by Multatuli
All this is the honest truth, reader! Do you realize that the young German fellow next to pillar 17 at the Exchange has run off with Busselinck & Waterman’s daughter? Come to think of it, our Marie will be thirteen next September . . .
. . . that I had the honor of hearing from Mr. Saffeler—Saffeler travels for Stern—that the estimable director of the company, Mr. Ludwig Stern, has a son, Mr. Ernest Stern, who is seeking a spell of employment in a Dutch establishment for the purpose of broadening his commercial knowledge. That I, mindful of this . . .
Here I repeated the stuff about immorality, and told him about the elopement of Busselinck & Waterman’s daughter. Not to pour scorn, oh no, far be it from me to stoop to defamation! Still . . . no harm in him being aware, it seems to me.
. . . that for this reason I would like nothing better than to have Mr. Ernest Stern take charge of our company’s German correspondence.
Out of delicacy, I refrained from alluding to any kind of fee or salary. But I did add:
That, should it suit Mr. Ernest Stern, he is welcome to stay at our house3—No 37 Lauriergracht. My wife has declared herself willing to care for him as a mother, and to see to the mending of his linen.
This is the honest truth, because Marie is a sweet darner and mender. And finally:
That in my house we serve the Lord.
That’ll make him sit up and take notice, because the Sterns are Lutheran. And I sent that letter. Obviously, old Stern can’t very well switch to Busselinck & Waterman while his boy is employed in our office. I am very curious as to his reply.
Now, to return to my book. I was walking down Kalverstraat the other evening when I stopped to look in the shop of a grocer who was busy sorting a batch of java, middling quality, a good yellow, Cheribon type, slightly broken, with sweepings. My interest was immediately aroused, for I’m always on the alert. Suddenly I became aware of a man standing in front of the bookshop next door. He looked familiar, and seemed to recognize me, too, because our eyes kept meeting. I have to say I was too engrossed in the sweepings to notice his clothing, which, as I discovered later, was rather shabby. Otherwise I’d have left it at that. But it flashed across my mind that he might be a traveler for a German company who was casting around for a dependable broker. There was certainly something German about him, something of the traveler, too. His hair was very fair, he had blue eyes, and his bearing and dress betrayed a certain foreignness. Instead of a proper overcoat he wore a shawl of some sort over his shoulder, as if he’d just returned from a trip abroad. Thinking he might be a client, I gave him my card: BURDEN & CO, COFFEE BROKERS, NO 37 LAURIERGRACHT. He held it up to the gas lamp, and said: “Thank you very much, but I seem to have made a mistake. I thought I had the pleasure of seeing an old schoolmate of mine, but . . . Burden? That wasn’t his name.”
“I beg your pardon,” I said—I’m always polite—“I am Mr. Drystubble, Batavus Drystubble. Burden & Co is the name of the company, coffee brokers on Lauriergracht.”
“Well then, Drystubble, don’t you remember me? Take another look.”
The longer I looked the more familiar he seemed. Strangely, though, his face made me think of exotic fragrances. Don’t laugh, reader, for all will be revealed soon enough. I’m sure he hadn’t a drop of perfume on him, yet I could smell something pleasant, something strong, something that reminded me of . . . ah, that was it!
“Is it you?” I exclaimed. “You’re the one who rescued me from the Greek, aren’t you?”
“Certainly,” he said. “That’s me. And how are you?”
I told him there were thirteen of us at the office, and that business was brisk. Then I asked him how he was, which I soon regretted, because it turned out he was suffering financial difficulties, and I have no liking for the poor. More often than not it’s their own fault: our Lord wouldn’t forsake a man who’s been a faithful servant. Had I simply said, “There are thirteen of us, and . . . I wish you a good evening!” that would have been the end of it. But with all the questions and answers it became more and more difficult—Frits says increasingly difficult, but not I—more and more difficult, then, to get rid of him. On the other hand I must admit that if I’d sent him packing you wouldn’t now be reading this book, as it resulted from that encounter. I prefer to look on the bright side, and people who don’t are malcontents, and I have no time for them.
Yes, of course, he was the boy who rescued me from the Greek! No, I hadn’t been captured by pirates, nor had I got into trouble in the Levant. I’ve already mentioned that my wife and I went to The Hague when we got married, and that we saw the Mauritshuis there, and bought some flannel in Veenestraat. That’s the only outing my work has ever permitted, business is that brisk. It was actually in Amsterdam that he gave the Greek a bloody nose—for my sake. He was always interfering in other people’s affairs.
It was in ’33 or ’34, I believe, and in September, the month of the fair. As my parents had high hopes for me as a clergyman, I was learning Latin. I often asked myself why you needed to know Latin to say “God is good” in Dutch. But enough of that. As I said, I was a pupil at the Latin school—they call it a grammar school nowadays—and there was a fair at Westermarkt . . . in Amsterdam I mean. The square was filled with stalls, and if you’re an Amsterdammer, reader, and roughly my age, you’ll remember one stall that stood out from the rest thanks to the dark eyes and long braids of a girl in a Greek costume. Her father was Greek, too—he looked Greek, anyway. They sold scents and toiletries.
I was just of an age to notice the girl’s beauty, without, however, having the nerve to address her. Not that it would have done me any good, because girls of eighteen take a boy of sixteen for a child. And right they are, too. Nevertheless, the boys in our class made for the Westermarkt every night just to see that girl.
It was on one of those evenings that the fellow standing before me now with his shawl over his shoulder joined our group, despite being a few years younger and therefore too childish to take an interest in the Greek girl. But he was at the top of our class. He was brainy, I must admit, and liked rough games, horseplay, and fighting. That was why he’d joined us. There we were—about ten of us—eyeing the Greek girl from some distance and discussing ways of getting to know her, when we finally decided to club together to buy something at the stall. However, we couldn’t agree on which one of us should speak to the girl. All of us wanted to, but nobody dared. We drew lots, and the lot fell on me. Well, I must admit I’m not much of a risk taker. I am a husband and father, and as far as I’m concerned anyone who courts danger is a fool, whatever the Bible says. Indeed, I’m pleased to see that my views on danger and the like have remained constant, because I feel exactly the same about such things as I did that evening at the fair, standing there clutching the twelve coins we’d collected between us. But in my misguided shame I didn’t dare say that I didn’t dare. Besides, I had no choice, as my friends pushed me forward until I was right in front of the stall.
I didn’t see the girl: I saw nothing! All went green and yellow before my eyes, and I stammered the Aoristus Primus of some verb or other.
“Plaît-il?” she said.
I recovered myself somewhat, and continued:
“Meenin aeide thea, and . . . Egypt was a gift from the Nile.”
I don’t doubt I’d have made friends with her if one of my boisterous companions hadn’t given me such a violent shove that I flew headlong into the waist-high display at the front of the stall. I felt a hand grab my neck . . . and another lower down . . . I hovered briefly in midair . . . and before I knew it I was inside the stall with the Greek, who said, in passable French, that I was a gamin and that he’d call the police. Now I was close to the girl, but in no position to enjoy it. I wept in terror and begged for mercy, all to no avail. The Greek gripped me by the arm and kicked me. I looked around for my friends—only that morning we’d learned all about Scaevola, who thrust his hand in the fire and whose bravery we’d all praised in our Latin compositions—oh y
es! But not one of them had stayed around to thrust his hand in the fire on my account.
Or so I thought, when lo, all of a sudden my Shawlman burst into the stall from the rear. He was neither tall nor strong, and only about thirteen, but he was agile and plucky. I can still see the glint in his eyes—which were otherwise dull—as he dealt the Greek a blow with his fist, and I was saved. Later I was given to understand that he’d received a sound beating from the Greek, but as it’s a firm principle of mine to mind my own business I ran off straightaway, and didn’t get to see it.
So much, then, for the reason why his features reminded me so strongly of perfume, and of how you can come to blows with a Greek in Amsterdam. From then on, whenever that man turned up at the fair with his stall, I gave him a wide berth.
As I’m very partial to philosophical reflection, reader, allow me to comment on the wondrous way the affairs of this world hang together. Had that girl’s eyes been less dark, had her braids not been quite so long, or had I not been shoved into that stall at the fair, you wouldn’t be reading this book. So you can be grateful things went as they did. Believe me, all’s well with the world just as it is, and those malcontents who never stop complaining are no friends of mine. Take Busselinck & Waterman, for instance . . . but I must move on, because I want my book to be finished before the spring auction.
To put it bluntly—for I love the truth—my reacquaintance with that schoolfellow was no pleasure to me. I could tell at a glance that he wasn’t reliable. He was very pale, and when I asked him what time it was, he couldn’t tell me. It’s details like these that you can’t help noticing if you’ve spent twenty years on the Exchange and gained such a wealth of experience. I’ve seen more than a few firms collapse!
I had the impression he would be turning right, so I said I was turning left. But there you are, he turned left as well, making it impossible to avoid a conversation. I kept thinking about him not knowing the time, and then I noticed that he had his jacket buttoned up to the chin—a very bad sign—so I made sure to maintain a noncommittal tone. He told me that he’d been in the Indies, that he was married, and that he had children. Which was all very well, but I couldn’t see what it had to do with me. As we came to Kapelsteeg—an alley I would otherwise never go down, as it’s unseemly for a respectable man to do so—I decided that today I’d make an exception. I waited until we were almost past the alley so as to be quite sure that his direction was straight ahead, before saying, very politely—I’m always polite, as you never know when someone might come in handy:
“It was a great pleasure to see you again, Mister . . . er . . . er! And . . . and . . . and . . . my compliments to you. I have to turn down here.”
He gave me a very strange look, and sighed. Then he suddenly grabbed hold of a button on my coat . . .
“My dear Drystubble,” he said, “there’s something I’d like to ask you.”
I shuddered. The man didn’t know the time, and now he wanted to ask me something! Naturally, I said I was in a hurry to get to the Exchange, even though it was evening. But when you’ve been going to the Exchange for some twenty-odd years . . . and someone wants to ask you something, a man who doesn’t know the time . . .
I freed my button from his grasp, saluted most politely—I’m always polite—and turned into the alley, which I never do otherwise because it’s not respectable, and I prize respectability above all else. I hope nobody saw me.
THIRD CHAPTER
ON MY RETURN from the Exchange the following day, Frits said someone had called to see me. From his description I gathered it was the man with the shawl. How he had found me? Well, my business card, of course. This made me consider removing the children from school, because it’s simply too tiresome being pursued thirty or forty years on by a schoolmate who wears a shawl instead of a coat and doesn’t know the time of day. And while I was about it, I forbade Frits from going to the Westermarkt when it’s filled with stalls.
The next day I received a letter with a large parcel. I will show you the letter:
Dear Drystubble!
I think he’d have done better to say: Dear sir. After all, I am a broker.
I called yesterday to ask a favor. I believe you are in comfortable circumstances . . .
True enough: there are thirteen of us at the office.
. . . and I wished to solicit your assistance in bringing about something of great importance to me.
Why, anyone would think he wanted to place an order at the spring auction, or something of that nature.
For sundry reasons I am currently somewhat short of funds.
Somewhat? He had no shirt on his back. And he calls that somewhat short!
I am unable to provide my dear wife with all that is required to make life agreeable, and also the education of my children is not as I would wish, for pecuniary reasons.
Make life agreeable? Education of the children? Do you suppose he was thinking of renting a box at the opera for his wife, and sending his children to school in Geneva? It was autumn, and rather cold . . . well, it turned out he was living in a garret without a hearth. I wasn’t aware of that when I received his letter, but I went to see him later, and even now the ridiculous tone of his missive grates on my ears. Hang it all, if a man is poor let him come out and say so! There have to be poor people, society requires it, and it’s the will of God. So long as he doesn’t ask for handouts or go around pestering people I have not the slightest objection to his being poor. It’s the highfalutin style that is uncalled for. Listen on:
Since it is my duty to provide for the needs of my family, I have decided to take recourse to a talent which has, I believe, been bestowed on me. I am a poet . . .
Pooh! You know, reader, how I—and all right-thinking people—feel about them.
. . . and a writer. Since early childhood I have expressed my emotions in verse, and as I grew older I began to keep a journal of what went on in my soul. It is my belief that among all these writings there are some of more than personal value, and I aim to publish them. And that is where the difficulty lies. The public does not know me, and publishers are more inclined to judge a work by the reputation of its author than by the contents.
Just as we judge coffee by the name of the brand. Oh yes we do! How else?
Assuming that my work is not entirely without merit, therefore, such merit would transpire only after publication, and publishers demand advance payment for printing expenses and so forth . . .
As well they might.
. . . an impossibility under my present circumstances. However, convinced as I am that the proceeds of my work would cover the costs—I would confidently pledge my word on that—I have come to the conclusion, encouraged by our meeting the day before yesterday . . .
He calls that encouragement!
. . . that I should appeal to you to guarantee payment to a publisher for the cost of a first edition, for which even a slender volume would suffice. I leave the choice of this first specimen entirely up to you. In the accompanying parcel you will find many manuscripts, which will show you how much I have thought, worked, and witnessed . . .
I never heard of him being in business.
. . . and if I do not entirely lack the gift of eloquence, no paucity of material will stand in the way of my success.
In anticipation of a favorable reply, I sign myself your old school friend . . .
And his name was written underneath. But I won’t reveal it, because I am not one, and never have been one, to besmirch a man’s reputation.
Dear reader, you’ll understand how astonished I was to find myself suddenly raised to the status of a broker in verse. I’m pretty sure Shawlman—I might as well continue to call him thus—wouldn’t have thought of addressing such a request to me had he seen me by day. Respectability and standing are impossible to disguise. But it was evening, so I was prepared to excuse the oversight.
Needless to say, I wanted nothing to do with his harebrained scheme. I’d have told Frits to return the
parcel, but I didn’t have an address, and I heard nothing more from him. I thought he was ill, or dead, or whatever.
Last week we had another gathering at the home of the Rosemeyers, who are in sugar. Frits came along with us for the first time. He’s sixteen years old, and I’m in favor of youngsters of that age going out into the world. Otherwise he’ll only hang around on the Westermarkt and suchlike. The girls played the piano and sang songs, and during dessert they began to tease one another about something that had happened in the front room while we were having a game of whist in the back. Something to do with Frits, apparently. “Yes you were, Louise,” Betsy Rosemeyer exclaimed. “You were crying! Papa, Frits made Louise cry.”
At that my wife declared that this was the last time she would allow Frits to join us. She thought he had pinched Louise or misbehaved in some other way, and just as I was about to give him an earful Louise said:
“No, no! Frits was very nice! I wish he’d do it again!”
Do what again? It turned out he hadn’t pinched her at all, but recited something.
A lady of the house is, naturally, in favor of some diversion during dessert. It fills a void—the diversion, I mean. So it occurred to Mrs. Rosemeyer—the Rosemeyers insist on formality of address, because they’re in sugar and have shares in a ship—that what had moved Louise to tears might keep the rest of us entertained as well, and she asked for an encore from Frits, whose face had turned turkey red. I couldn’t think what he had regaled them with, as his repertoire was quite familiar to me: The Wedding of the Gods, The Books of the Old Testament in Verse, and a passage from Camacho’s Wedding, a favorite among boys because there’s a reference to a privy seat. What there could be in any of this to cry about was beyond me. But it’s true, girls are quick to burst into tears.