Walter Pieterse Part 34

"He made them Lutherans, mother; but that's almost the same thing. One mustn't be narrow-minded."

"That's what I say, Stoffel, people ought not to be so narrow-minded. What difference does it make what a person's religion is, just so he's upright, and not a Roman Catholic!"

When Walter told Father Jansen that he "was in business," and that he was "going back to business," he spoke better than he himself knew. He did go back to business.

Through a leather-dealer, who, speaking commercially, was in close touch with shoes that came from Paris, Walter got a position with a firm whose "responsibility" was somewhat less apocryphal than that of Messrs. Motto, Business & Co. He was to begin his new apprentices.h.i.+p in the offices of Messrs. Ouwetyd & Kopperlith, a firm of world-wide reputation.

However, before he was to enter upon his new duties, all sorts of things were destined to happen, with the tendency to make Walter appear as a "hero of romance," which he wasn't at all.

CHAPTER XXV

It was Thursday. Stoffel came home with the important news that the king--I don't know what king--had arrived in the city unexpectedly and would visit the theatre that evening. Everything and everybody was in a commotion; for in republican countries much importance is given to pomp and t.i.tle.

This time curiosity was more wrought up than usual. Many foreign princes, including an emperor, were visiting the king; and these distinguished personages would follow the court to Amsterdam, coming from The Hague, Utrecht and Haarlem. To put it tamely, it was to be a great occasion.

That republican populace was to get to see the countenance and coat-tails not only of their tyrant, but also the countenances and coat-tails of many other tyrants, not to mention female tyrants.

The old doughnut women on the "Dam," which the city rented to them as a market-place, were threatening to bring suit against the city. They felt that it was hard to have to pay rent for the fresh air, day after day, with the prospect of selling a few doughnuts to the youth of the street, and now be run out because his majesty wanted to exhibit himself to the people from the balcony of the old City Hall.

Why shouldn't the old women be seen at their accustomed places? Must the doughnut industry be carried on secretly? Was it for fear of imitations and unprincely compet.i.tion? Or was it to keep the old women from seeing the king?

At any rate, the whole kit of them had to leave. At most, they could only mix with the crowd incognito, and afterwards might join in the prearranged "Long live the King!" or somebody else, as the case might be.

It is really remarkable that princes die. Seemingly the "vivats"

are of no avail.

The crowd was especially large, on account of the many majesties and highnesses who had gathered about the tyrant.

Among the number was the Prince of Caramania, who had especial claims upon the sympathy of the people, so all the newspapers said. One of his ancestors had been a captain in the service of the state and had, therefore, spilt his blood for the freedom of the Netherlands.

This blood, and perhaps the freedom as well, was newspaper arabesque. It was certain, however, that the prince wore a green coat with gold frogs; and upon his head he had a big plume. It was, therefore, quite proper for the crowd to cry occasionally "Long live the Prince of Caramania!"

Among the eminent gentlemen was a certain duke, who, by reason of his virtues, had got himself banished from his country. The man was thrifty and economical, though without neglecting himself. Nevertheless, the rabble had dethroned him and sent him across the border with a bushel of diamonds. Of these diamonds he was now to display a few dozen in the shape of coat-b.u.t.tons and the like. The newspapers gave the crowd their cue accordingly. They were to cry: "Long live the Duke with his diamonds!"

Princess Erika was the niece of the king, and was to marry the crown-prince of a great empire, which was indebted to the Netherlands for its prominence. The newspapers gave the a.s.surance that this empire would pay off the national debt of the Netherlands if the people would only put enough enthusiasm into a "Long live Princess Erika!"

The old Countess-palatine of Aetolia was descended directly from a certain knight who treated his hostlers like princes. In this case it was not inappropriate for a republican populace to ask for a prolongation of her ladys.h.i.+p's life. The cry was: "Long live the Countess-palatine of Aetolia!"

The Grand-duke of Ysland was the handsome grandson of a shopman. His merits would fill three columns of fine print. The man was a master of the type-case himself, and by exerting himself could even set up his own name. The newspapers said that having safely pa.s.sed an ocean of pitfalls, he had now perfected himself as the brother-in-law of a demi-G.o.d. Therefore, whoever had the interest of his country at heart could not afford to fail to bellow at the top of his voice: "Long live the Grand-duke of Ysland!"

There were still more potentates and ladies of quality who had honored Amsterdam with a visit. They had heard that the city was la Venise du Nord, that it was tres interessant, tres interessant! etc.

And the Holland herrings! Delicieux! Unfortunately the Netherlanders didn't know how to cook them; they must be baked.

And the Holland school of painting! Rambrann--magnifique!

There were still other good things in Holland, as their highnesses testified with patronizing kindness.

"Il parait qu'un certain Wondele a ecrit des choses, des choses--mais des choses--pa.s.sablement bien!"

And the dikes! And the Katwyk sluice--gigantesque!

Whatever spare time they might have after making cheese and cooking herrings, the Holland people liked to devote to fighting the elements. After skating and racing this was the favorite recreation of the nation.

I can a.s.sure the reader that the aristocratic party took their departure thoroughly satisfied with our country. The only person who received quite a different impression--but I will not antic.i.p.ate the feelings of our hero. Even a writer has his duties.

The first evening everything was to be illuminated. Two hundred and fifty thousand candles were to proclaim the enthusiasm of the people. Two hundred and fifty thousand fiery tongues were to cry: "Hosanna! Blessed be he who comes in the name of----" In whose name? Hosanna for whom? For what?

Well, that was a matter of indifference to the people. They knew that there was something doing, that there was a crowd, and that was enough. People are somewhat like children, who amuse themselves immensely in the confusion of a "moving," of a death, or of anything that causes commotion and excitement.

Walter had got permission to see the illumination. Unconsciously he a.s.sumed that stupid expression which is obligatory on such occasions. He listened to the conversation of those about him.

"That's what I call illuminating! Nine candles for such a big house!"

"Twelve!" cried another.

"No, nine."

"Twelve!"

"Nine!"

"Three--three--three--and three. Look there are twelve, or I can't count."

"No, the three above don't count. That story is rented. I know it."

"Well--if you mean it that way. I only said that four times three are twelve. What do you say, Hannes?"

Hannes found the calculation correct.

"How long will the candles burn?"

"Till about one o'clock, I suppose."

"I don't believe it!"

"Well, I do!"

"But I don't!----"

"Have you been in the Sukkelgracht?"

"Oh, it isn't pretty there."