He did not know that such perfection was humbug. He was satisfied when the characters in such novels did what was required of them by the author. The villains were always betraying somebody; the heroes killed everything that got in their way; and the beautiful virgins charmed everybody. Even G.o.d, the G.o.d of romance, did his duty much better than--but that's another detail.

Yesterday on the Zeedyk a big boy had beaten a little fellow. That ought to happen in a book. How all the knights would have come running! Walter, too, was going to--but how could he help it if his employer called him back? "What in the devil have you got to do with that? Your work is here in the store. You attend to your own business now, and don't mix yourself in other people's brawls. That's the main thing!"

As a rule of conduct, this was not just what Walter was used to in his novels.

Despite such interruptions he continued his reading. He was almost ready to begin on the last section of books, when he came to the store one morning and found everything locked up and under seal.

The worthy Mr. Motto, it seems, had gone to America, as a sailor; and doubtless that was the "main thing." The unfortunate owner of the two snuff-vases had a big law suit over them. The point was whether they were a part of the a.s.sets, or not.

On the Zeedyk at Amsterdam such processes must be tried according to Roman law; but as the Romans did not use snuff there is nothing said about "Rappee" in the Roman laws. The writer doesn't know how the matter finally turned out. It is to be hoped that everybody got what was coming to him.

Juffrouw Pieterse, however, did not recover her hundred florins; and, as usual, she groaned: "There's always trouble with this boy."

Walter couldn't help her. He had his own troubles: he had been cruelly interrupted in his reading. Of course the mysterious parentage of the young robber was perfectly clear to him; but still one likes to see whether one has guessed correctly, or not.

CHAPTER XXIII

"Do you think stivers grow on my back?" asked the mother the next day. "You still don't earn a doit! Do you have to buy tobacco for old soldiers?"

Walter had nothing to say. Recently his mother had given him a shilling to give to Holsma's maid. Walter neglected to do this, and spent one stiver of the money on snuff for an old soldier.

The mother continued her tirade, making use of the word "prodigue,"

prodigal.

"No, mother," said Stoffel, "that isn't it. He's behind in everything. He doesn't know yet how to handle money, that's it!"

"Yes. He doesn't know how to handle money! All the other children at his age--when they have a stiver they either save it or buy themselves something. And he--what does he do? He goes and gives it away! Boy, boy, will you never learn any sense?"

Walter was cut to the quick by the accusation of wastefulness and prodigality. In his eyes a prodigal was somebody, a man! "Prodigue, prodigue," he murmured. He knew the word.

In one of the bedrooms hung a series of crude, highly colored pictures ill.u.s.trating the story of the prodigal son. The pictures were French; and a study of the t.i.tles convinced the family that "prodigue" could mean nothing but prodigal in the worst sense, i. e., "lost." Stoffel had maintained this proposition against one of his colleagues, till that one drew a lexicon on him.

After much argument it was decided to compromise on the "mistake"

in the French Bible by allowing "prodigue" to have sometimes the meaning of "extravagant." Those pictures had afforded Walter much food for thought.

First picture: The "lost" or prodigal son tells his father good-bye. The old gentleman wears a purple coat. Very pretty--but the prodigal himself! A mantle floated about his shoulders--it seemed to be windy in the colonnade. It was princely; and his turkish trousers were of pure gold. At his side was a bent sabre, and on his head a turban, with a stone in it--certainly onyx, or sardonox, or a pearl, or a precious stone--or whatever it might be!

The old gentleman seemed to be out of humor; but no wonder--all those loaded camels, and the slaves, and all the accessories for that long, long journey! A negro, as black as pitch, was holding a horse by the rein. Another negro was holding the stirrup, and seemed to say: "Off to the Devil; prodigal, get on!"

What boy wouldn't have been a prodigal son? The bent sabre alone was worth the sin.

Second picture: Hm--hm. Wicked, wicked! Why, certainly; but not for Walter, who in his innocence attached no importance to the extravagant dresses of the "Juffrouwen." It was sufficient that all were eating and drinking bountifully, and that they were in good spirits and enjoying themselves. How prettily one of the girls, in glossy silk, was leaning over the shoulder of the "lost" one! How much nicer to be lost than found!--anyway, that was the impression the feast made on Walter. The true purpose of the picture--to deter people from a life of dissoluteness--escaped Walter entirely. Perhaps he knew what it meant; but in his heart he felt that it meant something else. What attracted him most was not the food and drink, under which the table "groaned,"

nor the sinful sensuality painted on the faces of the ladies. It was the freedom and unconventionality of the company that charmed him. In order to emphasize the idea of prodigality, the painter had allowed some big dogs to upset an open cask of wine.

The wine was streaming, and straying away as if it were the lost sinner. This pleased Walter immensely. None of the guests seemed to notice such a small trifle, not even the waiters. This ought to have happened just once in the Pieterse home--and even if it were only a stein of beer!

The artist says to himself, Do you suppose I didn't foresee the seductive influence of such a picture? The next one makes it all right!

Well, maybe so.

Third picture: Magnificent. How romantic this wilderness! Oh, to sit there on that boulder and stare into the immeasurable depths of the universe--alone!

To think, think, think!

No schoolmaster, no mother, brother, or anyone to say what he must do with his heart, with his time, with his elbows, or with his breeches! That's the way Walter saw it. The young man there didn't even have on breeches; and he looked as if he wouldn't have been ashamed to stretch himself out on his back, with his arms over his head, and watch with wide-open eyes the pa.s.sing of the moon and stars. Walter asked himself what he would think of when he had founded such an empire of solitude.

Hm! Femke could sit on the boulder with him. Prodigal son--oh, sin divine with her! He was surprised that in the whole Bible there was only one prodigal son. Of all sins this seemed to him the most seductive.

And the desert was so--endurable. There were trees in it, which one could climb, when one really got lost, or use to build a nice little cabin--for Femke, of course.

The prodigal in the picture didn't seem to have thought of all that. Why wasn't the Juffrouw in green silk with him? She will come soon, Walter said to himself. Perhaps she's not quite through with her prodigality. If she would only hurry up and come! He longs for her. But that is the only annoyance that a genuine prodigal takes with him from the profane world into that capital wilderness.

It must be remarked in pa.s.sing, however, that the hogs with which that picture was equipped looked ugly. The pious artist had made them shield-bearers of sin, and had supplied their physiognomies with all kinds of horrible features. And, too, the trough looked dirty.

If it happens to me, said Walter, I'll take sheep with me; and Femke can card the wool.

The artist ought to admit that even this third picture is inadequate to inspire a proper disgust for prodigality.

And the fourth one? No better.

The old gentleman is excessively friendly. We are again in the colonnade, where the camels have just waited so patiently. One of the slaves clasps his hands and looks toward heaven--because he's glad, of course, that little Walter has come back.

He? The real Walter? Returned home, and friendly received in his high rank of a "has-been" and "recovered" prodigal? Oh, no!

And that fatted calf! In direct opposition to the custom that was familiar to Walter! It worried the boy. Juffrouw Pieterse never slaughtered anything. She ran a weekly account with Keesje's father; and even a roast was a rarity.

There was no prospect of a fatted calf, whether he became a prodigal or not. But that didn't keep the rank of a prodigal from being higher than that of a stupid boy who didn't know how to handle money.

He was encouraged to think that he was indebted to his friendly enemy, Juffrouw Laps, for something. She always cited the Bible, and spoke continually of feeding swine. Walter wanted to answer: "That's very nice, Juffrouw Laps, but can't it be sheep this time?"

He knew very well that she had never had any pa.s.sion for carding, and consequently was not interested in that blue m.u.f.fler, which would be so becoming to Femke's favorite sheep.

But she a.s.sured him that he was a prodigal; and that was enough.

"That's what I've always said!" replied Juffrouw Pieterse. "What does he do but squander his mother's money? If that man wants snuff, let him buy it. The king pays him. I have to work too hard for my money. Don't I, Stoffel?"

"Yes, mother; but it's only childishness in Walter!"

"Childishness! That's what I call it."

"No it isn't!" cried the pious Laps. "He's on the straight road to the trough of Luke 15. He will eat husks! Do you think the Master doesn't carry out his parables? Just send him to me. The pastors are to blame for it. They don't explain the Bible. Send him to me."

"If I only knew how he gets such things into his head!"