. The satisfaction, however, of imparting knowledge and appearing wise put Stoffel in an att.i.tude of mind on this occasion that ordinarily would have been irreconcilable with that narrowness which with him took the place of conscience.

"You see, mother, there are comedies and comedies. Some are sad, some funny. Some are all nonsense, and there's nothing to be learned from them; but there are comedies so sad that the people wail when they see them--even respectable people!"

"Is it possible!"

"Yes, and then there are others where there's music and singing. They are nice, and moral too. They are called operas; and people who are entirely respectable go there. You see, mother, there's nothing bad about it; and we ought not to be so narrow. The old Greeks had comedies, and our professors still study them."

"Is it possible!"

"Walter's pictures are from real comedies; but I can't tell all the details now. I will only say there are good comedies."

"You must tell Juffrouw Laps. She always says----"

"And what does she know about it? She never saw a comedy in her life."