The House In Haarlem

THE HOUSE IN HAARLEM

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Arthur van Schendel

THE

HOUSE IN HAARLEM

vm ( $? Dutch by

TEL S. STEPHENS

London

GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS, LTD.
Broadway House: 68-74 Garter Lane, E.G.

EEN HOLLANDSCH DRAMA

First published in Holland , 1936

THE HOUSE IN HAARLEM

First published in England 9 1940

Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and London

CHAPTER ONE

A MAN SAT IN THE DIM PARLOUR ADDING UP FIGURES
by the light of an oil lamp, but the wick began to
burn low, and his eyes were weak. He noticed that
it had grown cold, and through the chink of the
blind he could see light snow-flakes on the window-
pane. He stood up to look for a candle. When
he opened the cupboard'add was feeling on the top
shelf, a small book fell from it. He placed the
candle dose beside his accounts. It was a little old
book. When he was a boy he had seen his father
using just such a one, writing down every evening
with his quill-pen what he had received and spent,
just as he himself now did every evening. He
opened it and read what was written on the inside
of the cover: “ 19 January 1835.” That was the
year of his birth. And beneath that, in faded ink,
but still legible, the words: “ A child when it is
bom is as white.as snow, but he who looks carefully
will see on the snow a red stain ; that is sin.”

He seemed to hear his father saying it. From
his earliest years he had heard him speak of snow
and blood; it used to keep him awake at night,

6

and he would hide his head under the blankets so
that he shouldn’t see the dreadful faces. Once,
when he was ten years old, he had committed the
sin of theft—it was only an apple that hung over the
fence; he came home with the feeling that there
was blood clinging to him, and his father looked at
him as though he could see it, and in the days that
followed he had to hear such terrible things that he
would have liked to cry. But he had never been
able to cry. ‘ That boy doesn’t know what tears
are,’ his father would say sometimes ; ‘ that will be
his downfall, a hard heart that cannot weep over
sin.’ But even then he had thought to himself:
God knows better how much it hurts. Throughout
their youth they had all had sin and retribution
drummed into them ; the others did not take so
much notice as he did ; he, too, was certainly the
only one who had realised that their father himself
was terribly tortured. Why? That was a-riddle
whose answer he would never know. The waters
of the Spaarne even would not be able to say whether
he had jumped or fallen in. Ever since he had
begun to think he had always believed that an
upright man should bear his heritage with patience,
take care not to fall into sin knowingly and wilfully,
and pray for forgiveness for those misdeeds he none¬
theless committed. He thought that his father had
believed this too, but he couldn’t understand why
it was then that he was so persecuted by fear. And

7

what did it signify that he should have written this
in an account-book on the day that his child was
bom ? He must have sat at this same table, in the
eyening after the shop was shut. He had sat there
thinking about the fate of the new-born child, and
the first thing he saw was sin, red as blood. But
why write it down ?

And why should the book with those words in it,
after all these years, fall at the feet of him, his son ?
There is a purpose in everything, he thought, even
in the fact that his father’s voice still admonished
him long after it had been silenced for ever. He
knew his duty and carried it out conscientiously,
but his thoughts were full of sin, and when he
pondered over this he could not understand it.
What mind was capable of fathoming the hidden
depths of man ? We long for good and yet we are
full of wickedness.

Here was a case in point. Why must his first
thought always be of harm ? His brothers were
long since grown-up men who could look after them¬
selves and no longer needed their elder brother’s
care. He looked at the clock, which was slowly
striking eleven. Diderik was not usually so late
coming home, but he was a boy who kept to the
right path. As for the other, he had reason to fear
he might get into bad company; not that there
was much harm in him, but he didn’t think he had
much sense. To his mind the boy was too fond of

8

sitting in coffee-houses and going for walks with
queer fellows of no particular calling ; he looked
as heedless as a child, as though he never thought
of anything serious. And though there was no
need to think he would get into trouble, he realised
that he would have to keep a watchful eye on him
for the time being. He himself was the eldest and
the strongest, he must be the guardian of the family.

Then he lifted his head and listened. The bell
kept tinkling at Thijs’s, his next-door neighbour ;
Thijs served his customers till past eleven o’clock.
But he heard another sound too. It seemed quite
near, as though two voices were whispering loudly.
He looked through the glass of the door ; it was
dark in the shop, the flame of the candle was reflected
in the pane. Then he heard smothered laughter.
He stood up, he pulled the blind on one side, but
the snowflakes prevented him from seeing anything
through the window. Now he could hear it more
distinctly, the voice of a woman, with a note of
mockery in it. It was in the yard. He opened the
door leading to the passage, took the candle and
went into the kitchen. The whispering and giggling
sounded more distinct. He unbolted the door and
stepped outside ; in the light of the candle he could
see two wet branches of the apple-tree, and when
he held the light farther forward he could see
the trunk too, but nothing else. Now the voices
seemed to be receding. * Is anyone there ? ’ he

9

called out. There was silence ; the flame of the
candle was burning low, damped by the flakes that
fell on it. He knew he was nervous and apt to
imagine things, but at this moment he had a feeling
that there was someone in the yard, or behind the
shed. c Who’s there ? ’ he called again. Then he
decided it must have been a cat.

He bolted the door again, returned to the parlour
and went on with his accounts.

Every evening he sat like this, alone, after he had
shut the shop. His brother, Diderik, went out then.
Frans would have gone out earlier; as long as he
could remember, Frans had never waited until they
had shut, and invariably, when he was asked why
he was so impatient, he would be embarrassed and
answer, with his eyes turned away, that he felt he
must get out into the air ; even as a little boy he
had been the same. In the past both Gerbrand
and Diderik, when they saw him in the street, had
often followed him to spy out what he did, but all
they had ever seen was that he walked alone,
quietly, without turning his head, and before the
clock in the Tower struck nine, winter and summer,
he was always to be found somewhere in the neigh¬
bourhood of the Market Square. There he would
walk up and down, usually behind the Church,
sometimes standing still as though he was gazing
at something in the distance. Then, after an hour
or so, he would come home. He had always done

10

this, and he still did it, and all the neighbours,
without exception, thought he was a little simple.
But in the shop he did his work as well as anyone,
and Gerbrand never had to find fault with him
either for his weighing or his calculating. Whereas
Diderik, whom everyone considered to be much
quicker-witted, often made mistakes and was not
so conscientious about his work. Gerbrand believed
that their mother had been right when she said that
he and Frans were the most scrupulous about their
duties ; Diderik was rather indifferent, and the black
sheep was Kasper, who had left home years ago
now. The heedlessness couldn’t come from her, for
only the three youngest were her children. The
tendency to wander might well derive from the
Werendonks. There were still old people in the
street who shook their heads and said : ‘ That fellow
Werendonk! ’ More than that Gerbrand had
never heard, but he had understood well enough
that this was a reference to the thoughtlessness
which he and the other children had never known
about.

Frequently, while he was at his figures, he laid
his pen down, looked at the clock and thought of
the old days. How many times had it happened
that he had heard them talking in the room over¬
head, his father and his stepmother ; all at once her
voice would be raised so that he could hear what
she was saying : ‘ Oh, don’t do it! ’ And then he

II

would hear her crying. She had always been
easily upset, she frequently had red eyes and her
handkerchief in her hand, and doubtless the good
creature had a weight on her mind, for she often
sighed, and her voice was plaintive as though she
were always unhappy. Now that she was no more,
he thought of her most often as she used to be sitting
when he came home from school, on the other side
of the table, with her needlework on her lap ; her
head was dark against the window with the fuchsia
growing round it, she held her handkerchief to her
eyes. The children took no notice of her tears, but,
at a later period, when the others were out and he
was at home alone with his elder sister, he in the
shop and she at the back, he often felt the oppression
of her melancholy in the house. Then it seemed
to him that the shop and the back-parlour were
dark ; he had the feeling that something was weigh¬
ing down the roof, a burden from years that were
past.

No doubt his father had felt this, and felt it even
more acutely than he did. He had often said :
c Life is full of anxieties, our forefathers have laid a
heavy burden upon us . 5 And you could see that
he had something worse in his mind. He spoke
little, his voice had a discontented sound, he was
perpetually admonishing and finding fault; at
other times he was silent and looked straight in
front of him, at the floor or at the ceiling. He ate

12

slowly as though his thoughts were elsewhere, but
sometimes he heard what one of the children was
saying, and he was ready at once with a rebuke or a
slap. Particularly himself, Gerbrand, he picked
out for his homilies on sin ; on the slightest provo¬
cation he would say : ‘ Look out, mind what you’re
doing; sin is at the door, you’ll come to a bad
end.’ During the last two years of his life, after
their mother’s death, everyone could see that he
had something on his mind. In the evening, when
the lamp was lighted, he would sit for hours, after
he had laid aside the newspaper, gazing in front of
him, until suddenly he would stroke his head
impatiently, stand up and shift something on the
side table, or on the mantelpiece. Then he would
drive the younger ones up to bed, and would follow
them himself. Later he developed the habit of
going out as soon as the shop was shut, without his
supper, without even checking the money in the
till. No one had ever seen him go in anywhere or
walking with anyone, and there was no doubt that
the neighbours were right about that. He just
wandered about the town. Then he would have to
sit up late to do his accounts. One evening, when
he had not returned by twelve o’clock, the boys
knocked up Thijs, and some of their friends went
to look for him in the town ; the coffee-houses were
shut. Gerbrand went and walked along by the
Spaame, because he had at once thought of an

13

accident. It was a fruitless task, for the Spaame
was broad, and by the faint light of the street lamps
it was hardly possible to distinguish the outlines of
the barges. But it turned out he was right; two
days later they pulled him out and brought him
home; he had an expression on his face that he
had never had during his life, as though at last he
had found deliverance. Everyone thought it was
an accident, but Gerbrand could not help thinking
of something else. Their faithful Jansje, too, had
nodded her head and said : ‘ Yes, it must have
been an accident,’ as though she didn’t believe it.
But of the children none of the others had ever had
a doubt; indeed, the three youngest had no con¬
ception of such disasters. Why it should have been
anything else than an accident caused by the dark¬
ness it was impossible to say, for, as far as was
known, his father had had no reason for making
away with himself. He owned three houses besides
the shop ; moreover, he had a trifle invested, and
his business was in a satisfactory state. When he
had succeeded to the shop the receipts had not
been a sixth of what they were when he passed it
on. He never had to worry about money. And
yet Gerbrand was convinced that there had been
something that consumed him, but that had
remained a secret, and no one save God alone knew
anything about it. O Lord, he prayed in his
heart, have mercy on him.

14

He heard the key in the door ; that was Diderik
coming in, and it was gone half-past eleven. The
accounts were not finished. The lamp was out, but
the candle was burning with a long flame. Diderik
came in with heavy footsteps. ‘ You ought to
have a fire/ he said, ‘ there’s a sharp frost/

* Peat costs money/ answered the elder brother,
without looking up. £ It’s late and Frans isn’t
home yet.’

* Good-night/ said the one. c Good-night/
replied the other.

Gerbrand turned his attention to one of his books,
but he grew restless. It annoyed him that Diderik
should be so indifferent as to what his youngest
brother did. He was a good lad, and could be
relied on, but it seemed as though he remained
unmoved by the fate of his nearest blood relations ;
as upright as a tree, but unfeeling in other people’s
troubles, as though in no way concerned about their
mistakes and errors. He remained calm in all cir¬
cumstances. He was the one who most resembled
their father in appearance, sturdy and broad-
shouldered, with the same hard lines round his tight
lips. Like his father, too, he was taciturn. But in
temperament he was very different; he was uniformly
good-tempered, and always ready to do as he was
asked. And, apart from that indifference of his, he
was undoubtedly the best of them all. Why hadn’t
he said a word now as to why he had been so late.

15

The Toekens went to bed early, so there must have
been some special reason for his staying so long at
his sweetheart’s.

The clock in the Tower began to strike, slowly
and with a muffled sound, not so loudly as usual,
probably because the wind had veered to the east.
Cold weather was to be expected so near December.
The last strokes were barely audible. Then Frans’s
voice could be heard outside, he was no doubt stand¬
ing at the foot of the steps talking to the night-
watchman. His eyes rested on the words in the book
that had fallen out of the cupboard ; he closed it.
There was a faint tinkle of the bell; he went and
opened the door.

Frans stood there, snow-flakes glistening on his
cap and on his shoulders, and behind him beneath
the lamp the night-watchman, his hat quite white.
‘ Congratulations on the birth of your nephew,
Werendonk,’ said the latter in a low tone, so as not
to disturb the neighbours. And Frans said softly,
but delightedly : ‘ The baby’s born, a boy, and
he’s to be called Floris.’

After Gerbrand had thanked the watchman and
wished him good-night, he closed the door. In the
middle of the room he turned round and asked :
* Is that why you’re so late ? ’

‘ Yes, brother. It was just half-past nine when
I got there, and I had to go off immediately to fetch
the doctor, and when I got back I felt I must stay

i6

until the baby was bom. I’m glad it’s over; I
was nervous, I don’t know why. Yes, brother,
everything’s all right, I assure you, and tomorrow
we’ll have hundreds and thousands on our bread
and butter. I must go round early to see the baby.’

‘ This is a blessing sent by the Lord,’ said Ger-
brand, ‘ not only for Agnete and her husband, but
for all of us. We must remember that. But go to
bed now, it’s much too late for you.’

Frans looked at the table. ‘ Did you find that
little book ? ’ he asked. ‘ It was up in the attic,
and I brought it down and put it on the shelf there.
The date of your birth is written in it, just as it is
in the Bible, but without your name.’

His elder brother pointed to the stairs, so he went
up. Gerbrand kept his eye on the door, listening
for the creak of the stairs. The boy was turned
four and twenty, but he was still submissive and
obedient, and that was only as it should be", for he
was still very childish. He was only given two
quarters a week for pocket-money, although he was
entitled to his full share, and when Gerbrand gave
him the money on Saturdays, he first emptied his
purse of all he had over and put that in his money¬
box. For a year past he had always had some¬
thing over ; before that he used sometimes to spend
something on sweets for his sister, but now she was
married there was no one to buy anything for,
except Stien and the daily woman. But latterly,

Gerbrand had noticed that he sometimes had
nothing left by the middle of the week, and when
he was asked about this, it would turn out that he
had been tp a cafe with some lads from the cotton-
mill. That must be watched, for today it might be
milk, but tomorrow it would be brandy. But still,
he couldn’t be going about much with these lads,
for whenever anyone met him in the street he was
always alone, and in the evening after half-past
eight it was well known that he never went any¬
where except to the Market Square or somewhere
in its vicinity. What the boy went there for nobody
could ever make out. He chatted with the verger,
and also with the town bell-ringer and the man who
chimed the Damiaatjes ; he knew all about the
bells. He had no other hobby. Diderik offered
to take him with him to the skittle-alley sometimes,
but he always declined. Only a month or two ago
his brother-in-law had invited him to go to the
circus in Amsterdam, but he had pulled a long face
as though the idea disgusted him. He wouldn’t
venture anywhere outside Haarlem. That was
because he was timid, and afraid of anything he
didn’t know. If a customer who had never been
in the shop before came in, he always left it to one
of the others to serve him. Without doubt he was
a lad who not only needed watching, but also needed
the support of someone stronger. And Gerbrand
was there to take care of him.

i8

He sprinkled sand on the ink, blew it off, and
gathered up his accounts. Before he went upstairs
he drew the blind on one side and stood for a moment
in front of the dark window looking out.

When he came down at daybreak, the daily
woman was on her knees in front of the stove. She
merely turned her head and said : ‘ Good morning,
Werendonk, the baby’s arrived, thank God. I only
wish Stien hadn’t heard that noise in the yard just
last night. There’s no need to be afraid of anything
if your trust is in the Lord, but to hear old women
cackling in the yard, when there can’t be any old
women there, that’s not good. You never can
tell what lies hidden in the future. And whatever
way you look at it, it’s not nice to be thinking of
eerie things just when a child’s beginning its life.’

He told her not to talk rubbish, and took down
his cap and his coat from the peg. From the shop
he could hear her talking to Frans, who had come
down, and beginning to tell him about the strange
sounds the maid-servant had heard in the yard.
He went out in the dim morning light; he saw at
once that he would have to walk carefully for the
uneven cobble-stones were slippery ; it was freezing
and along the front steps there was a white line.
It must be colder than he himself felt it to be. Just
in front of him there was a milkman who had pulled
the flaps of his cap over his ears, and at the end of
Little Houtstraat a man was standing beating his

19

arms on his chest. The window-panes were frosted
over, and on the Gracht the trees were stiff with
the first frost. In the Market Square, still deserted
at this hour, it was easier to see how heavily laden
the sky was, lowering dark over the snow-covered
roofs : one could feel the oppression of it.

His sister lived in one of the houses of the gentry
in Kruisstraat. His brothers seemed to be proud
of the fact that she had married into a higher class,
but Gerbrand considered the distinction negligible
between earning one’s bread behind a counter and
at an office desk, and actually he didn’t like the
idea that Agnete, the daughter of a humble shop¬
keeper, should be addressed as Mrs. Berkenrode.
But that was the custom. If you lived in Great
Houtstraat you expected to be called “ Mr.” ; if
you lived in Gierstraat, you made no pretensions
to a title before your surname ; yet you might both
sell tobacco, the only difference being in the amount
of money in the till. And this branch of the Berken-
rodes had always held their heads very high,
particularly when plenty of money was flowing into
their coffers.

The wide front-door, with its scrolls and gleaming
paint, stood open, the maid had just taken in the
bread from the baker. ‘ Yes , 5 she said, * all is well,
Werendonk, the nurse says that the mistress has had
a good night. The master isn’t up yet, I’m to give
the key to the cashier.’

20

‘ Very good,’ he said, ‘ then I’ll leave a message.
Will you ask my brother-in-law to send his boy to
let me know what time I have to be at the town hall
for the registration ? 5

He made his way back, he ate his breakfast and
began his day’s work. Before the voices of the
school-children could be heard on the street, the
snow was falling more thickly, in tiny flakes that
whirled slowly, and within an hour the tiles on the
roof were thinly coated with white. When the
maid-servant had laid the table for the morning
coffee, Gerbrand said he would go now, otherwise
he would be too late for the registration. In Kruis-
straat he was shown into the dining-room ; he
could hear the sound of visitors making merry in
the drawing-room. Behind the stove stood four
bottles of wine. His grand brother-in-law had big
ideas. At last Berkenrode came into the room,
boisterous and bustling as usual, saying that he had
urgent business. After receiving the congratula¬
tions and thanking for them, he asked Werendonk
to come back in the afternoon, as he had unexpected
guests.

* Aren’t you going to register the child at once
then ? ’

c Oh, that’s all over,’ he said airily. ‘ Two of my
friends were the witnesses.’

‘ But that’s not right. As head of the family, I
should have been a witness, and Diderik. You

21

ought not to have done that, and pass us over.
Your friends are only strangers, and if it came to
it, it would be among us that your child would find
his friends . 5

His brother-in-law excused himself, saying he
hadn’t wanted to take Gerbrand from his work,
and that it had been easier to do as he had
done.

‘ It was deliberate , 5 answered the other, without
hiding his annoyance. It was not the first time that
he had been treated inconsiderately. ‘ Berken-
rode , 5 he said, giving him his hand, ‘ we won’t
quarrel about it, that wouldn’t be becoming on this
joyful occasion, and for the child’s sake, too, we
mustn’t do it. When your visitors have gone I’ll
come back, and I hope you won’t forget me at the
christening.’

In the passage he heard the baby’s voice; he
stood still and looked up the staircase. Then he
said goodbye to his brother-in-law, turning back on
the threshold to say : c May the Lord bless your
child.’

The pavement was white now. In the Market
Square he could hear the shouts of the children as
they came out of school, exuberant but muffled;
they were romping with one another, their satchels
on their backs, and the snowballs were flying in all
directions, so that women had to guard their heads,
and the drayman’s horse took fright. High up

22

above the bells in the Tower began to chime. He
stood still for a moment to watch the gambols of
the children in the snow. And he couldn t help
of the words his father had written in
that little book.

CHAPTER TWO

The behaviour of his brother-in-law might
have aroused his distrust sooner, if Werendonk had
not been conscious of the fact that he was suspicious
by nature, and therefore always tried to suppress
his dark doubts. There had already been rumours
about Berkenrode, talk of crooked dealings, but he
had attributed them to envy and slander, for dis¬
honesty about money was so remote from himself
that it was the last thing he would suspect in anyone
else. But before the year came to an end he began
to feel uneasy.

Shortly after his marriage Berkenrode had asked
him for the loan of a sum of money, promising to
return it on a specified day in December, and
Werendonk had had to insist on this condition,
since only a part of the sum belonged to himself,
the other part he held in trust for his two brothers
and his eldest sister. It was an amount that a
business house as well known as Berkenrode’s could
easily guarantee. When, on the appointed day,
Werendonk called and asked for the money, it was
perfectly clear to him that his brother-in-law was

24

dissembling when he said that it .had completely
escaped his memory. And when, after a week, he
had still not received it, he asked himself why such
a sum was not being paid. With this thought sus¬
picion took possession of his mind and increased
rapidly for, in a short time, his brother-in-law was
going from bad to worse.

Early in the New Year his sister Agnete came and
said she wanted to speak to him alone in the back-
parlour. She asked for money, saying that her
husband had so many bills to meet that he was not
able to give her enough. ‘ So long as he is paying
everyone his due,’ said Gerbrand, ‘ that’s all right,
I hope he’ll continue to do so.’ The very same day
he heard from Diderik that his sister had been com¬
plaining that her husband had to go to Amsterdam
every day, she thought he must have worries, though
he said nothing about them. ‘ And why does he
have to go to Amsterdam every day ? ; asked
Gerbrand.

Suspicion soon crystallised. His neighbour, Wou-
ters, came up to him in the street and said : * It’s
a very sad thing for your sister, and she married
such a short time. Yesterday morning they brought
your brother-in-law home from Amsterdam in a
cab, and my assistant wasn’t the only one who saw
that he couldn’t stand on his legs. The whole
town knows about his wild goings-on over there.
As his elder you ought to have a word with him.’

25

Yes, he thought to himself, I ought, if what my
neighbour gives me to understand is correct, but it
might easily be a calumny, and it’s not my business
to give my brother-in-law a talking to for over¬
stepping the bounds just once.

After that the boy came with a message asking
him to go to Kruisstraat at once. He expected
that the debt was going to be repaid, but Berken-
rode told him that he was in great trouble because
some bills of exchange, which he showed him, had
been returned unpaid ; he asked him for a sum of
money, he said it wasn’t much and should be
returned in a few days’ time.

* Look here, brother-in-law,’ he said, ‘ I don’t
understand your bills of exchange. Being the New
Year, I happen to have that amount in the house,
but I, too, have payments to make, and there won’t
be any surplus. We must help each other, but
mark you, if you give me your word, you must keep
to it and carry it out. You can have the money
till Tuesday.’

He went away and returned with the money,
because he considered it his duty to stand by a
relative in difficulties. But he feared that there
must be something wrong with a business that could
be embarrassed for the sake of a few hundreds.
On the Monday he had to go to Amsterdam to
interview wholesalers, and in the coffee-house he
saw his brother-in-law with a party of friends, drunk

26

and rowdy. On the following day when he went
to collect his money, and it was not forthcoming,
a quarrel ensued in which he reproached. Berken-
rode, not only with untrustworthiness, but with his
conduct. He left without taking leave of him, and
that evening he sat at table with puckered brows;
his two brothers looked at each other in surprise.
They did not know how dark his thoughts were in
his anxiety for his sister, nor how he was controlling
his anger, both then and in the days that followed,
for he gave no sign except his dark looks, and went
about his business, talking calmly with customers.

* Brother,’ Frans asked him once, ‘ why are you so
quiet ? You remind me of father sometimes, when
you look so black.’ He received no answer.

Then Berkenrode, in despair, was driven to ask
him for help once more. He came one evening
when Werendonk was sitting alone over his ac¬
counts ; he didn’t take his hat off, but came to the
point at once, speaking hurriedly. He couldn’t
explain what his business difficulties were, but he
must have money within the next two days, a large
sum this time, otherwise he would probably not be
able to keep his head above water; it wasn’t his
fault, circumstances were against him. Werendonk
saw the fear in his eyes. He asked how he was to
raise the money. He could borrow it, said his
brother-in-law, by mortgaging his house. Weren¬
donk stood up ; the other saw that his face was red,

27

and his eyes gleamed in the light of the lamp beside
him. ‘ Have things gone so far with you,’ he asked,
‘that you can think I should. embezzle property
which is in my charge, and add my fraud to your
fraud ? Pay your debts, the others first, for I will
not press you. Don’t squander other people’s pro¬
perty, you are robbing them by your wild ways and
drunkenness. Try to behave honourably.’

‘ You speak as though I were a thief,’ said the
other ; ‘ well then, let come what will; you are
driving me to despair, but you will rue it.’

His chest heaved, the breath puffed from his
mouth. Werendonk noticed how cold the room
was. He saw despair in the bowed head, the feet
that lagged as they neared the door, but there was
a weight on his heart that prevented him from
stretching out his hand to help. Honour bade him
withstand his inclination. It was too late to change
his mind when Berkenrode, as he reached the step
leading into the shop, said to him : ‘ A low hypo¬
crite, that’s what you are.’ The front-door was
banged so violently that the bell above it tinkled.
Werendonk went on with his work, but his cal¬
culations were continually interrupted by uneasy
thoughts about his sister and the trouble which was
threatening her.

Then his brothers came home, earlier than usual,
with a piece of news that made him clench his fist.
The Amsterdaxp. carrier and his man had been saying

28

that they frequently saw Berkenrode with a woman
of the type to be seen in dance-halls. They had
said it was disgraceful, and if Werendonk wished
they could point out to him the house where his
brother-in-law spent more time than in his own
home. ‘ Things are in a bad way, 5 he said;
‘ a heavy trial is in store for Agnete and for
us. 5

And it seemed that his brothers had heard even
more, but they hadn’t wanted to speak of it, for
they had seen how worried he was. They had
thought it better to keep quiet about it, there was
enough to be ashamed of already.

Werendonk had one more meeting with his
brother-in-law which was to remain in his memory.
It took place one morning, in the cold rain, in the
square outside the station, where he had gone to
enquire about some goods. A cab came driving up
to the entrance, and Berkenrode stepped from it
with a travelling-bag; they stood face to face.
Werendonk said : ‘ It looks as though you’re fleeing
from the consequences of your conduct.’ He saw
that his brother-in-law turned very pale, his eyes
were big with fear, his mouth was open. Suddenly
he seized his bag and, without answering, he went
into the station.

Then the disaster occurred that brought years of
sorrow in its train. Frans came rushing in just at
the time when the Damiaatjes begin to ring ; he

29

couldn’t utter a word, he seized his brother by the
arm, pulling to show him that he was to come with
him. Their sister had received news that Berken-
rode had died in a hotel in Spa. They went to
Kruisstraat, and Werendonk stood speechless look¬
ing at his sister ; his brothers sat weeping over her
sorrow, but he stared with wide-open eyes. After
a short time he said : e The future can wait, we
must think of what is to be done now.’ He decided
that his brothers should accompany him to pay
their last respects, as was fitting, and he sent a mes¬
sage to the cashier to meet him at the office. Then
the second disaster was disclosed to him. Bank¬
ruptcy proceedings had been instituted against the
firm, and the cashier said that he thought that
fraudulent dealings would be disclosed. He opened
the safe and showed that it contained nothing of
any value ; moreover, certain books had disap¬
peared, but he could make a guess at what their
clients’ losses would amount to. * We’ll see to that
in due course,’ said Werendonk, ‘ our first duty is
to his mortal remains.’

The three brothers went to Spa and followed the
hearse to the churchyard. Then Werendonk went
alone to the hotel to fetch Berkenrode’s travelling-
bag ; the proprietor accompanied him to the room
where the guest had taken his life, and handed him
a bill, amounting to a large sum, for the visit of two
people. He paid without asking for an explana-

3 <>

tion, and then he begged the proprietor to leave
him alone for a moment.

He opened the bag and found in it an empty
purse, an empty pocket-book, a few articles of
clothing, including a nightshirt covered with blood¬
stains. He looked at it, folded it up and put it on
one side. And if I had given him the money, he
asked himself, would it have prevented this from
happening ?

He shut the bag and took it with him; he left
the shirt lying there in order to spare his sister the
sight of it. When he got outside, he had the feeling
that he had left something behind which would
remain in his memory and, without knowing why,
he found himself thinking of the little child.

Throughout the long journey the brothers sat in
the railway-train in silence, looking out of the win¬
dows at the wet fields ; now and again, after looking
at Gerbrand, the youngest would sigh. The former
sat upright, motionless, his eyes fixed as though he
were looking into himself. All through the long
hours he had not uttered a word, but when the
train steamed into the station and they were stand¬
ing up, he said : ‘ Let us not forget, the son must
not suffer for the iniquities of his father, and we are
there to help him, for it is a heavy load that rests
on his shoulders.’ In silence they passed along the
dark streets on their way home, very few lights were
still burning behind the windows.

3 *

The neighbours, who had seen Werendonk go out
in the morning, watched him ; it seemed to them
that he had grown slower, gravely absorbed. The
town was still in a state of excitement over the
scandal, for many people in humble circumstances
had lost their small savings, but in that part of the
street where Werendonk’s shop was situated little
was said about it. The neighbours knew that here
the heaviest disaster was not the loss of money, but
the loss of honour which had to be borne by a man
of spotless integrity. No one in the neighbourhood
had a doubt as to how he would behave, and Weren¬
donk was looked up to with increased respect.

He went to his sister’s, and after he had told her
about their journey and the grave, he laid his hand
on her shoulder and said ; ‘ Now for a word be¬
tween you and me; it’s hard, but it has to be said.
When your husband died, the bankruptcy had not
yet be$n filed, therefore, in the eyes of the world,
he had not been dishonoured while he was alive.
But that makes no difference. He has robbed
others, widows and orphans, and he has sacrificed
more than his own honour. You will not be able
to bear it if your child is pointed at in the town
because of his father’s guilt, and you are only a weak
widow, you can do nothing about it. We, your
brothers, will take it upon us, and Petronella, too,
can help if her husband agrees. The debts shall
be paid off, no one will be able to say anything

3 *

against your child ; from now on I am his father.
It’s only right I should be, for I, too, my conscience
tells me, have guilt to expiate because I did not
stand by him to the last. You will have to leave
this house, but you’ll find all you need with us,
meagre though it may be.’

She was his stepsister, and there was twelve years
difference in their ages, and he had always had
authority over the younger ones. She said, e You
will be rewarded for taking care of the child.’

Then he went to the Court to make enquiries.
And he wrote to his own sister in Schoonhoven,
asking her to come with her husband in order that
a conference might be held and an important
decision made. She was older than he was, married
to a baker, and was weak and delicate. When they
arrived, he arranged for them all to meet one even¬
ing in the parlour; he closed the shop and gave
each one a place at the table ; he turned up the
wick of the lamp. And when all were seated he
spoke to them : ‘ I will tell you briefly how matters
stand, without digressing or making reproaches
against anyone. I can’t tell you what sin is, but
we all know, if we look into our hearts, that we are
corrupt. Therefore let us throw no stones, but
simply do what God expects of us. This is the
position : Our brother-in-law has robbed his neigh¬
bours, plundered widows and orphans. His child
ought not to suffer for his transgression, as it is

written, but the world decrees otherwise. Men will
say—Look, there goes the boy whose father brought
misfortune on us. Berkenrode has no family, there¬
fore the child belongs to us, and it is our responsi¬
bility to cleanse from him the stains of fraud and
dishonour. That is our duty. Is there anyone
who does not agree ? 5

He looked at each in turn ; all were silent. Then
he took a paper out of his pocket, unfolded it and
told them, as quiedy as though he were speaking
to a customer across the counter, that the debts left
by their brother-in-law, most of them owed to people
who were now in want, amounted to fifty thousand
guilders. He had made up his mind to lay aside
all he could save to pay off these debts, and he
asked which of them was ready to do the same.

‘ Well, brother-in-law,’ said the husband of his'
eldest sister, ‘doing your duty is going to lay a
superhuman task on your shoulders. Have you
calculated that, with the profit you make, you will
have to be paying all your life long ? And, suppos¬
ing we all contribute our share, how long is it going
to take, even then ? We are people of moderate
means, and the sum you mention is a fortune.’

* How long it will take I cannot say, nor even
whether we shall ever accomplish it, life is not in
our hands. But if I did not do it, my sister would
be the widow of a dishonoured man, of a trans¬
gressor of the law, her child would suffer the con-

34

sequences, and, though I can do but little, I cannot
permit that.’

* That’s understandable,’ said Briel again, ‘ but
have you considered another thing? Your step¬
brothers are still young men, and in the natural
course of events they would choose themselves wives
and have families. Then it will be a burden on
them if they have to contribute from their earnings
for the debts of another man.’

c I have thought of that,’ was the answer. ‘ Dide-
rik is hoping to get married within the year, and
if the burden is too much for him then, he can lay
it down. It is only if we wish to do it. We mustn’t
think of the money only ; the debt we are speaking
of is more than a question of mere guilders. Who
will join with me ? ’

He pointed to Petronella. She nodded. Her
husband said : ‘ Very well.’ The two younger
brothers nodded, and Frans jumped up from his
chair because he wanted to go out.

‘You know what you have undertaken,’ said
Werendonk. * From now on every halfpenny will
be saved, and not to enrich ourselves.’

Then they all went out and left him alone.

Under this burden, borne by his elders, the child
began his life.

CHAPTER THREE

The whole town had heard that there was
nothing to be expected for the creditors out of the
bankruptcy; it was known in the small streets, for
there it was that most of those who had lost their
money lived, elderly people. And they had heard
the story that the Werendonks were going to pay,
but no one believed that, it was easy to calculate
what' they made in their shop, and, as for their
savings, they had lost those just as much as anyone
else., But his nearest neighbours, who knew Ger-
brand Werendonk, said: ‘ Rest easy, he will do
it.’ * Maybe it was an impetuous idea on his part,’
said Wouters, the confectioner, ‘ but he’s the sort of
man to keep his word, even though it means working
all his long life for it.’

People noticed that he had grown slower, in his
movements and in his speech, that he looked at
thin gs more closely, like a short-sighted person? He
greeted people so curtly that no one began a con¬
versation with him. And anyone who came into
the shop could see that he was master there, when
he spoke it was a command.*

36

His two brothers and Agnete, all more than ten
years younger than himself, had always regarded
him as superior to themselves, and were accustomed
to do as he wished. But he had never watched them
as closely as he did now. However little Diderik
wasted when he was measuring, it was seen. If
Frans had been a bit longer than usual over his
sifting in the shed, because he had sat thi nking of
something else, his brother could say to the minute
what time he had begun. Agnete, who in the short
period of her well-to-do life had grown somewhat
careless about housekeeping, had to hear again and
again that something different was expected here.
It was not only that he was master in the house,
he was a strict master. And if one of them suggested
to him that it wasn’t after all so terrible to waste
something that couldn’t be used in any case, he
answered : ‘ One useless thing is nothing, but ten
may be useful. One single bean is negligible, but
twenty are worth a farthing, and every farthing
represents a part of our duty, I don’t need to tell
you that.’ Then he would make a quick gesture
to denote that there had been enough of talk and
that the work must continue.

He had much more accountancy to do than before,
so much that it was past midnight when he got to
bed. In the old days, often he used to stand on
the front steps looking out for a %w minutes, but
now, even before the shop was closed, he would put

37

his papers and books on the table. And when the
day’s takings had been entered, he did sums and
puzzled over the amounts of the debts, it was a
troublesome business so to arrange things that each
one received a share with due consideration of his
need. He had interviewed all the creditors and
come to an understanding with them. There were
some who had lost everything and had to live on
what the Werendonks could share out, they had the
right to be helped first. What could be saved by
thrift, added to what they used normally to put by,
was barely enough to provide these people with a
meagre weekly dole; the less needy had to wait.
All this kept him fully occupied. When he stopped
to think for a moment because he couldn’t see his
way clearly, it worried him perpetually to hear
Agnete’s sighs as she sat with her knitting at the
other side of the table. Then he would look at
her, but he said nothing. The crying of the child,,
too, in the room above disturbed him. In the
daytime he took no notice, although its voice was
heard a lot—the daily woman said she had never
known such a restless baby. But in the evenings,
when the house was quiet and he had to concentrate
on head-work, it made him impatient. Every
evening as soon as the Damiaatjes began to chime
the child started crying; it had begun to do this soon
after it was bom, and it didn’t seem to be losing
the habit. During that half-hour, therefore, he

38

merely looked through the books, a less exacting
task, and all the time, up above, he could hear the
inconsolable screaming, the gentle hush-hush of his
sister, and the sound of her feet as she walked up
and down. With the last stroke of the clock the
cries abated, and a moment later Agnete would
come down again and, with a sigh, take her place
at the table. He said nothing but immediately began
on the work that required more concentration.
They sat in silence until the clock struck ten, then
she left him alone. Later his brothers came home
and he said no more than “ good-night ” to them,
so as not to be distracted.

Very soon they grew much busier ; within a week
or two their custom had increased. All the in¬
habitants of the street and of the side-streets between
the Kampervest and the Gracht, now that they
knew how the profits were being disposed of, con¬
sidered it their duty to deal with Werendonks and
thereby to make their contribution towards helping
the needy victims. Well-to-do people who lived
farther off, too, sent word to him that he could call
for orders every morning. At first he used to send
Frans to do the errands, but very soon he realised
that he couldn’t manage without him at home, so
he employed a lad, the son of one of the creditors.
They had to lay in larger stocks. They became so
busy that they had to keep the shop open later at
nights, and, as he had his accounts to do then, he

39

arranged that his brothers should take it in turns to
stay at home. Agnete, too, had to go behind the
counter sometimes. Late customers could see
Werendonk through the glass door, sitting in the
back-parlour, his head bent under the lamp, and
they knew well what he was doing, weighed down
with anxiety, striving to repair the misdeeds of
another, not allowing himself a moment’s rest.

* That fellow Werendonk,’ they used to say, ‘ is
different from his father, he doesn’t think of himself.
But he’s too severe with his brothers, they’re kept on
too tight a rein.’

And when the increase in business persisted, so
that sometimes five or six people had to wait their
turns, his next-door neighbour advised him to take
on an assistant, .since it couldn’t but be to his
advantage to serve people more quickly. But he
thought that his brothers could easily work harder,
there was no need for them to go out in the
evenings, Sunday was quite enough for a man who
had a duty to fulfil. * No,’ said Wouters, ‘ you’re
making a mistake, it’s easy to see that your brother
Diderik has no heart in working after hours, and it’s
understandable he should want to visit his sweet¬
heart in the evenings.’

There were many more people about in that part
of the street, the shop bell could be heard every
moment, and this prosperity was regarded with
pleasure. Naturally there were shopkeepers who

40

envied him and thought it unfair that customers
should leave them in order to give Werendonk a
chance to carry out the crazy task he had taken
upon himself; they said it was pride, to pay the
debts of an unscrupulous man just because he b ad
been his sister’s husband. But, apart from those
who were the losers by Werendonk’s prosperity,
there was no one who did not speak of him with
respect. And those who saw him setting out on
Saturdays, punctually at twelve o’clock, before he
had his own dinner, walking slowly with a basket
on his arm, knew that here was a man with a stricter
conception of what was right than many another.
Then he would begin his journey through the town
to the houses of the creditors who were in the
poorest circumstances, so that they should have
money in time to do their shopping ; and in cases
of extreme poverty he would give them a bag of
flour as well, not out of charity, as he would say,
but because they had a right to it, and he could
give no more in money. And he made each one
of them write down carefully in a book the amount
he had paid off.

He was so completely absorbed by this task that
he thought of nothing else, and did not observe how
discontented his brothers were growing. When it
came to past nine o’clock and the bells of St. Bavo
were ringing, Frans grew impatient and hurried over
his work; he made mistakes in measuring, he

4i

scarcely answered when a customer addressed him.
As soon as the shop was at last shut, even though
it was after half-past ten, he would seize his cap and
go out. Once his brother had noticed it and said :
e Why don’t you stay at home ? It’s much too late
to go out.’ And Frans had answered : ‘ I know,
but I’m going all the same.’ Gerbrand didn’t
notice the tone of voice or grasp the significance of
this answer. But the other brother didn’t offer
such mild resistance as the youngest. He gave no
answers, but Gerbrand, absorbed in his work,
couldn’t see the expression on his face, and when,
arriving home after midnight, he had to give an
account of himself, he said : ‘I’ll do as I please,’
and banged the door after him. He’s old enough
to look after himself, thought Gerbrand, but he didn’t
realise that his brother had ceased to obey him.

It came as a surprise to him when he discovered
it. It was a Sunday evening in June, the lamp was
not yet lighted, and he sat at his accounts, for he
was forced by necessity to break the law of the
Sabbath rest. Diderik, who had been a long time
preparing to go out, came quietly into the room,
drew a chair up to the table and sat down. Ger¬
brand looked at him in amazement. * It’s time
we had a talk,’ he said. ‘ I’m twenty-seven and I
refuse to be treated as a child any longer. You’re
always too busy to think of anything else, but you
might as well know that we’ve made up our minds

42

to get married in the New Year. You’ll have to
engage an assistant then in any case. But it would
be just as well for you to do it at once, for if I’m
to be in the shop by half-past seven in the morning,
I’ve had enough of it by the evening. You can
count on it that from now on I shall consider
myself free at seven o’clock. And you needn’t ask
what I’m up to, that’s my affair. And take my
advice, don’t stretch the bow too far with Frans
either, one day or another you’ll have him chucking
the whole show.’

This was something new. He thought it over.

‘ That means a change in things,’ he said. £ Less
work, less to be put aside for the debts. You don’t
seem to understand that it isn’t the debts of
Berkenrode we are discharging, but of our sister and
her child. And if you do realise it and don’t want
to co-operate, that’s your own business.’—‘ Of
course I’ll co-operate,’ said Diderik, e but not
beyond my powers. Very soon I shall have my
own home, then I shall have to think of myself.’
With that he left the house.

Gerbrand took this much to heart, and thought
that it was nothing but selfishness that made Diderik
unwilling to work late in the evening. He couldn’t
believe Frans would act like that, for the boy had
agreed to give up his pocket-money and never
seemed to need anything. But he distrusted even
him now. He even suspected Agnete of discontent.

43

He watched their work more closely, he often
detected them in carelessness, and his rebukes became
sharper.

His sister was terrified by his voice sometimes.
She dared not stay upstairs with the child when there
was pressure in the shop, she was kept busy then till
the light was put out, although she was tired out
and her head ached from her disturbed nights ;
and after that she had to sit down to mending.
Once, as she stood up to go upstairs, he looked up
and said : ‘ It’s a heavy burden, I know, but you
must consider what would be the consequences if
we didn’t shoulder it. It’s not only the disgrace of
his father’s sin on the child ; it might be worse than
that. We have to keep him free from evil, so that
later he, in his turn, will not oppress the needy,
and rob, and misappropriate securities. That
would be far worse for you than a life of hard work.’

With tears in her eyes she said : ‘ Yes, may I be
preserved from that. You will never hear a com¬
plaint from me about the work. The child is not
to blame for anything.’

‘ That makes it all the harder for us. For,
nevertheless, the sins will be visited on him. Don’t
forget that when you think that too much is being
demanded of you. Go to bed now, I hope the child
will let you have some rest tonight.’

She sighed, whispered good-night and went away
resignedly. Then, although she was not disturbed

by the child, she lay sleepless, as on so many nights,
and thought of her misery. And above all her
thoughts was the figure of her brother, heavy, dark,
with steady, deep-set eyes. Just such a picture she
had seen as a child when they used to tell her about
the prophets.

After a while she had to get up again and light
the candle because the child was restless and began
to cry; she walked cautiously on her toes, so that
the boards should not creak, anxious to still the
noise, lest her brother should be wakened and re¬
minded of the child. She took it in her arms,
rocked it and adjusted its little garments, and all
the time she was thinking of her brother. They
had to work, day in day out, to repair the wrong
that had been done, she knew that well, but some¬
times she feared that all these sleepless nights were
too much for her strength. Except to go to church
on Sundays, she never went outside the house.

The youngest brother was the only one who
observed that she was growing pale and had red
eyes. One night he came in quietly and said:
‘ Let me walk up and down with the baby. Then
you can have some sleep.’ She didn’t want to let
him do it, and they disputed about it, but in whispers,
so that their brother in the adjoining room shouldn’t
hear. They often talked in hushed tones, in the
passage, or in the kitchen, without realising why it
was they spoke so quietly.

45

Frans’s voice had never been heard much in the
house, but he had grown much more retiring and
timid of being noticed. Jansje was the only person
he talked to. With the old servant, who from his
babyhood had always loved him best of all the
Werendonks, he could be talkative; he was quick
to see, too, if there was anything he could do to
help her. When she had asked him to clean the
topmost panes for her, because when she was so
high up on the ladder it made her giddy, or if he
was doing anything else that was too hard for her,
he would often burst out laughing at the things she
said. But otherwise he was quiet, not even his
footsteps could be heard.

His eldest brother had noticed that he still went
out in the evening, although at that hour there
could be nothing to see in the town. On one
occasion the clock in the Tower had struck one and
Frans was not yet home. It was quiet and warm,
the window stood open. This must come to an end,
he thought, this lounging about will lead to no
good. Frans came in and was preparing to go up¬
stairs, but his brother held up his hand and said :
‘ I want to have a word with you. What tire you
doing to stay out after midnight ? ’

* I walked by the Spaame for a bit, first on this
side and then on the other, and then beyond the
town for a little ; in this warm weather it’s so fresh
by the water and under the trees. It was after

46

half-past ten before I was able to get out, brother,
and standing all day in the shop I get such a dry
throat.’

‘ There’s nothing against your going out for half
an hour or so.’ He talked to him for more than a
quarter of an hour, pointing out to him that aimless
loafing could only lead to harmful consequences,
that it was so easy to fall into bad company—all
this in admonitory tones with references to the
Proverbs and the Book of Ecclesiastes. Frans
nodded his head all the time without lifting his eyes
from the ground. When he concluded with the
words : ‘ Don’t forget,’ Frans said : * I can’t give it
up. You and I are different, and I can’t stay indoors
all the time. You shall never have any reason to
complain of my work, but leave me my freedom to
go out in the open air.’

Gerbrand looked at him and controlled himself.

‘ I won’t speak in anger,’ he said, * you’re a puzzle
to me, but don’t let me see you getting into bad
ways.’

The following day he did not wish him good-
morning and did not speak to him except to give
him orders. Frans felt that he was being punished
and that he deserved it, his voice was heard even
less than usual, and he came timidly to take his
place at table. In the evening he said : ‘ Brother,
you’re right, I won’t stay out longer than half an
hour or so.’

47

In October, when the other brother was having
his banns called, Gerbrand decided that he would
be justified in taking on an assistant. c Look, 5 he
said to Diderik, c I have taken your advice, because
injustice to you it is impossible to do otherwise now.
And here in this book you can see what your share
was in the business and in the money that was left
to us, what we lost at the time of the bankruptcy,
and what has been done with the profits since then.
You have a right to your portion, and if I have to
give it to you now, I shall have to sell the house.
You know what all the money that can be saved is
being used for. Judge for yourself what you ought
to do. 5

Diderik, who had previously decided that he
wouldn’t be able in future to contribute to the debts,
answered : ‘ You are right, as men of honour we
have a duty, a duty, too, to Agnete and her child,
and until that is fulfilled we cannot rest. On
Saturdays I will give you as much as I can afford,
it won’t be much, for the business doesn’t belong
to me, but to my parents-in-law. And of course
you’ll put down what I give you as my share of the
payments.’

So at last his convictions were justified, and he
knew that his stepbrothers and stepsister were people
who would fulfil the promise they had given, even
though it should bind them for a lifetime.

Diderik left the house, and the assistant was given

48

his bed, beside that of the youngest brother, up in
the attic.

Then followed a winter of trouble with the child.
It cried incessantly, once even through a whole
night and day on end. The daily woman said that
it wasn’t only from teething, but there were some
children who were possessed. The maid had to get
up in the night to relieve Agnete and to soothe the
child, walking up and down with it, rocking it in
her arms, a dummy in its mouth. Their neighbour,
Sanne, advised them to lance its gums ; the child
bled and screamed all the louder. Nothing availed.
One afternoon, when some customers who were
waiting shook their heads, the screaming up above
sounded so terrible, Frans went up to the bedroom.
His sister had thrown herself on the bed, her eyes
were closed, she was pale as death, tears were rolling
down her cheeks. He lifted the child out of the
cradle, and as it was cold he held it in his arms
between his coat and his shirt. It sobbed a little
longer and then was quiet. He walked up and down
with it like this for a while, soothing it and gently
patting its little legs; then he tried to put it down
in the cradle again, for at this time of day they were
busy in the shop, but it began again and stretched
its hands out to him. He took it up once more,
tinkled the bells on its rattle, and stood in front of
the window. The child heaved a sigh and closed
its eyes. He stood there so long that the lamp was

49

lighted in the butcher’s shop. He dared not stay
away any longer; he laid it carefully down under
the coverlets, but he had scarcely closed the door
behind him when its voice was raised again, pitiful
and weak now. The crying went on, it could be
heard in the other shops. And, as the maid had
told them before supper that Mrs. Berkenrode had
decided to stay in bed, Frans ate his meal hurriedly
and went upstairs again, and once more peace was
restored. He walked up and down while the child
looked at the candle, or at his shadow on the wall,
until the Damiaatjes began to chime. He thought
it would begin to cry now, for it always did at that
sound, but he saw a ,smile on its face, and that made
him so happy that he pressed it close in his arms.
And at each chime he said e Ding-dong 5 ; he loved
the sound so much himself, and he would never be
able to go to the Market Square at nine o’clock
any more. But if the little creature could smile
at it, it was good to listen to it here too. Then
the maid came to tell him he was wanted in the
shop.

All through the winter the child was troublesome,
and its screams were continually heard, and many
a time during the day, and at night too, Frans
would go and take his sister’s place, for she was
ailing and suffered from headaches, her troubles
were too much for her. Nothing she did for the child
was of any avail, but when it heard the stairs creaking

5 °

it seemed to know already that he was coming, and
then it would be quiet. And very soon it was the
regular thing for him to nurse it in his arms for a
while every evening at nine o’clock.

When the spring came, it was he, too, \ 10 taught
Floris to stand and to walk. He tied a strap under
his arms and played at gee-gees, stamping with his
feet. And to teach him to walk alone, after one
o’clock, when he could spare a quarter of an hour, he
would carry him into the yard, where the apple-tree
was just coming into bloom. He would stand Floris
up against the trunk, while he himself would squat
on his heels in front of him with his arms spread out
and make little leaps backwards. The child crowed
with delight, and Stien and Jansje, busy at their pots
and pans, peeped through the kitchen window.
It didn’t matter if the child fell, still there would be
the sound of laughter. Frans lifted it high up to
the blossoms so that it blinked its eyes.

Even Gerbrand began to notice the child now,
it amused him to see it, when it hardly reached
as high as his knees, clinging to his trousers and
trampling over his big boots. Then he would stroke
its head and say to Agnete : * He’s growing into a
nice little fellow, don’t worry.’

But it had to be perpetually watched, it clutched at
everything it could reach in the room, the ink-pot
was pulled from the table, the floor was black, the
chairs stained. Sometimes Gerbrand raised his

5 *

voice and held up his finger. Then the child would
look at him and immediately clutch again at what
it had been forbidden to touch. Then he had to
take it by the shoulder and give it a slap. It took
no notice of his reprimands. He said that it looked
as though Floris did on purpose what he was
forbidden to do; he had told him many times
already not to climb on the chair by the side-table
and touch the statuettes, charming heirlooms, more
than eighty years old by now, or to pull the Bible
towards him ; and repeatedly he would find him
on that very chair. He said the boy was not to
be left alone in the parlour but kept in the kitchen.
Although the other uncle had to forbid him some¬
times, Gerbrand’s maimer of doing it was something
quite different. When Frans forbade something and
was disobeyed, his voice was not stern and he didn’t
become even more severe and hold up his finger.
But from Gerbrand the child learnt which were the
forbidden things. And when his hands nonetheless
stretched out towards them, Gerbrand said that was
original sin, the disobedience which leads man to
his fall.

When the child could walk, Frans took him with
him one day when he had to go out on an errand.
Floris saw the street, the blue front steps, the
round cobble stones, the milkman’s dog, the gleaming
window-panes of the shops, and, high up above, the
strip of blue sky and the sun. After this first day

52

he always wanted to go with Frans. But when
Gerbrand took him by the hand to go out, he began
to scream and flung himself on the ground. Ger¬
brand never did it again.

It was his youngest uncle who taught him his
first games, it was Frans who taught him to speak.
That very summer, one afternoon under the green
trees of the Old Gracht, the child said what for
Frans was his first word. * Ping-dong,’ he said
suddenly, just like the Damiaatjes. Frans couldn’t
help laughing softly, and he took the boy’s little
fist in his hand. Then he began to repeat other
words to him.

In the autumn Floris ran out of the shop by
himself. And after that his disobedience, too, began
to increase. Stien had to stand at the door and
clap her hands. Frans ran after him, and when he
was brought back he heard the voice of his eldest
uncle. He got into the habit of looking more at
that uncle than at the others. And Jansje remarked :
‘ You’ll have trouble with him, he looks out of his
eyes so defiandy.’—' The rod shall not be spared,’
answered Werendonk. ‘ He will learn what trans¬
gression is.’

And so it came about that, when Floris was just
three years old, Werendonk fetched from the attic a
Spanish cane, which had been used for himself, and
it was stood in the comer next to the side-board.
* I will be the castigator,’ he said to Agnete, * and I

53

shall be feared, but I will take that upon myself,
for I bear the responsibility.’

But he found in Floris a child who had a will of
his own and often had to be beaten, because the
impulse that drove him was stronger than the fear
of punishment. At first it was fear and pain that
made him scream, then pain alone, but when he
was a little older he screamed, and kicked, too, in
protest. And on the very same day he would com¬
mit the same fault. ‘ Yes,’ sighed his mother, £ he
is a troublesome child. Oh, brother, mightn’t it be
better to treat him with kindness ? ' By severity,’

was the answer, ‘ and only by severity will evil
inclinations be suppressed. Today it’s naughtiness,
tomorrow it’s the downward path.’

Before the boy was five years old he knew that
he did wrong, and that somewhere there was
injustice.

CHAPTER FOUR

Everybody in the neighbourhood knew him to
be an unmanageable child, and some said he should
be treated this way, others that way, but on one
point there was no disagreement, and that was that
all the good done by the elder Werendonk was
ruined by the younger. He seemed to be no more
than a child himself. Floris had been seen at the
Forest Gate standing up to his knees in the horse-
pond, where the horses were washed, and splashing
the passers-by with water, while Frans, who had
been sent out to find him, stood by, himself dripping
wet, and laughed. How was a child to know what
was wrong if one uncle punished him for things
that the other saw no harm in ? It was just the
same about telling the truth. When Frans brought
him home he would make something up in order
to gloss over some escapade or another, and the
boy learnt early that the commandment not to tell
a lie didn’t apply if he wanted to avoid a beating.
Before he was old enough to go to school, his
lips would curl at the corners when he told a lie.
Gerbrand mistrusted that expression on the boy’s

55

face, he suspected that he was lying, sometimes he
was certain of it and gave him a beating. What
he did not know was that for some time past the
boy had been committing petty thefts—a carrot
from a cart, a piece of liquorice from the sweet¬
shop, mere trifles, such as, he was ashamed to
remember, Gerbrand himself had once been guilty
of taking.

He had to be punished every day. He was
allowed to play in their street, but not to go beyond
it, and the neighbours 5 children would run after
him as soon as they saw him. But when they began
to play, there would be squabbling and fighting ;
the girls walked away because he pushed them, and
went to play somewhere else. At the end of a
quarter of an hour he would be standing alone. But
once he was at a distance he became an object of
interest again, and, one after another, they drew
near him, the games started afresh, until once more
he began to punch and snatch their marbles from
the weaker ones. They called him a cheat, though
there were some of them who said that he gave away
his sweets without keeping back any for himself.
But never a morning passed without some mother
complaining to Werendonk that Floris had pinched
her child or torn its clothes. Complaints came, too,
from farther away ; the order not to leave the street
was disobeyed, and Werendonk had to punish him
so often for this that he began to hold his tongue

56

about it. Not all the boys accompanied Floris, only
those who were bigger than he was and got tired
of playing with the younger ones. Then, one day,
a poor woman from the Omvalspoort came, with
tears in her eyes, saying that the boy had wilfully
smashed one of her windows ; another time an old
man from Gierstraat came, demanding compensation
for a pot of paint that had been kicked over. And
sometimes the damage that had been done cost
severed guilders. Werendonk paid the money and
inflicted just punishment, never in anger. The daily
woman and the servant-maid scolded him furiously
for causing money to be flung away through his
mischievousness ; the neighbours lost their tempers
and said he was a disgrace ; even Frans said he’d
have to keep a sharper eye on him : Werendonk
merely repeated that doubtless he would grow out
of it.

But no one in the house realised how difficult he
sometimes found it to administer these chastisements.
For the last few years Agnete’s health had been fail¬
ing, her cheeks were so hollow and transparent that
often he would send her out of the shop to go and
sit on her chair in the parlour ; occasionally she pro¬
tested, but sometimes she felt so tired she couldn’t
stand up. Once, when Floris was about eight years
old, she was sitting thus when Werendonk came into
the room leading the boy by the hand to punish
him. He laid him across his knee and the stick

57

came down with slow regular strokes. He looked
at Agnete and saw that she had not moved ; she was
sitting in the same position, her face lifted, the sun¬
light shining into her faded eyes. It filled him with
compassion to see her thus, as though she were
unmoved, whereas he knew how much it grieved
her. He sent the boy away, he sat down beside her,
saying: ‘You mustn’t think that it doesn’t grieve
me. I have adopted him as my own son, and it is
hard to see his faults growing worse instead of
improving. Sin is bom in us, never have I realised
that so well as now that I see it in a young child.
Call it what you like, fibbing or lying, it’s the begin¬
ning of sin.’ Agnete did not turn her face towards
him, she asked : ‘ How does a child come by it ?
It’s not taught to him here. How does sin get into
a person ? ’

Shrugging his shoulders and saying : ‘ Who can
tell ? ’ he stood up. He looked at her again, he saw
that she was still staring in front of her and he
realised that this immobility signified a deeper grief
than sighs and tears. ‘ You ought to go out a
bit,’ he said, 4 it would do you good to have an
airing these fine evenings.’ She only shook her
head.

At first Werendonk didn’t notice that he hesitated
when he had to inflict a punishment. First he
looked at his sister to see if she had heard anything.
Then, with the object of sparing her, he would take

58

the boy into the kitchen or to the little shed. Floris
felt that the big hand that held him had become
gentler.

One day, during this same summer, a change
came over that hand. It was Saturday. Weren-
donk was taking off his apron ready to go out to
make his payments. Looking out of the window to
where the footsteps of the children, just out of school,
could be heard racing along the cobbled street, he
at once perceived Thijs’s wife, and the child she
was holding by the arm was wearing a blue jacket.
He felt his anger rising as he wondered what the
complaint was going to be now. Letting go of the
boy on the front steps, she told Werendonk the story
of what he had done. Not only had he stolen, she
said in a loud and angry voice, but he had behaved
like a sneak. The baker’s boy had dropped his
purse in the street, and Floris had been one of those
who had gone to help pick up the money, but she
had noticed that he had picked up a ten-cent piece,
whereas he had only handed over a cent. Weren¬
donk found the ten cents in his pocket; he took
him immediately to the shed. 4 My boy,’ he said,
4 don’t you know that a thief has to go to prison ? ’
Floris gave no answer but looked straight at him
with his small grey eyes. Werendonk had not taken
the cane with him, he was going to beat him with
his hand, and as he bent down to him, he, too,
looked straight at the boy. Then, turning him

59

round and laying him across his knee, he lifted his
eyes to the little window and the blue sky. He felt
how slender and delicate was the neck beneath his
hand. His, blows were slow and careful and he
kept his eyes turned upwards. It was strange that
at this moment all he could think of was blood, of
a shirt stained with blood ; he could see it just as
though it were lying there in front of him. His
head grew hot; he left off, and spoke quietly, in
a voice in which there was no reproof, only grief:

‘ Never do that again, you don’t realise yet what
wrong-doing is, but if you did you would think it
terrible. Stolen goods leave an evil stain.’ His
head sank till it nearly touched Floris, who left off
crying, terrified at a dark look in his uncle’s eyes he
had never seen there before. He walked away until
he was standing beside the stack of flour-bags—the
eyes followed him. He lowered his own, his lips
quivered, but he could not say anything.

When Werendonk went out with his basket on his
arm, people noticed that he was deep in thought,
his face was turned up towards the white clouds, a
smile lighted it. He returned in just the same way,
looking up, his face illuminated. He sat alone at
his dinner, the others had gone back to the shop.
When Agnete came in and stood beside him to
ask him something, he said : ‘ Don’t worry about
him, I’ll see to it that the good in him wins. Tell
him that he’s forgiven and that he may go to

6o

the Forest with Steven Wouters.’ She looked in
surprise at the kind smile on his face and said :
4 Thank you.’

There were crowds of customers that Saturday
evening, but punctually at nine o’clock he sent
Agnete to her chair to rest and stayed longer in the
shop himself. When he was able to begin his even¬
ing’s work on the books, Agnete was reading the
Bible. He felt in a more cheerful mood than he
had been in for a long time. He’s only a rhilr}
still, he thought as he was spreading his accounts
out on the table. And he recalled the feeling of
the slender neck under his hand. When Frans
came to ask if he could go out now that Gerrit could
manage alone in the shop, he answered : 4 Have a
good walk, the air will be fresh by the Spaaxne.’
His sister had stayed up later than was her custom ;
she laid the Bible on the side-table and stood up to
bid him good-night. He said : 4 1 think Floris
ought to go to another school. He’s good at his
books. I’ll go and have a talk to the master at the
Jacobijnstraat School.’

4 But that is a school for young gentlemen,’ she
said.

4 And may not a Werendonk child go there ? ’
He realised at once what he had said, but Agnete
was too tired, she merely answered that he probably
knew best, and left the room.

When he was alone, he thought, it’s all because

6i

something came into my mind that I had almost
forgotten.

The following week the Fair opened, and every
afternoon Floris was given five cents for the merry-
go-round. ‘ Your uncle’s growing generous,’ said
the daily woman. He even went himself one day
to have a look at the stalls along the Old Gracht.
The sky looked so bright over the trees that he smiled
and said to his neighbour, Wouters, who was stand¬
ing there, too, looking at his youngest on one of the
horses: ‘Yes, let them have a good time while
they’re young.’ All through the Fair week he was
so good-tempered that once or twice Frans went out
before nine o’clock to have a look round.

It was noticed that dining that month of August
Floris gave no cause for complaint. He came home
punctually and he obeyed promptly ; they thought
it was due to the companionship of Steven Wouters,
with whom he went out to play every afternoon.
There were other boys, too, and they got up to
pranks, but if it got too bad he listened to Steven,
who acted as his protector against the stronger boys.
Often they went off by themselves, for Steven was
interested in other things besides playing at robbers
and throwing stones. That summer with him he
discovered the Forest.

Hitherto he had been no farther than just beyond
the Deer Park with Uncle Frans, on a Sunday or
in the evening, to listen to the band. But that was

b2

the Forest for the grown-ups. Now he came to the
little paths in the great expanse between the Carriage
Road and the ditch where you looked across to the
meadows beside the Outer Spaame ; he followed
the tracks in the dense oak wood, known only to
boys ; he gathered the flowers that grew tall in the
shade. Here all he could hear was the rustling of
the leaves overhead and their own voices which
sounded soft; he asked why there were round
patches of sunlight on the moss, and Steven, looking
up and following a ray of light, tried to find the
source. They went down on their knees to watch
the ants greeting each other as they passed, toiling,
in passionate haste, to drag a dead wasp away.
They put their fingers to their lips when they unex¬
pectedly saw a bird mounting the bark of an oak-tree
and tapping with its beak. From Steven he learnt
how to cut a whistle out of a sprig of elder and to
blow a high-pitched note on it that silenced the
throstle; they collected oak-apples to make ink
from them ; they carved their name on a tree-trunk
just as Laurens Coster had done. Sometimes they
sat for a long time in the hemlock beside the ditch,
looking so fixedly at the circles made by the water-
spiders that they were startled at the sight of a cow
that had been coming gradually nearer as she grazed,
and now loomed up before them on the opposite
bank so big that they could see a sail on the Outer
Spaame beneath her belly. And when Floris came

63

home his cheeks were fresh and rosy, his eyes were
shining.

Before the end of the holidays, Uncle Gerbrand
bought him a new satchel, a slate that folded up,
and a pencil-box with a picture on it. He himself
took him by the hand and accompanied him to the
Jacobijnstraat School, where the head-master, who
had a beard, was standing at the door. It was a
different sort of school from the one at Groot Heilig-
land ; the boys spoke a different language, had
different manners, most of them wore white collars.
When he told them this at home, Uncle Gerbrand
said his mother should buy a white collar for him
too. Floris washed his hands, and didn’t forget to
clean his boots in the morning. ‘ You see,’ said
Werendonk to his sister, c how much the boy has
improved ? ’

But within a few weeks Jansje noticed that the
expression on his face had changed. He kept his
eyes lowered, and if he was asked anything, he
looked away. A note came from the master to ask
why he hadn’t been to school for a week. Weren¬
donk spoke to him, patiently and kindly, but he
gave no answer, and the cane, that had been stand¬
ing idle in the comer for a long time, was used again.
The assistant took him to school every day. His
voice was no longer heard in the house, he stood
mostly in the passage or in the shed, without play¬
ing. Frans, who watched him there once, unob-

64

served, heard him saying : ‘ Your father is a thief,*
and he held his fist up to the wall as he said it.
Frans began to whistle and, as though he had heard
nothing, he said : ‘ Hullo, are you coming to help
me with the peas ? * But Floris ran away. And
Frans sat bent over his work wondering what he
could have meant by saying that his father was a
thief; here at home nothing was ever said about
Berkenrode having done anything. He wondered
whether he ought to mention it, but soon he was
thinking of something else.

On half holidays Floris ate his dinner quickly so
as to get out. He didn’t play any more with
Steven, who went to the other school. He ran to
the Drive, keeping pace with the tram-horse, and
waited for Manuel, a dark-skinned boy who wore
shiny high boots and sat next to him* at school.
None of the other boys would play ’with Manuel,
but he was always ready to give money or something
else in return for being prompted in class, and
Floris, whom the other boys hardly noticed either,
was glad to take anything he could get from him
He didn’t trust him and often was angry with him
but when it came to a fight he was cautious, for
Manuel, though no stronger than Floris, had a trick
of twisting his arm or kicking his shin.

In the bedroom Agnete found a hunting-knife, a
Malayan dagger, cartridge-cases, a mother-of-pearl
box, a tube of gun-powder, and many other things ;

he always said he had got them from his little friend
in the Drive. He had a lot of sweets in his pocket,
too, and never asked for a slice of bread-and-butter
now.

This association lasted only a few months, from
the winter until this little friend left the town. But
in that time Floris had learnt things that would
never have entered Uncle Gerbrand’s head. He
only found out from a confectioner, who showed
him an unpaid bill amounting to many guilders for
sweetmeats that the young gentleman, always accom¬
panied by Floris, had had from his shop. He
couldn’t be punished for this, he could only be for¬
bidden to associate with boys of that kind. But the
harm was done already. Floris knew things that
are unknown to most boys of ten.

Less attention was paid to him at this period, too,
because Agnete’s health was precarious. The daily
woman bought a turtle-dove in a green cage, which
was hung in the passage near the kitchen ; some¬
times a turtle-dove took people’s diseases from them,
she said. That spring Frans noticed that Floris had
grown a lot, his forehead looked broader, his thin
neck shot up out of his white collar. Uncle Ger-
brand had little to say to him, only every day he
had to give him a scolding because he was always
late for meals ; he listened with lowered eyes, with¬
out saying a word. He went to school regularly,
behaved well there, was quiet and orderly, and

oo

always knew his lessons. On Sundays he walked
sedately behind his uncles to church. No one ever
saw him playing.

All the same he did play, but alone, and he could
control himself and wait for a time when he wouldn’t
be disturbed, his half-holidays. Then he would ask
his Uncle Frans for a few cents. Once he said to
him : ‘ Other boys are given money, too, and if
they aren’t given it, they take it, but that’s stealing
and I don’t want to do that.’—‘ No,’ answered
Frans, c that’s wrong, I’d rather give you all I have
than that you should steal. Uncle Gerbrand would
be horrified if he heard you.’

And he went out—if it was raining, no farther than
the Forest—and played alone, silently, with some¬
thing he saw in his imagination. He crept through
the wet foliage, as though he were following the trail
of an animal, with the hunting-knife in his hand;
he sprang, he fought, he thrust with the knife, he
wiped the blood from it on the grass. Then that
game was over and he began another, in which the
blood of some other animal had to flow. In fine
weather he trotted along the soft path to Zandvoort,
and hid himself behind a bush on the dunes. He
crouched there, on the look-out, with his knife ready,
in case a rabbit should come near. If he had to
wait too long, his imagination became impatient;
he crept out, he threw his knife, and rushed forward,
he saw the blood on the white sand. Or he would

67

go with the fishing-rod he had made himself and sit
on the bank of the Outer Spaame, cut up a worm for
bait, and wait with a glowing face. Here sometimes
real blood was shed on the ground. Perhaps he
might bring a perch home with its gills slit open.
These were his games for a long time, a whole spring
and summer, a time that made a deep impression on
his mind. He gave no thought to the people at
home ; even his mother was only a figure in the
bedroom or on her chair.

Once when he was standing looking at the turtle¬
dove, he saw a gentleman in a tall hat going up the
stairs, Jansje said it was the doctor. His mother
came down again, but from that day on he never
saw her behind the counter, always in her armchair
by the window beneath the fuchsia. By day she
kept her eyes fixed on the wall above the kitchen,
in the evening she stared into the lamp, he rarely
heard her say anything. There must have been
something queer about her, for anybody who came
into the room, one of his uncles, Jansje or the assist¬
ant, looked at her, and he had once asked why she
had blue lips. When the Fair was over, when it
rained long hours on end and the leaves were falli n g
in the Old Gracht, he went back to school and no
longer looked at her.

Agnete’s voice was never heard. Frans believed
that she sat thinking all the time, but Gerbrand
shook his head, and said that couldn’t be it. c It is.

68

I’m sure/ said Frans. ‘ You’ll see, brother, she has
something that preys on her mind. Sometimes she
knits her brows, and sometimes she looks as though
she could see something. If I ask her what she’s
thinking about, she looks at me with such an odd
smile, it frightens me. She can’t be reading, she
always has the book open at the same page.’ •
That evening Gerbrand stood up and bent over
to look at the Bible that lay open in front of her.

' What are you reading, Agnete ? ’ he asked. With
a weary expression she looked up at him and said :

‘ Oh, I don’t read any more, I don’t understand
what’s written there. “For that which I do I allow
not, for what I would that do I not; but what I
hate, that do I.” Berkenrode was like that, and
so is my boy, I know it. And I think to myself:
what is sin, after all ? ’ He pointed out to her what
was written there besides that. e Your child,’ he
said, ‘ is no different from all mankind, flesh wherein
sin dwells, but grace shall be given to him through
knowledge of the law. He must keep this in front
of his eyes, and our example of what is right.’ But
still she shook her head and she gazed into the lamp.
‘ That’s no answer,’ she said, * there’s so much
written here about sin, but it’s never explained.’

It was a wet autumn with heavy skies, the water
pattered incessantly from the gutter into the yard.
Agnete went into the shop whenever she heard that
they were busy, but she was soon overcome by

‘ 6 9

fatigue, and then she would go, slowly, with a look
in her brother’s direction to see if he approved.
She sat on her chair by the window and looked at
the gloomy yard, at the apple-tree, with drops drip¬
ping from its yellow leaves. There was no sound to
be heard save the feet in the shop, the sound of peas
or beans pouring out of the measure, sometimes the
bell. Her brothers had to work, to work all the
time, in order to pay, and she wasn’t able to. And
all the time she had to keep thinking of what was
being borne in this house for the fault of another.
It would be forgiven, there was no doubt of that,
but here it had left nothing but darkness and sorrow
in its wake, and even the morrow was dark. What
else was there to think, but just: why ? She stared
out with her face lifted towards the dim wall. When
she heard the cooing of the turtle-dove she moved
slightly. When she heard the sound of little feet,
the hurried turning of the door-handle, she turned
her head. Floris threw down his satchel and his
cap and disappeared through the other door.

The room had been dark for a long time when
Stien came in to light the lamp. Agnete sighed,
she put the Bible in front of her and read what she
had read innumerable times : “ Nay, I had not
known sin, but by the law.”

After Christmas she did not appear in the shop
any more. The doctor had given her pills, Mrs.
Sanne had had a rye loaf baked for her with herbs

70

in it. Jansje, at her cleaning in the kitchen, saw
her sitting motionless the whole afternoon by the
window, until the sight nearly made her cry; she
said it was nothing but a decline, just like a plant
whose roots are withered.

As soon as the plates had been removed from the
table, she sat again with her Bible. Once Frans
came in and saw her with her arms crossed over her
breast listening to the Damiaatjes. She nodded to
him, and said : ‘ You’re right, that sound in the
evening does the heart good. There was a timp
when I used to be afraid that my head would burst
from it, but now I begin to understand them.
Everything passes, even the sins of man.’ His eyes
shone, because he was always glad if anything good
was said about the chiming of the bells.

And Gerbrand looked up one evening from his
accounts because he felt her eyes on him, he saw
that there was a smile on her drooping lips. ‘ Are
the payments progressing well ? ’ she said. ‘ Will
all the debts be paid off by the time Floris is twenty ? 5
—‘ That’s not in our hands,’ he answered, shrugging
his shoulders, ‘ we are doing our best, and if it
depends on me, he shall never have to feel ashamed.’

She stood up, she went into the kitchen to send
the boy to bed. In the passage she halted in front
of the cage, because the dove began to coo so loudly
at the light of her candle.

On the following day, returning from church,

7 1

Stien found her dead in her chair, with her head
on the table, and her hand resting on the Bible.
She ran out again quickly, but Floris remained there
and, when his uncles came in, there he sat against
the wall, with staring, wide-open eyes.

CHAPTER FIVE

When HE WAS THIRTEEN YEARS OLD HE BEGAN TO
be careless with his school work. Hitherto he had
shown such promise that Werendonk had decided
not to bring him up to be a shop-keeper if he was
capable of going further and had sent him to the
Grammar School. This winter he lost his eagerness
to be among the first in his class, he did no more
than he was obliged to do. He would sit up in the
attic staring in front of him ; or else he pottered
about or strolled round the town.

On one of these days he remembered something,
and the thoughts it aroused suddenly loomed so
large that they filled his whole consciousness. Soon
after the death of his mother he had begun to
realise that he did wrong ; now this idea returned.
He saw clearly in front of his eyes how, at that time,
closing the shop door behind him one morning, a
terrible feeling had come over him that everyone
was a stranger to him. He had looked at the window
upstairs, where the bedroom was, and a voice in his
mind had said to him: It is your fault; with all
the wrong things you do, your lying and your

72

73

stealing; that’s why God has taken her away.
And all the houses in the street had looked at him.
He had forgotten it, but now it came back with even
more force, the feeling that he deceived everyone
and that he was alone. And it seemed to him that
all the houses in the street knew it.

He looked at them angrily every time he walked
past them, for a long time ago he had learnt that
there was wrong-doing there too, in every house,
more than in his own. Doubtless he had always
known it, but he saw now that their house was
higher than the others. The house of Tops, the
shoe-maker, next door on the right, had only four
windows; that of Minke on the other side, the
narrowest in the street, had only two besides a little
one that protruded from the pointed roof with its
dilapidated tiles. Only that of the baker at the
corner of the lane seemed to be higher, but that was
owing to the ornamented gable with its sharp point
at the top. All the houses were different, and
coming from the Gasthuisvest, if you looked up at
the roofs, two irregular lines could be seen against the
sky—high up, pointed tops, and below that, flat
tops. No two houses had a similar gable or were
of the same colour; some had fantastic shapes,
others were flat and monotonous ; there were some
with dark varnished woodwork and grey plaster ; in
the middle of the street stood one .that had been
unevenly painted, white at the top and blue beneath;

74

most of them were of red brick, but even these
varied in colour. The Werendonks’ house, built of
red-brown bricks, the window-sills neatly painted
yellow, looked more dignified too, with its broad
blue perron, the two wooden seats outside the front¬
door and the railing that separated it from Minke’s
door. It looked the cleanest of them all.

He knew all about the different kinds of wickedness
that were concealed or suppressed in most of the
houses. He had heard a good deal of it from
Jansje when she was gossiping with Stien in the
kitchen. ‘ Every house has its cross,’ she often said,
and sometimes Stien answered that you oughtn’t
to think the worst of people, but mostly she just
listened. Thus he had come to hear about the
grown-ups ; he had found out for himself all about
the children.

The pastrycook at the comer of the Gracht,
Jansje said, was a busybody and a mischief-maker.
If there was anything under discussion in the street,
he was sure to come along for a chat, and he was
ready with advice if you were in his good books.
But nearly everyone found that when Wouters had
been visiting their shops, they would soon be having
difficulties with the Rate-collector or the Inspector
of Weights and Measures. But Jansje said he was
by no means the worst, for his home was orderly
and he brought his children up to be honest and
respectable. But Floris knew better about the

75

children. Perhaps he had not learnt to lie from her,
but it was Fientje Wouters whom he had first seen
stealing, and she was cunning too, though you would
never have guessed it when she looked at you with
her limpid blue eyes. It was a long time since he
had associated with the Wouters children, but he
knew that Steven was the only honest one. And
their mother would smile at them, full of pride and
trust.

‘ You’ll find wrong-doing in every house,’ said
Jansje, ‘ and there are more things hidden away
than you’d believe.’ Mrs. Thijs, on the other
comer of Gortestraat, would never have to borrow,
for they had one of the busiest druggist’s shops in the
district, if it weren’t for Thijs spending so much
money in the ale-house. ‘ But, it’s her own fault,’
said Stien, and Floris didn’t understand that. As
for old Mrs. Sanne, they said that she was always
ready to help anyone, but you had to beware of her
tongue. It was she who started all the scandals,
everyone was very cartful with her. At Warner’s,
the baker, there was always a row going on in the
room behind the shop ; some said it was he who
was quarrelsome, others said it was his wife, but his
children were always fighting with one another too.
Briemen, the pork-butcher opposite, was a violent
man, his wife often ran screaming into the street and
the children were heard howling ; one of these fine
days there’d be an accident there with a knife.

76

As for their neighbours on either side, Tops was
untrustworthy, and made mischief out of every¬
thing that came to his ears, and at Minke’s not even
a child who went in to buy a slate-pencil or a sheet
of paper could be sure of getting what he wanted.
He imposed on his own wife and children, that was
why there was such a gloomy atmosphere there.
But the worst disorder was at the tin-smith’s, for
both Nuyl and his wife were lazy and indolent ; in
the muddle they could never find what a customer
asked for, and their seven children looked like
ragamuffins, untidy and unwashed. So you find
some wickedness wherever you look, in one house
lying or slandering or intemperance, in another
treachery, deceit, quarrelling or violence. The only
thing anyone could say about the Werendonks’
house was that they were too close about money,
but fortunately there was a good reason for that.
There was wickedness everywhere. ‘ What else can
you expect ? ’ he had heard Jansje say. ‘ If the
houses were pulled down, if you could see what lay
beneath them, you’d find nothing but the iniquities
of the forefathers, not only in this street, but every¬
where in the town.’ In every house there dwelt
the ghost of past sins.

But Stien couldn’t believe all that. There might
be some truth in it, she said, but a lot had been
atoned for in every house, too, and when the whole
town fell into ruins at the last trump and nothing

77

was left but the foundations, then you’d hear a lot
of sighing, because there was plenty of sorrow as well
in all the houses over the evil that people did without
wanting to do it. ‘You’re very ignorant,’ said
Jansje, going on with her scrubbing, ‘ as though we
can’t do right or wrong just as we choose.’ Stien
sighed and looked up at the ceiling.

He talked about it to Uncle Frans when he went
out with him to give him his arm. One morning in
the winter Frans had run out in a hurry thinking that
the Damiaatjes were ringing for a fire, but it was to
warn people of the slipperiness of the streets, for
there had been a glazed frost. Just outside the door
he slipped himself, fell down the steps and broke
his ankle. He had been in bed for a long time and
was still rather lame ; the doctor said he ought to go
out as much as possible. They walked slowly under
the trees by the Spaame, and Floris asked him if it
was true that in all those houses in front of them
wrong was being done that people couldn’t help
doing. * I don’t know about that,’ said Frans. ' Do
you see that tower there on the Church ? Nobody
knows how long that’s been standing there. All
through the day you hear the big bells, in the
evening the small ones, and do you know what they
say ? The big ones tell us to pray that we may
be forgiven for everything, and the small ones,
when it’s dark before we begin the night, tell us
that we must have faith in better times to come.

78

There were people living in those houses I don’t
know how many hundreds of years ago, for this is
an old town, and no doubt they did wrong some¬
times, but what’s become of that? It’s gone,
turned to dust, just like the clothes they wore. At
least in those very old houses, built of bricks that
aren’t smooth any more, and that have an iron rod
in the top storey to keep it from toppling over.
Those that are straight all the way down and have
blue tiles aren’t so old ; maybe some of the ill deeds
of the forefathers have remained in those.’

He believed what Jansje had said because he had
seen from other boys that they told lies or were
deceitful for no other reason than that it pleased
them to do so. The boys who did wrong at school
knew perfectly well that it was wrong, but they
preferred to go and play rather than learn their
lessons. He had seen it plainly enough with his
cousins in Gierstraat, Hendrik and Evert, Diderik
Werendonk’s eldest sons, his only companions on
half-holidays. He took them out for long walks,
beyond Bennebroek, and on the way home they had
to walk fast so as not to get in late. Once he had
held them back and said they needn’t hurry, they
could make up some story so as not to get a scolding.
Hendrik, who was smaller than he was, came close
up to him and said : ‘ Do you think we would tell
lies to father ? ’ It had frightened him, it was said
so fiercely. And he himself knew perfectly well

79

there was no need to tell lies if he didn’t want to,
though he sometimes did it without giving it a
second thought. He couldn’t help it. And punish¬
ment was bound to follow on it, and he had rather
have that than that it shouldn’t be discovered.
Although he sometimes succeeded in telling lies so
that even Uncle Gerbrand couldn’t find it out, still
he knew he had done it, and then he had to keep
thinking about it in the evening before he went to
bed. That made him frightened, and when he was
in bed he could see Uncle Gerbrand’s eyes looking at
him.

Once he was wakened by this thought about lying
and other wrong-doing that had been concealed,
and again he saw those eyes that looked straight at
him, clear as blue glass, but they were not angry.
It was as though they said : Don’t do it any more.
I’ll help you. He thought to himself he must make
a clean breast of everything he had done and ask
Uncle Gerbrand to punish him and help him not to
do it again. Then he fell peacefully asleep again.
When he got up in the morning he had forgotten
about it. But it returned with even more force. It
was a May evening and not yet nine o’clock, the
parlour was dark, but in the yard there was still
twilight. The tray of money was on the table, and
beside it a pile of guilders ; Werendonk had been
engaged in counting it and had left the room for a
moment. He took a guilder ; the pile toppled

8o

over ; he hastily piled it up again. Then he put
his hand in his pocket to return the one guilder to
the pile, but he heard the step into the shop creaking,
he left the guilder lying on a comer of the table.
He couldn’t walk away, his uncle came into the room.
When the lamp was lighted, he saw that his uncle
was looking at the guilder that lay so far away
from the pile, but he picked it up and said nothing.
Floris wanted to tell him what he had done, but the
words stuck in his throat. He went out of the room.

When he was undressing, he cried in the dark and
he saw the eyes that had looked at him in the lamp¬
light. He told himself that he was a sneak, but
that tomorrow he would confess everything. There
would be severe punishment, for, although he had
thought better of it on this occasion, he would have
to confess that on other occasions he had actually
done it, but he would prefer the worst punishment
to having it always on his mind.

The next morning Uncle Gerbrand was busy, so
he had to wait until the evening. And when it was
dusk he was standing in the parlour again by the
table where the money-tray stood. Again Weren-
donk had left the room for a moment. He waited ;
he heard Stien, busy with her pails, singing in the
yard. His hand stretched out towards the tray, his
fingers picked up a ten-cent piece, but let it drop
again ; he told himself he was doing it to prove to
himself that he didn’t need to take anything if he

8i

didn’t want to. His heart thumped. He might
just as well take it, no one would notice, but he
didn’t want to. Then he heard someone coming;
he walked quickly round the room and stood at the
other side of the table. Werendonk came in, lighted
the lamp and sat down.

‘ My boy,’ he said, looking up suddenly, * what
were you doing with the money just now ? ’

He turned red and stuttered. Werendonk waited
without looking at him. All at once Floris put his
hands before his face, sobbing and crying. When he
was calmer, Werendonk said : ‘ If you’ve any thing
on your mind, you’d better tell me; concealed
burdens only grow heavier, and you can depend on
my treating you justly.’

And Floris began his confession, at first in a timid,
miserable voice, by degrees more frankly, as he had
imagined himself doing it, and finally, as though the
words came of themselves, he was telling of things
that he had almost forgotten, so long was it since he
had done them. It was a story of truth concealed,
of prevarication and of lies, then of stealing, out of
the till, too, that he had done years ago. At first
he hadn’t felt sorry about it, but now he realised that
it was fraud, a serious sin, he couldn’t help thinking
about it all the time. He stopped again, and in the
midst of his sobbing he said he didn’t want to be like
his father.

Werendonk jumped up, he laid his hand on his

82

shoulder and said : ‘ You mustn’t speak of that.
Your father has appeared before the highest judge,
and whatever wrong he may have done from our
human point of view he has long since atoned for.
It is your duty, as his son, to think of him with
respect. But we will pass judgment on what you
have done. I’m glad you’ve confessed your trans¬
gressions, that signifies that you understand the
difference between right and wrong, and that you
have the will to improve. Previously, when you
weren’t sorry, you hadn’t understood that, but now
your conscience has awakened. Give me your hand
and promise me solemnly that from now on you’ll
be a good boy. But right is right, and wrong-doing
brings punishment. Because of the money you’ve
taken, others have had to go short. You’ll go with¬
out pocket-money for three months, and when the
Fair comes—no money for that.’

He said : * Thank you, Uncle,’ and went to bed.
A deep sigh rose from his breast as he listened to the
sound of scrubbing in the passage below.

The others noticed that Werendonk asked about
him in a friendly tone of voice if he hadn’t arrived
home, and looked at him with a smile when they
were sitting at meals; also that Floris was more
diligent with his homework, and answered cheerfully
when he was spoken to. He was always punctual,
he waited patiently if Frans wanted him to go out,
and walked slowly beside him.

83

He took more interest in what Frans told him and
asked him questions, too, about the peculiarities of
the houses or streets, why the Market was called
the Sand and how Jacobijnstraat had got its name.
They stood such a long time with their faces raised,
looking at a gable, that people stared at them. When
they met Meier, the blind man, tapping along the
doors with his stick, Frans gave him a cent. Then
Floris looked into his purse and saw how little he had
in it, not more than one ten-cent piece and a few
cents. ‘ Why have you so little money ? ’ he asked
him once. 4 That’s not little,’ said Frans; 4 it’s
more than enough, for I never have to buy anything.’
Floris thought it odd ; in his class at school there
were boys who had more than that for pocket-money
and Uncle Frans was over thirty years old.

Their walks always led them to the Church in the
Vegetable Market and the Belfry Square, and always
Frans looked up at the Tower. Once the idea came
to Floris, as he looked at him, that perhaps he was
not quite right in the head. He could talk of
nothing else but the houses in the town and the bells
in the Tower ; and he obeyed the other uncle just
as though he were a child. From that day he
watched him, and the tone in which he spoke to him
changed.

Since his fall Frans had made a habit of going up
to his room as soon as he had finished his dinner, and
then Stien would go up and attend to the bandage

84

round his ankle. One day Floris, going up to the
attic, saw the door of the room standing ajar ; he
crept on tiptoe, and peeped through the crack.
Frans was sitting, leaning back, on the bed, the
sun shining across his face, and Stien was on her
knees in front of him. She had a little pot in her
hand and was rubbing something into his foot.
* After this no more, 5 said Frans, c it’s much too dear
and your father needs the money badly. 5 e Briemen
gave me fifty cents yesterday when I paid the bill, 5
she answered. 4 1 can get another pot with that;
you’ll see, it’ll do the pain good. 5

She stood up ; Floris hurried away. On the
attic floor he met her as she was going to her room
with the pot in her hand. And later in the after¬
noon, when he brought his books upstairs, he
opened the door of her room cautiously to see what
was in the pot. It was a dark ointment, with a
sweet smell. There were other things there, too,
and the cupboard was open. The next day he went
in again and rummaged about. In a box lay a
handkerchief with some money tied up in it. It
felt heavy. He was curious to know how much it
was, but he dared not open it to see. One morning
in the holidays, when she was out, he counted the
money; there were sixteen guilders.

Three days before the Fair he met Kolk, a boy
from the Third Class, who wore long trousers
already. He said he and some other boys were

85

going to the Fair, and he asked Floris to go with
them. e Or won’t your uncle allow you to ? 5 he
added with a laugh. In the evening, when the
music of the merry-go-rounds could be heard on the
Gracht, he took two guilders out of the handkerchief,
while Stien was downstairs, singing at her work.

He met Kolk with three others at the Butter
Market outside the menagerie tent; there were two
girls with them as well, and they went in. From
there they went on to other tents, they ate doughnuts
and waffles, they drank beer at Koppen’s stall, and
got rowdier and rowdier. Floris lent some money
to someone, and when he had no more left himself,
he borrowed from someone else. Then they linked
arms and rolled along, accosting and jostling the
people, and shouting : € We won’t go home : we
won’t go home.’ When they had spent everything,
Kolk said he’d go and ask for some more money,
and they all went with him. While they were
waiting under a tree by the Forest Bridge, one of the
boys said they ought to give Floris a cheer because he
wasn’t a muff after all. He yelled with them, and
he hurried on in front, back to the lights and the
music of the merry-go-rounds, his cheeks glowing red.
They grew wild, threw doughnuts in each other’s
faces, and pushed each other through the crowd.
Floris heard the Tower clock strike eleven and crept
quietly away.

When he got home Werendonk looked up from his

86

papers, and asked where he had been. e To the
Fair, Uncle,’ he said, £ with some of the boys, they
treated me.’ Werendonk frowned and went on with
his work.

The next evening he begged to be allowed to go
and walk by the stalls, just to have a look ; Uncle
Gerbrand consented. He went every day with the
boys until the last Saturday. And when it was over
he lay in bed staring through the skylight at the little
patch of sky. There was one guilder left in the
handkerchief, he would have to take that, too, to
pay back what he owed to Kolk. And again he saw
the eyes of Uncle Gerbrand looking at him. He had
given his word that he would never do it again. It
was not entirely his own fault, he thought, if only
Kolk hadn’t laughed when he asked if he wouldn’t
be allowed to go to the Fair. He tossed about, he
couldn’t sleep ; outside some Fair-goers were still
singing.

On the following day he waited in his bedroom
until Saen went out. It was quiet in the house, and
it was getting dark when he heard her close the door.
He didn’t hear her on the stairs. He sat on where
he was for a while, and suddenly he felt hot at the
thought of what he had done. It couldn’t be
helped, he must give Kolk the money, the sooner he
did it the better, for the blood was singing in his
head. He opened his own door and went cautiously
to the door opposite. As he walked into the room,

87

he was looking over his shoulder. And when he
turned round again he saw Stien sitting on her bed
with her hat and coat on. On her lap lay the
handkerchief, and tears were running down her face.
‘ Did you do that ? 5 she asked with a sob. He
lowered his eyes. It was very still in the little room,
and outside there was no sound either. ‘ Why did
you do that ? ’ she asked, and her voice sounded deep
and sorrowful. ‘ My wages, that my father needed
to pay his rent. Oh, my lad, don’t do such wicked
things.’ He couldn’t see for tears. Suddenly she
stood in front of him ; she took his head in her arms.
She had to press him tightly to her bosom so that his
sobs shouldn’t be heard. ‘ Come,’ she said at last,
and she dipped her handkerchief in the water-jug
and bathed his face. ‘ I’ve got to catch the tram,
and it’s getting late. Walk with me as far as the
Forest.’

In the street she said nothing, but past the Bridge,
when they were alone, she asked : * Was it for the
Fair that you took it ? What would your uncle say
if I told him ? ’ He clasped her arm with both
hands and implored her not to do that, otherwise
he’d have to jump into the water, for he wouldn’t
be able to bear Uncle Gerbrand’s face. Stien
walked on in silence, holding him by the hand as
though he were a small child. At the Deer Park
she stood still under a dark tree, she raised his face
to hers and said : * You must promise me that

88

you’ll come to me first, if you get the temptation
again, you mustn’t steal, I don’t want you to do
that.’ He answered : c It’s no use. I just am
wicked.’ But she persisted, pressing him, until he
gave the promise.

When she had mounted the tram, she waved to
him. He walked slowly away ; he looked round
again and saw that she was holding her handkerchief
to her eyes. That made him feel lonely, all of a
sudden, and he dared not mingle with the strollers
near the bandstand. He stood where he was under
the dark foliage, looking at the figures. He thought
of his Uncle Gerbrand and clenched his fists at the
thought.

CHAPTER SIX

For A FULL YEAR NOW NO ONE HAD HAD TO REPRI-

mand him ; at home or at school; he was indus¬
trious and well-behaved and, although he was known
to go about with the most troublesome boys, the
teachers praised his conduct. He was quiet, and
people thought he looked ill, with his white face,
pale lips and heavy eyes; they thought it was
because he was always working at his books. As
soon as he came home he went up to his little room
and did his homework; immediately after supper
he went on with it. Werendonk had told him that
the next year, when he left school, he might go to
Amsterdam to study pharmacy.

He didn’t hurry over his work and he had no need
to make a great effort. The longer it kept him
occupied the better, for as soon as he had nothing
to do he felt oppressed by loneliness. It was a
feeling as though all round and above him there was
something that came nearer and nearer and cut him
off from other people, and the room seemed to be
too small for him. And then the thoughts began
about his wickedness. Other boys could laugh

89

9 °

when they told a lie, but he lived in perpetual fear
of doing it, and he made great efforts not to. He
knew that lying and thieving were bom in him. At
unexpected moments the desire rose in him to tell
a lie, even though there was no need for it, and when
he walked through the shop he purposely turned his
head away from the till, for the desire to take some¬
thing was not perhaps so frequent, but much more
violent, so that his temples throbbed with it. Often
he asked himself why he was not like other boys, who
hadn’t always to be fighting against themselves.
His friends did wrong too, but he knew for certain
that he would do much worse things if he didn’t
control himself. And when he said goodbye every
morning and walked quietly to school, no one at
home had any idea of the feelings he took with him
of being worse than other people, of the loneliness
in which he kept them hidden.

One day a suspicion came to him that there was
one person who realised it. He was hungry when
he got home, he went into the kitchen to ask for a
piece of bread. When Jansje had given it to him
she knelt down again and went on washing the floor.
He looked up at the hail that was falling on the red
tiles in spite of the sunshine, and all at once he got
the feeling that he was alone and in the midst of
silence. He turned round and saw Jansje’s sharp,
light blue eyes fixed on him. * What’s the ma tter ? 5
he said. ‘ What are you looking at me like that

for ? ’ She wrung out her flannel without removing
her eyes, and she answered slowly : ‘ Anyone who’s
startled when you look at him has something on his
conscience.’

And once, when he went into the parlour, Jansje.
was standing in front of Uncle Gerbrand, and she left
off speaking. They both looked at him, waiting
for him to go away again. He realised that they
were talking of him, and he wondered what they
could know about him. It was more than a year
since he had done anything that he would not have
dared to tell his uncle, and if he was asked he
wouldn’t deny that he had perpetually to strive
against his inclinations. His uncle would under¬
stand that well enough, for, after all, all men were
sinful by nature, and he would no doubt help him to
suppress them. He had nothing on his conscience
except the fear of doing wrong. But for a long time
he had had the feeling that his uncle didn’t trust
him, but, on the contrary, was always watching him.
However much he was praised for his work at school
and for his conduct, there was something in his
uncle’s voice that sounded as though he had not
forgotten what Floris had once confessed. And
now he began to have an idea that he was suspected
of something ; he observed Jansje, and he often
caught her looking at him.

What she might be thinking left him indifferent,
although it annoyed him to have her staring at him,

92 .

but the thought that his uncle was suspecting him
oppressed him. Floris knew now what Werendonk
had done to make good his father’s fraud, the
neighbours’ children had told him, in their different
ways, and Kolk had said : ‘ Your uncle is a stingy
fellow, but there isn’t a more honourable man in
the town, stinting himself to pay your father’s debts.’
Then he had understood his strictness, and often
he had wanted to tell him that he was grateful, but
he dared not, he simply looked at him with respect.
He wished he could grow up like that himself. One
evening, before he went upstairs, he said suddenly :
‘ I know what you’ve done for me, I’m terribly
grateful to you.’ That was all he could say. His
uncle just raised his eyes, adjusted his spectacles and
answered : ‘ I shall be able to judge that from your
conduct, and it’s God you should be grateful to, not
me.’ He didn’t move, he would have liked to give
him his hand, but he went away then. Uncle
Gerbrand didn’t believe in talk, and he was right,
he must show it by his actions. But when he was in
bed he wept because he doubted whether he would
ever be worthy of complete trust again, for if he
didn’t keep perpetually on the watch, a lie came
out before he knew it, and that was the reason,
he knew, why Uncle Gerbrand was always watch¬
ing him.

That spring he often felt melancholy. There was
no one who understood him, no one to help him

93

In the Easter holidays he went out mornings and
afternoons, because he didn’t want to sit in his room
with nothing to do. He walked beside the Spaame,
with his eyes on the pavements, as far as the
Phoenix garden, and then back the same way to the
Peat Market, and once he went into the Forest, but
there under the trees, where the wind rustled in the
light green foliage, the feeling of loneliness became
too overpowering. He avoided the centre of the
town too, because he thought that people stared at
him in surprise to see him always walking aimlessly
and alone, so he preferred to keep to the ramparts on
the outskirts of the town. Sometimes he looked up
at the trees, at the roofs and the sunny clouds, and
he felt eased. But his head would droop again
involuntarily, and the thought would return, always
the same, why was he driven to do what he didn’t
want to do ?

Once in the Vegetable Market he saw some
strangers going into the Church, and he went in too.
The verger, who saw him, said that the new organist
was practising. Thin, high notes were wailing
through the white expanse. He sat down on a stone
bench and, lifting his head, fixed his eyes on the
summits of the pillars; he was still sitting thus when
he heard from the sound of steps that the visitors
were going out again. He was sitting alone, and
now there came deep, heavy notes from the organ,
and they brought him peace. Now and again

94

when the notes were high he had to think of all the
questions that bothered him, and with the deep
notes it seemed to him as though some power
possessed him which he could not resist. You must
pray, he said to himself, that is the only thing. He
folded his hands; he prayed that he might be
protected from his thoughts, from lying and stealing,
from himself. A long note came from the organ,
and suddenly it was silent.

When he opened his eyes and looked round the
pillar, he saw in the middle of the Church, high up
in the arched roof, two ropes swinging gently. He
stretched his head farther round the pillar. In the
middle of the floor he saw his Uncle Frans, holding a
rope in each hand and looking upwards, his basket
stood at his feet beside him, his cap lay on it. His
hands were large and white. Floris was fright¬
ened, he didn’t want anyone at home to know
that he had been in the Church, and he went out
on tiptoe.

He was amazed. Uncle Frans never went out
during the day, certainly not at this time when
Gerrit would have to be going out again on his
rounds. He made only a slight detour by the
Spaarae, and when he went into the shop Uncle
Frans was standing behind the counter in his grey
jacket. They looked at each other. c Have you
been out ? ’ fell from Floris’s lips. Frans bent
down to pick something up and answered carelessly :

95

* Yes, just for a moment.’ Then Floris realised
that he, too, simple though he was, had something
to hide.

He lay awake that night until he heard from the
footsteps on the stairs that Uncle Gerbrand had gone
to bed, and perpetually he had a vision of the queer
figure in the middle of the Church, with the two
ropes in his white hands. Even when he was dozing
off he could still see the ropes swinging in the high
arches.

The following morning he had found an old book
in a chest in the attic and was sitting on the floor
under the skylight reading. He heard someone
sweeping the stairs and, looking up, he saw across
the threshold on a level with the floor Jansje’s black
cap, and her pale eyes looking at him. He was
startled and stood up. Now he knew for certain
that she was spying on him. Why ? He was close
to the door of. Stien’s room, perhaps she was
watching to see if he went in. That same day he
got another fright. He was standing alone in the
shop, ready to go out, deliberating where he should
go. He wanted to ask Kolk to go with him to
Overveen, but he had no money in his pocket, and
was wondering whether he could ask Uncle Gerbrand
for some. In the old days, if he had found no one in
the shop, he would have just slipped behind the
counter, but now he didn’t even look in the direction
of the till. He thought he was a coward to be so

96

timid, and he turned round. He started back; there
in front of the till stood Uncle Frans, his arms crossed,
looking at him. ‘ What are you afraid of? 5 he
asked. He flushed, and, without answering, went
out of the door, and he noticed that Uncle Frans
followed him with his eyes.

He was angry with himself for being so nervous ;
after all, there was no need for it, he had been
intending no harm, but he couldn’t help it, the
figure in the grey jacket had appeared so suddenly,
like a ghost. It was queer, he still felt a cold shiver
at the thought. And he forgot that he would
rather not go out with Kolk with no money in
his pocket; he walked quickly to his home in the
Raamvest.

As soon as the door was opened, Kolk called out
from the sitting-room that he must come in. Floris
was confused as he stood in the room, with its
carpeted floor and plush-covered chairs, face to face
with Kolk’s two sisters, who smiled at him and said
he needn’t call them “ Miss.” Jan Blusser was
there, too, who always made fun of him in the
playground before they went to school, a tall boy
with dark, narrow eyes, and bony hands. He
said : ‘ Berkenrode is the best boy in the whole
town, and that’s because he has such good uncles.’
The girls laughed.

The three of them went out, and before they
had reached the Canal Gate Blusser had said that

97

Floris was a stupid never to have any money. c The
grown-ups boss us too much/ he said, c they're only
holding back the money that’ll be ours later on.
Last week I took three silver spoons out of the
drawer and sold them at Swarts. That’s the way to
manage things ; after all, they can’t do anything to
me.’ Floris asked if he didn’t think that was steal¬
ing. c No/ said Kolk, c that’s not the same ; taking
things from your own home is taking them from
yourself. You don’t mind taking a piece of cake out
of the cupboard, and that surely isn’t theft.’ And
Blusser said : 5 You may be a clever fellow, but you
haven’t much sense. They call theft a crime and
you go to prison for it, but what actually is crime ?
How can you say that taking spoons from your
parents is theft and yet call the conquering of a whole
country, like Napoleon did, a heroic action ? It’s a
question of where you draw the line, and I believe
in plenty of scope.’ When Floris answered that it
was theft all the same, however you looked at it,
and, after all, you could read in the Bible that all
men were thieves and murderers, they began to
laugh. c If you believe that, then you must be one
too/ said Kolk. 4 Yes/ he answered, 6 1 am, but
that’s no reason why I shouldn’t do my best not to
be.’ The two others weren’t listening any more,
they were ogling girls. There was a lot more talk
afterwards, and Floris realised that he couldn’t
express himself clearly, but he stuck seriously to

98

his opinion. He couldn’t bear Blusser’s mocking
smile.

That afternoon they arranged to go to Amsterdam
in the holidays to see the sort of fun people had there,
then they wouldn’t be so green the following year.
Floris regretted it immediately, because he knew
he wouldn’t be able to go with them without any
money.

During the days that followed his mind was very
active, carrying on imaginary conversations with
Blusser, who was wrong, but who smiled as though
he knew best. “Thieves and murderers, and
imposters, every one of us,” it would be, and Blusser
would say : “ All right, the grown-ups as well as
us.” At night it kept him awake. He would have
liked to think of other things, of that afternoon in the
Church, but he looked into the darkness again.
And sometimes it was Blusser with his smile he saw,
sometimes Jansje’s suspicious eyes spying at him J 0 r
again the simple face of Uncle Frans. He lay so
long with his eyes open that the darkness grew grey.
It was just the same the next night, and the nearer
the holidays drew, the longer he lay sleepless. Once
he pressed his face passionately into the pillows,
and asked : What’s the matter, what’s wrong with
me? I don’t want to think about it. And sud¬
denly a light dawned on him, he must ask Stien to
give him some money, otherwise he would have
no peace.

99

She gave it to him willingly, with a wink to
indicate that she wouldn’t mention it. Twice they
went to Amsterdam; Kolk and Blusser were
excited, but he felt oppressed. They had quarter-
guilders where he had only cents. The second time,
they lost sight of each other in the dense crowd on
the Y, where fireworks were being let off. Except
for a gleam of the Bengal fire in the air, or sometimes
the lurid light of the rockets high up above, he could
see nothing of them. He wanted to go away, but
he thought that it was better here after all than in
his room. He waited to see if there would be any
more fun. The crowd of jostling boys carried him
with them until he was standing on a bridge ; there
lay the dark water with its many lights, with figures
in boats, shouting and singing. He wanted to go
into the town, but he didn’t know the way, and he
had only three cents left. The others were probably
having a good time somewhere. All round him,
on the bridge and in the seething dark crowd along
the quayside, people were rollicking and making
merry, stretched out in broad lines, arms linked;
everyone was happy, and he stood alone with a
feeling of being forsaken.

When a plan was made to go again, he hesitated,
and refused, although the idea attracted him, for
they told him about a cafi-chantant —the fun they
had had there over a couple of drunken men ; there
were rows of cafe-chantants, and when the doors were

IOO

wide open you could see the artists in a circle on the
stage. But he said he wouldn’t go with them.
Stien had told him she couldn’t give him anything
more this month, perhaps a few quarters, no more.
He was lying awake, before he realised it the thoughts
were coming into his mind. Only a little could be
taken from the till without its being noticed when
the money was counted in the evening, but the
box that stood in the cupboard, a rixdollar and a
guilder would never be missed from that. If there
was a lot in it, he might even take two guilders.
What time ? And supposing it was locked ? He
stared into the dark ; Jansje’s eyes were fixed on
him. He had promised, if the temptation came, to
ask Stien first, but, after all, he knew she hadn’t any
to give him. If his uncles died he would inherit
from them, but he would have to share with the
children of Uncle Diderik. But his uncles were
strong and tough, they might live another ten years
yet. The dawn was breaking when his eyes closed
from sheer fatigue.

The following morning, after breakfast, he was
looking for an exercise book, and he asked Uncle
Frans whether it might not have been put in the
cupboard. He opened the cupboard, on the shelf
right in front of him he saw the box, with the key in
the lock.

He was lying awake again, without thinking, the
darkness grew grey before his eyes, and there was

IOI

a buzzing in his ears. He seemed to be waiting for
something. He seemed to be stretching out his
hand, he could see his hand too, a vague shape in the
darkness. And he had the feeling that someone was
looking at it, but he knew it was his imagination.
The sky outside the skylight seemed to be growing
less dark.

He could only have just dropped off to sleep when
he was wide awake again, for t£e sky was still dark.
Suddenly he felt so restless that he wanted to go out,
it was oppressive in the little room, oppressive in the
whole house, as though something was impelling
him. He dressed himself quickly and, with his shoes
in one hand, groping with the other, he went down
the stairs, cautiously, step by step, so that the stairs
shouldn’t creak. In the parlour downstairs he
noticed that it was lighter than he had expected, the
dawn was glimmering through the blind, he could
see the branches and leaves of the plant that stood
in front of it. He fetched his cap from the passage
and shut the door again cautiously. His hand
groped over the cupboard, he didn’t look, but he felt
himself opening something. He knew it was not
himself doing it. The box was hard and cold, the
key turned smoothly. He felt a chill. Thieves and
murderers, whispered a voice.

The door of the cupboard was closed. I can’t
stay in this house any more, he thought, it’s getting
too much for me. With hands outstretched, to feel

102

his way, he walked from the cupboard to the glass
door, he felt he was being pursued, and the sweat
stood on his brow. He slipped on the step, he looked
back to see who was there, and he ran through the
shop. He tugged at the bolt. When he stood out¬
side he trembled as he closed the door noiselessly.
He looked the house up and down, the windows were
dark, but they hid something. Suddenly he sobbed
and began to run. At the comer he turned round
and through his tears he said : ‘ I don’t want to do
it, but in that house it’s too much for me.’ Then he
ran faster. He heard the clock in the Tower, and he
ran faster still. He didn’t stop until he reached the
other side of the railway and stood beneath the trees
of the Rampart; he looked back at the Jansweg,
deserted as far as the other side of the bridge in the
dim morning light; he couldn’t go back there
again, for beyond that was the terrifying house.
The tears sprang into his eyes again, he began to run
once more, looking back from time to time to see if he
was being followed. On his right stood three black-
and-white cows bent over the dark ditch; they
turned round and began to run away ; he could s till
hear them lowing when he had passed the church¬
yard.

The sky was bright over the canal where he had to
halt; he sat down on the edge of a field of rape-
seed. As he thought over what he had done, the
tears streamed down his face. It was not his fault,

104

answered that he came from Haarlem, was a nephew
of the Werendonks, and that was all they could get
out of him in answer to their questions. Then a
woman came in whom he was told to call “ Aunt,”
followed by another tall woman leading a child by
the hand. * Well,’ said his uncle, when he had
grasped that Floris had run away from home, ‘ you
can stay here for tonight, but then you’ll have to go
back, for I can’t keep you here, nothing from brother
Gerbrand’s is any good. I’ll give you money for the
journey.’ The woman led him away to brush the
dirt from his shoes and to wash his hands; she didn’t
speak and left him alone. After that he was given
some bread-and-butter at a table in the coffee-
room, while his uncle sat opposite him, quietly
smoking his pipe and staring at him. When the
plate was empty, he said : ‘ Well, so you’re the
son of that fellow Berkenrode. And why have you
run away ? ’

Floris sat without answering, his eyes lowered.
At last he ventured to ask what time there was a train
the next day.

When he had stretched out his stiff legs in bed, he
thought of the house in Little Houtstraat, the echo¬
ing rooms and passages, the grey walls that filled him
with fear.

In the early morning he went away; his uncle
stood at the door looking after him. At the corner
he turned round, but he didn’t wave his hand. In

105

the train he sat staring in front of him, his teeth
clenched, his fists balled. Why he had run away
was nobody’s business, he would never speak about
it and he would struggle with himself, alone, without
help.

The shop was full of customers when he walked in
with a pale but smiling face. The first to ask him
anything was Stien, who came out of the kitchen in a
state of agitation. He answered casually that he had
been to pay a visit to his uncle in Hoorn, and he
said the same thing to Uncle Gerbrand at dinner.
Werendonk was silent, and Uncle Frans, too, asked
him no questions. When they got up from table,
Werendonk said : ‘ My boy, you’re telling lies

again, for you were seen leaving the house as though
you were r unning away. And if you won’t confess,
all I have to say is : don’t do it again.’ Floris sat
with bowed head.

He stayed in his little room under the skylight
with the feeling that he was a prisoner. He looked
at the wainscoting, pasted over with grey paper, at
the old bedstead where he would have to lie again,
the boards of the floor, neatly scrubbed. The
summer sky gleamed through the square window.
The holidays would last fully another three weeks,
and he would have to sit here, for when the Fair
began tomorrow, he wouldn’t dare to go out for fear
of meeting his friends.

He sat alone and from boredom he read his school-

io6

books. Uncle Gerbrand didn’t speak to him.
Uncle Frans sometimes looked at him questioningly
but he said nothing. Only after supper did he go
out and then, so as not to meet any of the boys, he
went to the quietest spots, on the other side of the
Spaame and on the outskirts of the town. He
found it peaceful there, too, in the narrow streets,
where there were but few people, and where, behind
windows, the gleam of the flames under the coffee¬
pots could be seen. The evening air was fresh at
this time, and there was still a pale light in the sky.
Then he heard the Damiaatjes in the distance. For
something to do he counted the number of times they
rang, he listened to the difference in the bells, some
loud and firm, some soft, dying.

One evening when he was walking thus, counting the
chimes, passing through Begijnesteeg, he saw Jansje
outside the door of her home, the smallest house in
the lane. ‘ Not gone to the .Fair ? 5 she asked.
And she took his hand and led him in to have a cup
of coffee; the pot stood over the burner, whence little
patches of light shone into the darkness of the room.
She sat opposite him, but all he could see was some
straggly white hair under her cap. No one was
passing along the lane, and they were silent. But
then Jansje asked after his uncle in Hoorn, if he had
grown old. c He never did any good,’ she said in a
gentle voice. Floris found it difficult to answer, but
she grasped that he had not had a good reception.

io7

* I could have told you that in advance,’ she said,
‘ that man has no heart.’

He was speaking, he could barely hear his own
voice. The Damiaatjes ceased, the big clock struck
the half-hour. He had told her everything he did
on that night, although he had not wanted to ; his
head fell on his arm across the table. Then he felt
her hand on his shoulder and he heard : ‘ Poor lad,’
on a note that sounded like a sob. She stood thus
beside him for a long time in the dark. ‘ You can
always come to me,’ she said at last, ‘ if you feel you
want to unburden yourself. And don’t forget, no
one need do wrong if he doesn’t want to. As long
as you don’t want to, God will help you. And you
can always rely on your Uncle Gerbrand, he is an
upright man.’

At the door she repeated : ‘You can always
come to me, if you’ve too much on your mind. I’ll
keep it to myself; after all, I’m old enough to be
your grandmother.’ And he said : ‘ Thank you,
Jansje.’

He didn’t meet his friends again until the school
term began. He visited Kolk and they laughed at
Blusser’s saucy jokes. One evening Uncle Frans
looked up in amazement because he had not said
“ amen ” at the end of grace. And once, when he
was standing talking to Stien on the stairs, he said :
‘ Damned nonsense, there is no God, that’s nothing
but lies for stupid people.’ He grew noisy about the

io8

house, he could be heard singing up in his room when
he was doing his homework. Stien didn’t repeat
what he had said, nor did Jansje tell what she knew
about him, and Werendonk thought that he was
happy, as young people should be.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Werendonk noticed that he was falling into
thought again instead of doing his accounts; he was
already weeks behind with them, for perpetually he
was obliged to put down his pen and wonder what
decision to come to about the boy. He turned
the wick lower, because the light, shining on the
papers spread out over the table, was too bright
for him. He picked up the cash-book, followed
the amounts with his finger, and estimated, as he
had done so many times before, how long it would
be before everything was paid off. This period
coincided more or less with the number of years
that Floris would require for his studies. He had
always hoped, too, that when the boy had to begin
earning his living, he would be freed from the
disgrace attached to his name. It had remained
a disgrace, although the Bankruptcy Acts had
changed that too, and it would go on being so
regarded by all those who had claims. But in five
or six years’ time no blot would remain on Floris’s
name.

The window was pushed right up ; it was raining
109

no

steadily and the water was pouring from the gutter.
He stared out at the yard, where the lamplight
shone on the wet leaves of the apple-tree. He had
promised that tomorrow he would give his decision
as to whether Floris was to be allowed to live in
Amsterdam. He meditated what he would have
said if his sister had asked his advice. ‘ No,’ it
would have been, ‘ he is too young to live in the big
town without supervision ; no, he needs supervision
more than most boys.’ He seldom had to scold
him, but that was because the boy stood in awe of
him, but what would become of him as soon as he
knew that nobody had an eye on him ? He was
a weakling, only kept in control by supervision ;
nearly every day he caught him out in small
lies, prevarication or deception, and Floris was
well aware that he saw through him. He could
not send a boy, whom fear alone kept from doing
worse, without support into the midst of temptation.
When Jansje had heard that he was to go and
live in Amsterdam in September, she had warned
Werendonk that that would be driving him to
perdition. And none but he would bear the re¬
sponsibility.

But the boy was insistent, begging and imploring
to be allowed to go ; he didn’t want to be made fun
of by his school-fellows ; after all, they hadn’t to
remain subject to their parents’ supervision. It was
true one day he would have to let him stand alone

Ill

and pray that he might be protected. And Mrs.
van Berchem had already been to see him to talk
it over. Werendonk would have preferred her
not to interfere, but it was nothing but friendli¬
ness because she had heard about it at the Kolks’,
and had promised Floris to put in a good word
for him. She herself had a son, a student, who
lived away from home, and she laughed at the
idea of being afraid of the temptations in the
city. But the smallest temptation, which one boy
wouldn’t even consider, for another might be a
great danger, just as damp wood does not bum,
but a bundle of straw bursts into flame from a
single spark.

He forgot his work, staring past the lamplight into
the darkness, thinking of the time when misfortune
had begun for his sister and her child. He had
done his duty, brought up the boy well, and together
with his brothers had worked to wipe the stain from
his name. Now the time was approaching to send
him into the world. It was no use fighting against
that. He felt hot, and rising from his seat, went
and stood so close to the window that the raindrops
splashed on to his hands. Then he noticed how
quiet it was, everyone was asleep. He sighed and
thought: How quiet it will be when the boy is not
at home. The clock in the Tower was striking
one o’clock when he shut the window. He looked
again at the cash-book where the debts were listed,

112

and he thought of the expense he would have
to face.

In September the day came for Floris to go.
Werendonk went to the station with him ; Jansje
and Stien watched him through the window as he
turned out of the street with his bag.

At first he came home regularly on Saturdays.
Then for two successive weeks he stayed away, and
Werendonk went to Amsterdam to see what the
reason for this could be. He did not find him at
home, but he saw that his room was untidy, with
empty bottles and a jug on the table, an ash-tray,
full, as though he had had a lot of visitors. Floris
had very little pocket-money, not enough to offer
his friends wine. Werendonk thought he must
have been running up an account; he realised that
students, at the outset of their careers, like to be gay,
and the next time Floris came home he gave him
a box of cigars and a little money, with the admo¬
nition not to get into debt. ‘ It’s good to enjoy
yourself,’ he said, ‘ you’ll only be eighteen once,
but don’t forget your duty.’

The Christmas vacation was a cheerful time for
Werendonk. It did him good to look at Floris, to
see how his shoulders were broadening, to listen to
him talking of learned matters.

With the New Year, troubles came to the house.
Werendonk had to stay in bed for several weeks and
leave everything to his brother. And it seemed as

though Frans had become more restless since the
boy left home. He had fallen into his old habit of
going out for a stroll every evening before nine
o’clock, and now that he couldn’t do this, he became
irritable, he was disagreeable with the customers and
served them carelessly. Werendonk, who got up
sooner than he should have done, remained poorly.
He had to sit up late to clear up the muddle the
cash in the till had got into, and he didn’t get to bed
until after three in the morning.

The season was bitterly cold, the ice-flowers were
thick on the window-panes and, in spite of the
mittens he wore, he could hardly hold the pen in
his hand. For several nights past he had heard a
crackling sound, he thought that the wood was being
affected by the sudden cold. One evening some
great flakes of paint fell from a beam in the ceiling
on to the table. After that he noticed that the
wall-paper was peeling off. Werendonk began to
fear that it was growing serious, for in the bedroom,
too, and in Floris’s attic room, both of them also
facing on to the yard, flakes of paint were found,
and in the attic, moreover, there was a crack in the
wainscoting. But the creaking and crackling was
heard by none save Werendonk as he sat alone at
the table in the evening and all was quiet in the
house. Never, so long as he could remember, had
it been necessary to do any structural repairs, for,
although the house was probably a couple of hundred

years old, the woodwork and masonry were solid,
and it had been kept in good order and regularly
repainted.

One evening, when he was sitting up late into the
night again, it seemed to him as though upstairs,
in the room where Frans slept, he could hear some¬
thing falling, a dull sound. Whereupon the wooden
frame of the window began to crack. He looked
up and saw that the beam above it was moving,
a piece of the brown wood became visible and dust
fell on to the plant. Suddenly he heard a loud
report; he stood by the table bewildered, the lamp
was slowly swaying. There was a bustle up above ;
Frans came hurrying down the stairs, followed by
Stien. They saw Werendonk, who pointed to a
crack in the wall above the window. Then they
lighted a candle and went upstairs to investigate.
In Frans’s room there was a fissure in the wall under
the window, and a wider one above it. In the attic,
where the floor was covered with plaster-dust, the
fissure was a good two hands in width, the frame of
the skylight was loose and hanging down into the
room. The stars were shining brightly in the sky.
They looked at one another without uttering a word,
and Frans, standing in his nightshirt holding the
candle-stick, was shivering with cold. Smoke from
the baker’s oven was floating into the room. Early
next morning, when the builder came, it seemed that
the damage was serious, for on one side of the fissure

the gable was tilting forward, and had to be propped
up there and then, and the rafters had given way.
Werendonk was aghast when he was told the
estimated cost. The builder said : 4 It’s an old
house, even the best work gives way eventually ;
it’s nothing to do with the cold weather, it’s old
age . 5

He had no money available, because everything
was devoted to paying off the big debt. And when
he was calculating how the money could be found,
he decided that economies would have to be made
in Floris’s expenses, and that he would have to give
up living in Amsterdam. He talked it over with his
brother ; they decided to share a bedroom, and to
give Floris the biggest room where Agnete used to
sleep.

Floris missed coming home for three Saturdays
following. He wrote that he was busy with his
studies. By the time he came, the scaffolding had
been removed. In the room destined for him there
was a new carpet and a cupboard for his books.
He made no response when he heard the news.
Later on, looking out of the kitchen window at the
masonry, he said to Stien : c To think that I had to
come home for that. It ought to fall down alto¬
gether ; it 5 s not worth preserving.’ In the evening
Werendonk had explained to him again that they
would have to live very economically now, but if all
went well, perhaps the following year Floris would

n6

be able to live in Amsterdam again. ‘ But we are
clay,’ he said, * and God is the potter. 5 —‘ Yes,
Uncle, 5 was the answer, but in such a strange tone
that Frans frowned.

It was not until April that he brought his books
and his clothes home to the new room ; even then
he still stayed away for several days. At last he
arrived on the last train to sleep at home again.
He did this every day. In the morning he wasn’t
seen at all until just before dinner ; he hurried out
of the shop with his books under his arm. Once,
when he got home after midnight, Werendonk asked
why he didn’t come home sooner and do his work in
his own room as he was supposed to do. In reply
he made some excuse in an indifferent tone, as much
as to say that was nobody’s business. One Sun¬
day his uncle had a talk with him, in a friendly
way without reprimanding him, saying that, if his
uncles did their duty by him, it was to be expected
of him that he, too, should do his. He listened,
his eyes fixed on the floor, and answered : ‘ Yes.’
But on the following days again he did not come
in until after twelve. And when next Werendonk
spoke to him, he noticed that Floris had been
drinking.

Werendonk sat up late, pacing restlessly up and
down in the parlour, wondering what he could do
to keep the boy on the right path. He didn’t trust
him and he feared that he was up to no good; he

wondered what he could do to find out what he did
with his time there in the town. They were sorrow¬
ful days for him, tortured by the terrible thoughts of
.the father’s sins which were appearing again in the
son. And he reproached himself that, absorbed by
the task of freeing him from disgrace, he had failed
in his duty of bringing the boy up to be a good, god¬
fearing man. He went to see his brother Diderik
to talk it over, and the advice he got there was to
keep Floris at home and put him into the shop, for
after all he belonged to the shop-keeping class. But
it was no use doing that, because his education had
made him unsuited to it. One day at dinner, when
they were sitting opposite each other, he talked of it
to Frans, merely because his thoughts gave him no
rest. At first Frans was silent for a while, then he
shook his head and said : 4 No, there’s nothing we
can do about it, there is more wickedness in him than
we realise. Pray that it may pass, that’s the only
thing. 5 And once when he was sitting in his bed¬
room with his head in his hands, Jansje came in and,
looking at him, she said : 4 You’ve a heavy load of
sorrow, but don’t forget that the boy has more need
of forgiveness than most, and more support and more
devotion, for, with all the sacrifices you have made
for him, you haven’t been able to replace father and
mother. You have always thought a lot about
sinfulness. I remember that from the time when
your father was alive, but you’ve been so taken up

ii8

with that thought that you haven’t noticed sin itself.
That was in your house before the child ever came
here ; perhaps you’ve noticed that he told lies and
deceived you, and have beaten him for it, but you’ve
never known what the child himself has had to fight
against. He must be helped, day in day out, that’s
the only way to keep him straight. He’s very dear
to you, isn’t he ? ’ He sighed : ‘ If only I knew the
way.’

He was annoyed to find the neighbours were begin¬
ning to talk about it. First it was Mrs. Sanne who,
while other customers were standing in the shop,
asked after Floris—was he so busy that he couldn’t
get home before the night train? Another time,
Wouters, walking down the street with him on
his Saturday round, said it was easy to see how
worried he was, but it was his own fault, because
he had tried to bring up the boy above his station.
And from Jansje’s indignation against the neigh¬
bours, he realised that more than that was being
said.

Floris stayed away for three nights. He came in
late with a pale face and his clothes untidy. Weren-
donk spoke to him at once, but he went upstairs
without answering. On the following morning, as
soon as he heard that he was getting up, Werendonk
went up to his bedroom, and, while Floris was dress¬
ing, he said to him shortly that his studies would
have to come to an end if he couldn’t behave himself

Ir 9

properly. The answer he received was unexpected
and strange. c Yes/ said Floris, c they’ll certainly
come to an end soon. For in this house I get no
peace.’ He asked him several times what he meant
by this, but Floris gave no reply. Half an hour
later he saw him hurrying out with a bundle of
books under his arm.

One afternoon a carriage stopped at the door and
Kolk’s mother asked to speak to him. ‘ Weren-
donk/ she said, as soon as she was seated, ‘ what I
have to say isn’t pleasant.’ She had come to advise
him to keep a sharper eye on his nephew, for she had
heard from her son that of all the young men he led
the wildest life, and he had a bad influence on the
others and borrowed money from them, more than
Werendonk probably knew of. He listened, looking
her straight in the face. In the yard Stien was busy
scrubbing her buckets, the noise distracted him, and
he wanted to understand clearly. Hesitatingly, Mrs.
Kolk said that his friends suspected him of dis¬
honesty, but she only mentioned it because she
thought Werendonk ought to know what the young
people were saying. She had come to tell him this
because everyone knew how respected Werendonk
was in the town. He thanked her, saying : ‘ Oh
well, madam, young people have to sow their wild
oats.’ He accompanied her to her carriage and
bowed, while the neighbours peeped through their
windows. Then he went quietly back behind the

120

counter. Only Frans noticed that there was a
harder expression on his face.

At supper-time the brothers did not speak. The
elder was thinking of that journey to Spa, his mind’s
eye dwelt perpetually on the nightshirt with the red
stains on it. Frans was thinking of the man who
rang the Damiaatjes and who had a stiff arm and
couldn’t hold the rope taut; he noticed this every
evening because one of the bells was slightly out of
time. He went out before nine o’clock, and Ger-
brand didn’t even observe it. When he returned
two hours later, his brother was sitting at the
table, without his account books, staring in front
of him.

Floris stayed away for a week. His face was thin,
there were dark circles round his eyes. Werendonk
said he would overlook it this time, but that he was
seriously thinking of paying no more fees for him
after September.

For several days after this Frans was frequently
surprised when he looked at Stien or Jansje to see
that they appeared to have been crying, their eyes
looked so moist. Apparently Warner’s wife had
noticed this also, for one day when he was serving
her she said : ‘ Is something the matter with Stien’s
father that she is looking so miserable ? The whole
house seems to be affected. It’s so quiet.’ Then
he, too, observed how quiet it was. He thought to
himself it was often like that on sunny afternoons in

121

the early summer, when people felt heavy and not a
sound was to be heard in the whole street. His
brother had gone out with the assistant to see what
the barge had brought in ; there was no one at home
but his nephew, who was sitting up in his room at
his studies.

On the following days, too, Frans often noticed
how quiet it was; the warm weather had begun
early, the sun was bright in the sky all day long, and
in the late afternoon it shone through the top panes
of the shop-window. Floris, who didn’t go into
town now because he had to work hard for his
examination, sat up in his room, and nothing was
heard of him.

In July he had to go up to Amsterdam, and when
he came back in the evening he said that he had
failed in his examination.

The following day, when Werendonk had to go
out to make his payments, Frans was called out of
the shop. His brother stood there, pale, as though
something serious had occurred. But he spoke
calmly, 1 Frans,’ he said, ‘ I don’t make mistakes
about money. I know exactly what I put in my
pocket-book and, besides, look, I had jotted down
the numbers of the notes.’ He had laid his pocket-
book down on the table while he went upstairs to
put on his coat, and when he came back he noticed
that it had been moved. The sixty-guilder note
had gone. Gerbrand had looked in the money-box

122

and had searched in the till to make quite sure, but
it was not to be found. ‘ Who has been into the
parlour ? 5 he asked. Frans thought that he had
noticed Stien passing by the glass door, but he
couldn’t be certain. His brother sent him back to
the shop, where customers were waiting, and called
Stien. She came down with her duster in her hand.
Even before Werendonk spoke, she saw that he was
upset, and before she realised what was wrong, the
blood had rushed to her face. He asked if she had
been into the parlour just now, and she merely shook
her head. ‘ Very well,’ he said, ‘ then never mind.’
When she still waited and asked him what he wanted,
he answered that she must hunt for the note he had
lost here, because he had to go out; he couldn’t
keep the people waiting. An hour later, while she
was laying the table, she said she had found nothing.
He noticed that her eyes were wet. She had to call
Floris down to dinner, and she came back to say
that he wasn’t in his room. No one had seen him
go out.

That evening, towards twelve o’clock, when
Werendonk was sitting bent over his books deep in
thought, the door was softly opened, and Stien, in
her dressing-gown, with bare feet, came and stood
in front of him. ‘ Oh, Werendonk,’ she said almost
in a whisper, * I am so worried about Floris some¬
times that I can’t sleep.’

Suddenly she was silent and held her hand over

her eyes as though to control herself. He said
quietly that there was no reason for anxiety, for the
boy had been behaving himself well lately, and it
might happen to anyone to be unsuccessful in an
examination. No more was said. She went away,
closing the door sofdy again.

Before they went to Church the next day Frans
decided to have a good look in the parlour for
the money, but Gerbrand said that Sunday must
not be profaned. Floris stayed away again that
night.

At breakfast the following morning, Gerbrand
asked his brother what he thought of the idea of
giving the number of the note to the police. Frans
said he didn’t know what to think. Stien, who was
in the room, hesitated before she went out. And
when Werendonk went into the passage to fetch his
cap, she came up to him and asked if he had meant
what he said. { Yes,’ he answered, ' otherwise I
should be kept in suspense too long, and I couldn’t
bear that.’—* Then don’t trouble to go,’ she said
suddenly. ‘ It was I did it.’ He hung up his cap
on the hat-stand ; he looked through the window
into the yard. Then he said : ‘ I heard what you
said ; but that can’t be true.’

‘ But it is,’ she repeated. ‘ I took it, go and tell
the police, if you like.’

‘ It can’t be true, I tell you. If you’re losing your
reason, go home and think it over. Today week.

124

you can come back ; or sooner, if you’ve come to
your senses. But go at once. 5

The next evening, when Floris came home and
was about to go upstairs, Werendonk said : 6 Wait
a moment, I 5 ve a sad story to tell you. Stien has
confessed to taking money, and I have sent her home.
She has been with us for more than twenty years,
since before you were bom. It must be a shock to
you too. 5

e Yes, 5 answered Floris, but he could say no
more. When he was alone, Werendonk stood
up and paced up and down the room, his arms
folded.

The brother in Gierstraat had heard why Stien
had been sent away. He said he knew what he
should have done if their sister’s child had been his
responsibility. The neighbours heard of it. Floris
sat all day long in his bedroom, he made no sound
there, and at meal-times he did not speak. One
evening, under the lamp-post in the Kampervest,
he met his cousin Hendrik, who came up to him
and slapped his face ; he did not retaliate. One
day in the Drive, Kolk came up to him and called
him a blackguard and a coward, who would do
better to hang himself; he made no answer. He
didn’t want to go out, but he felt oppressed in the
house, with Jansje refusing to look at him, the pale
face of one uncle who eyed him reproachfully, the
set eyes of the other, staring out in front of him.

125

A week after Stien had gone away, turning
to his brother at supper-time, Werendonk said :
‘ Tomorrow, I must come to a decision about
Stien. If she can’t clear things up, then the
police will have to do it. It’s a pity with such
a faithful servant, but there’s nothing else to be
done.’

Floris stood up ; he clutched the back of his chair
and said in a shaking voice : ‘ Well then, if I must
say it, it was I did it. But it’s the way you’ve
brought me up. Always in this dark house, that
boring old shop, and never any more pocket-money
than a child. And why ? Because my father was a
thief, am I to suffer for it ? I was taken into this
house as though it were a favour, but I’ve never
heard of anything but sin and duty and good be¬
haviour, and no one has cared an atom about my
needs. You’ve embittered my whole life, that’s
what you’ve done, in this gruesome house. Send
me to prison ! What matter? It’ll come to that
in the end. And if stealing isn’t enough, then per¬
haps I’ll do something else.’ He seized his chair in
both hands and swung it round to hit Werendonk,
but Frans had jumped up and received the blow on
his arm. Werendonk rose from his seat ; he stood
up tall in front of Floris, who recoiled and dropped
the chair. He said quietly : ‘ Go upstairs and t hink
over your words.’

The brothers sat down at the table again, their

126

arms crossed ; they did not speak and stared into
the lamp. After a little while, Jansje came in to
clear away the plates. When she had finished,
she said sofdy : * He is to be pitied, don’t forget
that. 9

CHAPTER EIGHT

It was a long winter, with grey days, rain and
mists, and the house seemed to be darker than ever,
especially the parlour with the blind half down, the
passage along by the yard, the staircase with the
treads painted black in the middle. It was quiet
too, each one alone with his own thoughts. Weren-
donk, who had been laid up again in September,
coughed first thing in the morning; he mounted the
stairs slowly and with difficulty because of the pain
in his leg. When he looked round for his spectacle,
reluctant to rise, and Floris jumped up to look for
them, he would say: ‘ That’s old age, my boy,
it brings afflictions with it. We are but dust, to
dust we must return.’ But he didn’t like people
to mention his ailments, or give him advice as to
what he should or should not do ; he would wave
them off as much as to say it merely bored him.
In the shop he served the customers in silence,
more slowly than he used to, folding the tops of
the bags carefully, and sometimes he would look
up with a surprised expression at an ordinary
question, as though he hadn’t understood. His old

127

128

acquaintances realised that he was absorbed in
thought; they looked at him patiently while he
served them, and when they went out they gave
him a friendly nod. The younger brother, who
had always been the quiet one behind the counter,
was now the more talkative ; he seemed to be less
retiring, at any rate with the neighbours and old
customers. Someone remarked that he seemed to
have a smile on his face even when he was silent.
But in the house, at meals or when he was waiting
to hear what his brother had to say to him, he was
as silent as ever and sometimes so absent-minded
that he would reply “ yes ” with a smile when the
answer should have been “ no ”. Or he would
unexpectedly say something that astonished Weren-
donk. c We ought to have that wall at the back
of the house whitewashed, brother, it would look
more cheerful.’ If, in an hour’s time, his eldest
brother referred to it, he would have forgotten it as
completely as though he had never mentioned it.
c Oh,’ he would say, raising his eyebrows, c have it
whitewashed ? ’ And he would stare in front of
him as though he were thinking of something else.
Later in the winter, he would go out into the yard
sometimes to look at the sky. c With all this fog,’
he said to Jansje, c let’s hope we don’t get a frost.’
And once he came home in the morning with a
flushed face, while it was still dark and Stien was
sweeping the floor by candle-light. c There was a

129

frost/ he said, c the trees were still white, but it
was beginning to thaw. You heard, didn’t you?
The bells were ringing for half an hour, and it was
I who rang them. It’s my duty to warn people,
with this foot of mine that I broke through its being
so slippery . 5

It was a red-letter day in the house ; the customers
heard of it, and the neighbours were talking about
how Frans had rung the Damiaatjes because of the
slippery streets. He bustled about, nibbing his
hands, and his eyes shone. At dinner his brother
asked him if he had arranged it with old Simon,
and what the verger had said. And Jansje, who
was standing near, began to talk of old Simon’s
infirmities ; his arms were so painful that he had
to put his elbows into the loops of the ropes when
he was ringing the bells. That day there was a lot
more talk than usual; Floris alone did not open
his lips. But the day after it was as quiet as ever
again in the house.

Floris attracted no attention. After breakfast he
would ask his Uncle Gerbrand what there was for him
to do, a message in the town or a job in the shed.
Then he would go off quietly, and no one ever saw
when he returned. If he was sitting in his bedroom
no sound betrayed it* It was only in the evenings
that he would speak, when Werendonk asked him
about the text the domine had been expounding to
him. This domine held views that Werendonk

H.H.

I

130

didn’t agree with, because he had been taught other¬
wise, but he thought it was better to entrust the
boy’s guidance to a young minister, who would
understand young people better. As far as he could
see, too, Floris had found peace. Whenever his
thoughts oppressed him, he could go to the domine
by the Spaame, opposite the Melk Bridge. He had
confessed everything; how, as long as he could
remember, as though a guileful voice was whisper ing
to him within, he had always had to think to prevent
himself from doing things he was afraid of. Domine
Tuynders had often explained to him about the law
of God and the law of sin, but each time he returned
he repeated that he couldn’t believe that there would
be mercy for him, and each time, with a reassur¬
ing smile, his arms stretched across the table, the
domine told him about the redemption. Then they
prayed together, and Floris went away with moist
eyes.

He went to Church twice on Sundays and to the
Bible readings. As he walked about the town or
when he was sitting in his room, all he wanted to
think of was his wickedness. He became melancholy
from staring in search of the darknesses in which no
more thoughts would come. What was the use of
believing that it was no longer himself who did the
wrong things, but the sin that dwelt within him ?
What was the good of the will to good being there,
but not the power to do it ? And if the spirit was

prepared to do God’s will, but the flesh chose the
path of sin, then there could only be conflict, and
how could there be salvation if the flesh could only
expect damnation ? What was the good of believing
that his soul could be redeemed, if all through his
life he was being urged to do wrong by his sinful
body ? Nothing, after all, but to wait for another
life and in the meantime, here on earth, to endure all
his wickedness. What could life then be other than
hell for any human being who thought about it?
He couldn’t understand how his Uncle Gerbrand,
who always saw the difference between good and
evil, could be so certain and assured, as though he
had no fear of judgment; how the domine himself
never seemed to fear perdition. Or was it perhaps
that they had received grace, an inspiration from
heaven, the faith that gave them the certainty of
salvation. But he did not believe that it would be
given to him. * Pray,’ said the domine, c pray and
have faith.’ But supposing one couldn’t have faith ?
Supposing one could do no more than have the will
without the capability ? Then simply to pray, the
whole of one’s life to pray to be saved from one’s
own wickedness—that was enough to make one
groan.

And when he thought how it had come to pass,
how he had inherited the lying and stealing and
deceit, how his own father, in turn, had inherited it
from his father, and so on from generation to gener-

132

ation through the ages ; when he thought of all
the people who had lived with sin and fought against
it, just as he did, all without help and without result,
then he was oppressed. And when he thought of
why it had to be that sin was passed on to children
who had done nothing to deserve such a burden,
then he was frightened. Then there must be in¬
justice, that children should still have to suffer for
the sinfulness of the first man. He knew it was
wrong to think thus, that it was rebellion against
God. But how could he help that, if he himself had
not made his sinfulness ? If he was already burdened
before he had done anything wrong ? He contem¬
plated all these questions and found no answer, and
feared what it would lead to. And perpetually he
would say to himself, again and again : ‘ The will is
there, but not the power.’

People saw him walking with bowed head ; the
neighbours said : * That boy is repentant; he’ll
turn out well in the end.’ It seemed, too, as though
he were at peace, for, except to go on errands, he
never left the house. The neighbours opposite
could see him in his room, sitting at the table with
his head resting on his hand ; it was amazing how
long he could sit motionless.

He lived in a state of tension too great for his
years, forcing himself to think how he could escape
from his wickedness until he was past understanding
anything and could do nothing but wipe away the

i33

tears that flowed for no reason. The worst thing
of all was fear. He wanted to think because he
knew that through willing and thinking he warded
off something that would gain the mastery over him
the moment he lost courage. It was something that
lurked and lay in wait in the house, something that
he had always felt here. Earlier he used to think
that it was loneliness that oppressed him, the echoes,
the darkness, with his two uncles whom he some¬
times regarded as though they were strangers, Jansje
who could look so penetratingly with her pale eyes,
and Stien who always sang the same songs, in a
monotonous voice, while she swept and polished.
But after that night, when he ran away, he had felt
distinctly that there must be some other reason why
he was never at peace here. He knew that the wall¬
paper crackled because it was dry and hanging
loose, but it gave him the shudders ; he knew that
the beams were mouldering from old age, and yet it
frightened him when he saw that brown dust had
fallen from the ceiling on to the table. Although he
had always slept in the same bed and was used to
the tapping in the wood under the mattress, some¬
times it woke him up with a start. He had a bad
conscience, he knew that well, but it couldn’t be
that only ; in that room in Amsterdam he had never
felt this oppression. And he forced himself to sit
here and not to go out, for always when he had been
out and came home again, the darkness in the par-

134

lour and the passage seemed worse, the creaking of
the stairs sounded louder, and the worn board in
front of his bedroom door squeaked more shrilly.
The only thing was to accustom himself to the fear,
there was nothing else to do for it but to sit still, to
control himself and to think of a way out.

He believed also that he could not live long. In
the mirror he saw how thin his face was, his eyelids
blue, the whites of his eyes greyish and bloodshot.
His lips were not bright like a healthy person’s, but
dark. His mother’s had been like that too. It
soothed him to look at himself and to think that his
life would last perhaps only a few years. Besides,
why should he wish to live long, to reach sixty years,
working merely for food and clothes, perpetually
tortured by his own wickedness, his fears, behind a
counter here, behind a counter there, with no other
thought than to be good and one day to be redeemed.
It is true he sometimes thought of the damnation
that was in store for the sinner, but that didn’t
frighten him. He shrugged his shoulders in front
of the mirror, thinking : if only it would happen
soon.

Werendonk had often told him that idleness
wasn’t a good thing, and asked him what he would
like to do, but he had been unable to give an answer.
One dinner-time when he came to table, his uncle
said that he had found a suitable position for him
in the office of the notary, Wessels, in Great Hout-

*35

straat; he ought to be delighted with it, for with
industry and good will he might go far there. And
indeed he was grateful for it, and promised to do his
best. When he went there for the first time he felt
a sense of relief. Mr. Wessels, a gentleman with a
black beard, spoke kindly to him, saying that he
had known his father well, and that he had great
respect for his Uncle Werendonk ; he himself took
him into the room facing the garden, where Mr.
Opman, the junior partner, was sitting at the desk
near the window. In this room Floris worked morn¬
ing and afternoon, sitting against the wall, making
fair copies of documents, with a feeling that his
torments had left him. But sometimes when he was
sent out to deliver a letter, the thoughts returned
again, and then he had the feeling that he needed
them to keep him alert and watchful for his latent
sinfulness. In those first days, too, things seemed to
grow lighter. That, he thought, is because Fm no
longer sitting in that house like a prisoner. It was
a distraction to him to look at people ; he talked
more easily, his listlessness left him. The notary
accosted Werendonk in the street to tell him that he
was agreeably surprised by the boy, he was so indus¬
trious and well-mannered, so intelligent and so
cheerful. But at home he was still as quiet as ever,
and Werendonk realised that remorse still weighed
heavily on him. Then he tried to speak to him
now and again in a bright tone, but the pains

136

he suffered and kept to himself prevented him from
being cheerful.

One morning Mr. Opman told him to leave the
garden-door open, and for the first time the mild
weather gave him a feeling of joy. He breathed the
fresh air, and he looked at the white flowers against
the fence. £ Is anything the matter ? ’ asked the
junior partner, when he sat staring out into the
garden. He went on with his copying, but he was
more than usually distracted by sounds—the scrub¬
bing of the pavements, the tram-bell, and the sound
of a horse’s hoofs on the cobbles. Sometimes he
caught himself sighing. When he was sent out, he
hurried off, but in the street he walked slowly, and
as though something within him forced him to ; he
felt again that necessity to think and to find some¬
thing that would set him free.

It was on a Sunday afternoon that, standing in his
room before the half-drawn blind, he became aware
again of the fear of something that stood behind him
and was drawing nearer. He had to go out, but
he didn’t know where to go. For the first time for
two years he went into the Forest, where he had not
dared to go in the past because of its loneliness. As
soon as he was on the road leading to the Forest he
began to feel peace ; it was a calm day and a
drizzling rain was falling, there was not a soul about.
It seemed as though the elm-trees, their branches
covered with green buds, had grown taller, as though

*37

the lane was opening out in front of him. It gave
him a strange sensation of comfort to feel his feet
treading the soft earth, the moss and the dried leaves.
Standing still under the branches from which the
drops were falling in the deserted Spanjaardslaan,
peering at the roofs beyond the meadow, he began
to see with new eyes. And he asked himself why
he had been weighed down so long under the heavy
burden, for he was no worse than anyone else, and,
too, he strove much harder against wickedness.
And the reason he had done this was because in his
heart he believed what his uncle had said : if you
questioned your conscience you knew you were sin¬
ful, and to live as your conscience bade was the right
thing. That is what is demanded of men, Uncle
Gerbrand had told him after that terrible day last
year, and since that time he had always listened to
his conscience. And he had no desire to tell lies
any more, and fortunately he had not even felt the
worse inclinations. This was actually a beginning
of salvation, and it had happened slowly in that dark
winter, without his being aware of it. He stood and
smiled at the thought, and he delighted in the rain
on his face and his hair.

‘ You should do that more often , 5 said Unde Ger¬
brand, when he heard that he had been for a walk
in the Forest, 4 that will bring the colour to your
cheeks. Although I haven’t been there for I don’t
know how many years, I remember from the time

i3 8

when I was young myself that the Forest brings
health to the young folks of our town. Only one
walk and you are looking happy already.’ And
Frans said : * And it’s almost at the door, I can still
remember that in clear weather you can hear the
clock even in the Spanjaardslaan. We boys used
to know then that it was time for us to hurry
home. I expect we were a bit frightened of Uncle
Gerbrand.’

He went there more often ; between office hours
only for a quarter of an hour or so ; on Sundays in
the morning and in the afternoon. He found the
paths where he had played games as a child, the
trees on which he had carved his name, and he
noticed that the Forest was not as big as he used to
think it was; before he realised it he had walked
from one end to the other. In the office he sat think¬
ing about it, how free he felt when he was there, and
at home he told them about the lanes and the oak-
trees. For the first time for years they noticed that
it was spring at the Werendonks, and Stien sang so
shrilly that sometimes her voice cracked.

In the April of that spring he saw Wijntje. It was
the last house on the Forest road—low, coloured a
bluish white, with weather-beaten green shutters,
the branches of the chestnut-trees stretched over the
roof. He opened the gate, the letter in his hand
which he had been sent to deliver there ; the maid¬
servant stood on the step with her back to him

139

polishing the bell. As he approached she turned
her face towards him ; blushing, she began to wipe
her hands on her apron. He addressed her as
though he were her superior, and she replied, c Yes,
sir.’ He stood still; he looked at the little leaves
protruding from the shiny bracts ; her lips were
parted in a smile. When she asked him if he was
waiting for an answer, he saw that there were already
flower clusters on the chestnut-trees ; he asked her
what she had said, and then replied that he would
call back for it in the afternoon. He noticed that
the blood rushed to her cheeks, but he didn’t know
that it was because he had raised his hat. Still he
didn’t go immediately ; he looked at the branches
again ; he said : ‘ It’s pretty here,’ nodding, and
she nodded too. The gate closed softly behind him.
He walked slowly and he had to open his coat. And
so a new life was bom in his heart.

At the office he said he had to return for the
answer. He heard what he had said, and followed
it immediately with : ‘ Not that madam said I was
to, but I offered to myself.’ While he was copying,
he could see that smile and that brightness, he had
nearly told a lie for its sake, but had put it right in
time. She had a broad face, a wide brow, that
shone, but the brightness was not only because her
face was so fresh, it was a radiance.

At home, in the passage, he asked Jansje why she
was looking at him so fixedly. She smiled and said :

140

* Because you are looking so well, laddie . 5 And
Stien, who heard this, put her head round the
door.

Approaching the front steps that afternoon, he
looked up through the branches again at the clouds,
and he saw her head disappearing through a window,
fair with a white cap. The bell rang loudly and
went on tinkling. When she stood before him on
the mat, with her lips parted, he saw that she was
small and probably still extremely young. c Will
you wait a moment ? 5 she asked. Her eyes gleamed.
It was peaceful in the tiled passage ; he kept his
eyes fixed on the garden-door at the other end until
he saw her coming again in her white apron. When
she handed him the note, her little finger cocked,
he asked her what her name was. ‘ Oh, Wijntje ? 5
he said, astonished. She repeated it; he nodded
and looked at her hand again.

At twilight he walked past the house, where
through one of the windows in the back room a light
could be seen ; as he turned back, he noticed how
lovely the dark tree-branches were, how soft the
ground under his feet; he walked past again as far
as the ditch beside the meadow. When he reached
this he began to whistle ; a cow came slowly towards
him; behind him the trees rustled.

Every day now, when he took the Forest road to
walk under the trees he would whistle. And one
evening, before it was dark, it suddenly came on to

rain so fast that he took shelter under a tree; he
stood there whistling and he saw that the gate was
being opened. He knew that it was she under the
umbrella. She stood facing him right under the
dripping branches. ‘ I’ve heard you,’ she said.
5 Every evening I hear that whistling ; usually it’s so
quiet here.’—* Wijntje,’ he said, ‘ I’ll walk with you
for a little while.’ She answered that they ought
not to, because people would think it meant some¬
thing, but already he was holding the umbrella
tightly, so that she had a free hand to hold her skirt
up out of the mud, and she walked beside him up
the path that goes round the Deer Park. Now and
again they spoke a single word, to warn each other
of the roots, but otherwise the only sound was the
pattering of the raindrops, and even when they
reached the lamp-post in the Drive, they did not
speak. She paid a short visit to her parents in
Kerkstraat, and when she left and was turning the
comer, she was not surprised to see him again in the
light from the baker’s shop. She said: * Oh,
laddie ! 5 But he took the umbrella again. On
the Forest road it was dark now, so that she had to
hold on to his arm, and sometimes she had to come
closer to him to avoid a puddle. At the gate he
asked her which was her evening out, and if he
might call for her. She didn’t answer, she went
through the gate and pushed her hand between the
bars. When the door was shut, he felt the rain on

142

his face ; he began to whistle again and walked
slowly away.

Every evening when he walked past, she popped
her head out of the window for a moment. And on
Saturday evening he accompanied her to Kerk-
straat, and afterwards took her home. It was
wonderful how easily he could talk to her. Before
they had been out together four times, she knew
everything about him, how all his life he had had to
fight against his wickedness and perpetually had to
struggle to keep straight, how he had often thought
that the best thing would be to make an end of it.
But now he felt sure that everything would be all
right, he felt a different person, better and stronger.
He often said that it was a relief to him to be able
to tell her everything, for he had never had a friend
whom he trusted like her, and he had never been
able to be completely straightforward with his uncle.
Wijnije would listen, her big eyes lowered, and
gently press his arm. They were sitting in the
twilight on a bench near the oak-leaves, when she
said that he was honester than he himself realised,
because, after all, he was always struggling with him¬
self, and she didn’t do that, although she, too, was
very wicked. Yes, she said, if her parents approved
she would like to be always with a boy like him.

He watched all his actions more carefully than
ever, because he wouldn’t have liked ever to feel
ashamed in front of Wijntje. And he noticed more

143

often that he was not telling the complete truth,
both in the office and at home, and it was always
because it was to his advantage, sometimes merely
because it was easier when the full truth involved
a lot of explanation. Then he would be angry, and
he spoke of it with such self-reproach that she had to
comfort him, telling him that, after all, he hadn’t
committed a sin. It certainly relieved him, but
nonetheless he shook his head.

She gave him permission to accompany her to
her parents ; in the low front-parlour they sat at
the round table with the china lamp on it, and on
the window-sill stood a vase of yellow tulips. Her
father, who looked extremely old, was bent and had
a bald head ; he rubbed his hands ; her mother was
short like Wijntje and wore a cap with strings.
‘ Well, well,’ said her father, when he had emptied
his cup, * so you want to keep company.’ He talked
it over with his wife, and they decided that they
must find out first what Werendonk thought about
it, for after all their daughter was in service, and the
Werendonks were in a better position. No more
was said about it, and henceforward he came with
her twice a week. And Werendonk, who heard of
it, waited to see if it was going to be serious.

But there was happiness in the Forest all through
a long spring and a long summer. He always waited
for her under the beech-tree, where they had taken
shelter that first time in the rain, the same tree where

144

he had shown her his name. It was always quiet
there, as though other couples didn’t know this path.
Then they walked up the slope to the ditch where
the cows were lying in the meadow. Wijntje would
ask him if he had been good, whether he had remem¬
bered not to worry too much. And he would tell
her what he had been thinking about to the minutest
detail; how in the office he had been sitting think¬
ing of a Fairtide long ago, when he had stolen money
from Stien’s savings, how he had suffered over it,
and that now, in recalling it, he didn’t even feel
regret. It was a sin, he said, which had been
charged against him once. But it seemed to
him that he was beginning to feel that there was
at least a chance of salvation, if one’s will was good.
Wijntje, walking beside him, was silent, gazing at
the dark path in front of her, but he knew well that
it was she he had to thank that he was able to say
this. Sometimes they stood still under the dark
trees. They could hear the bells in the town faintly.
* My Uncle Frans,’ he said, * has such faith in those
bells; he says they tell us that we can always hope
again.’— Yes,’ she said, ‘ I think that too.’

146

very bones,’ he said, ‘ and it can’t be talked out of
existence.’ Frans looked at him in bewilderment.
He asked Jansjewhat she thought could be the matter
with his brother that he had grown so gloomy;
the shop was thriving as well as they could wish, and
there were no worries. ‘ It was just the same with
your father,’ she said ; ‘ at the end of his life he
could think of nothing else but sin. Who’s to know
what may be gnawing at his heart ? People change
without your knowing why, and the reason for it
lies deep. Just look at Stien, who sings louder than
ever now, especially when she’s cleaning her copper,
she can’t do enough of it, and there isn’t a house
anywhere where everything shines as it does here.’
And it was true, but Frans hadn’t noticed that it
shone more than usual. Now he saw it, and he
thought that the brilliance of the measures, the
weights, the candle-sticks, gave the house a touch of
life, especially in the dark back-parlour.

It was Jansje and he, too, who first noticed that
there was a change in Floris. He kept his eyes
turned away and lowered more than he had done
all the summer ; he seemed to be nervous, too, as
he used to be. At meal-times, when Werendonk
spoke about the wickedness of mankind, he looked at
him with eyes that were full of sorrow. He stared
out at the yard and forgot his plate. ‘ Hm,’ said
Uncle Gerbrand, * you seem to have weighty matters
in your head that you despise your daily bread.

147

It is well for man to be conscious of his shortcoming,
for those who are not perpetually on the watch will
soon stumble.’ It might even happen that in the
midst of these homilies Floris’s eyes would fill with
tears. Frans noticed it and he couldn’t make out
what could be wrong with the boy, who only recently
had been coming home so happily every day. In
the afternoon, after office hours, and in the evening,
after supper, he no longer hurried out, it couldn’t
be because of the weather, for usually he would
go out regardless of the rain. One day he asked
Uncle Gerbrand if he might whitewash the ceiling
of his bedroom himself, and, to the astonished
question : c Whatever for ? ’ he answered, a bright
flush suddenly suffusing his face, that so many flakes
fell down from the old whitewash. Werendonk
refused his permission, saying that the old wood
couldn’t be remedied with new paint. He often
flushed up at an ordinary question. ‘ Have you
been in the forest ? ’ Uncle Gerbrand asked. He
lowered his eyes and said nervously : * Yes,’ with
an expression on his face that Frans mistrusted. In
the kitchen, too, they talked it over. Stien thought
that perhaps there was something wrong between
him and the girl. ‘ Possibly,’ said Jansje, ‘ but he
was seen out with her only yesterday, and they
seemed very friendly and were walking arm-in-arm.
He’s telling lies again, that’s clear, but I don’t
understand why, for, so far as we know, he hasn’t

148

been doing anything wrong.’ Stien polished vigor¬
ously, and wondered what it could be. One after¬
noon she saw him going into the shed, and she
went after him and asked him if he had anything
on his mind ; why didn’t he speak to his uncle
about his sweetheart. He answered that there was
time enough, and when she pressed him to tell her
what was wrong, he shrugged his shoulders. But
he walked away so quickly that she felt certain he
was hiding something. And she talked to Jansje
about it again and again : * What can be the
matter ? Let’s hope it’s not going to be like it used,
to be all over again.’

His nights were restless. He lay awake with
closed eyes and did his best to fall asleep. He
perpetually had the feeling that he had forgotten
something he wanted to remember, but he couldn’t
recall it, and all the time he had to force himself
to seek for it. His mind was a whirl of fleeting
thoughts—thoughts about Wijntje’s questioning eyes,
about letters that he had engrossed badly at the
office, about the grey face of Jan Blusser who mocked
him ; or again about the domine, about the bench
in the Forest, where he had sat alone that evening
with Uncle Gerbrand’s bitter words in his head.
He knew that all these were things he was trying
to think about in order to ward off something else.
But no single thought remained for long. He kept
his eyes closed and listened for the creaking of the

woodwork. Sometimes he thought it was the table,
or the window-sill, or again the centre beam on the
ceiling, and under the mattress the tapping began
again ; first it was only one creature who was at
it, but as soon as that began, the other one on the
left side followed. Then the first one left off and the
other one as well. Why, he thought, why don’t
they go on tapping? Sexton beetles was a good
name for them, and who knew how many people
had already died on this bed ? He ought to be able
to get to sleep quietly now. He had told Wijntje
that later on they would live in a new house, on
no account in an old one where the walls were full
of all the wickedness that had lived in it. She
said she thought that if people had a clear conscience
they could be at peace anywhere, but 3he had never
experienced, as he had, what an old house was like.
Suddenly he sat upright, for the table had creaked.
He got out of bed, cautiously, so that it wouldn’t
be heard downstairs ; he groped his way in the
dark, he shifted the table gently, and felt to see if
the legs were steady. Every night it went on like
this until long after he had heard Uncle Gerbrand
coming upstairs, slowly, one foot at a time on the
treads ; the last step but one always gave a squeak ;
he heard his hands pushing heavily along the ban¬
nister rail. After that the panting in the passage,
the coughing in the room next door, a dull thud
when Uncle Gerbrand fell on his knees to say his

150

prayers, and a long sigh of pain. Then they both
lay awake, his uncle and he. In August the. bad
nights had begun, he didn’t know why. Walking
with Wijntje in the Butter Market along by the stalls,
in the crowd he had seen Blusser’s face staring out
beside an oil-lamp, and all at once he found himself
thinking of those evenings at the Fair long ago.
On the days following he had felt depressed, and
Wijntje, noticing it, had kept asking him why he
was so quiet. He told her everything, all about
his association with Kolk and Blusser. He had done
penance for it, she said, and he mustn’t think any
more about it. But it was too strong and kept
returning. He began to feel now that it was in his
bones. A stain on one’s clothes could be washed
out with soap and water, but a stain on the con¬
science went right through and couldn’t be got rid
of. And how could he make it clear to her that he
was too wicked for her—that it would lead to nothing
but unhappiness if she stayed with him ? That was
how the sleeplessness had begun, and, lying awake,
he had heard the house again. It was never silent
here in the night. He knew well that it was silly
to take it seriously, for what was a house but dead
stone, baked out of clay, and plaster and wood,
nails and paint, and if these things made noises it
was because they were crumbling, because they
were worn out and mouldering. But all the same,
if you hadn’t a good conscience, it sounded as though

these things had voices of their own, and once you
had heard that, there was no more rest to be had.
Those damned stories they had told him as a child
about the ghosts of sinners and their remorse had
given him that stupid belief. But he could hear it,
and he could do nothing about it, although his
reason knew better. It was curious, too, that in
the daytime these noises were not so noticeable,
although then, too, it was wood and stone just the
same that shrank and flaked. And he knew almost
to the minute when they would begin, and what
intervals there would be before they returned ;
when half-past one had struck from the Tower, he
had only to count up to a hundred before something
began to creak on the floor between the cupboard
and the door, and about thirty counts after that
there was a creak under the left-hand window-sill,
as though someone had been walking slowly and
had halted there. Then he would listen carefully.
Then fear came so that he had to force himself to
remain in bed. And in the morning, awaking
with a start, he felt tired and heavy.

At the office, where the stove burned too fiercely,
seated at the little table against the dark wall, he
could scarcely see to read Mr. Opman’s draft, and
if he asked about it the junior partner was impatient.
In the afternoon the darkness made him sleepy.
Once he got a fright because he thought he was
snoring, but it was Mr. Opman himself, sitting at

152

his desk with his head on his breast. And he went
out on tiptoe to deliver letters. For this reason he
saved up the letters for the afternoon, and when he
was out on messages he didn’t hurry, walking in
the fresh air did him good. And he could think
so as to clear up the confusion in his head. After
the joy of the spring and the calm of the summer
he had fallen into gloom again, his faith had left
him, and the misery of his weakness oppressed him
once more. He couldn’t discover the reason. It
was not the oppressive atmosphere of the house,
which he sometimes blamed for it, for he had not
noticed that all through the summer ; it might easily
be his own wickedness, but since that terrible timr
in Amsterdam he had had nothing to reproach
himself with. He walked in the rain, in the snow,
in the wind, without noticing people, looking only
at the numbers of the houses, tormented by the
elusiveness of his thoughts, his memories, his uncle’s
hard words, endeavouring to recapture the comfort
which he had found, first with the domine and then
with Wijntje. But whenever he returned to the
stone passage he noticed that profound emptiness,
a hunger without desire. It was sinfulness, against
which Uncle Gerbrand had always warned him, will
without power, the hopelessness of his lack of faith
in redemption. What was the good of fighting
against it?

When he walked up and down in the dimness of

153

Little Houtweg, waiting for her to come out, he
questioned himself whether he had the right to
allow her to go on hoping that their relationship
would be permanent. It would be better to tell her
that he couldn’t help being what he was, a liar,
who might for a time desist from lying ; a thief,
who did his best not to steal, but today or tomorrow
his sinfulness might turn out to be stronger than his
will. It would be more honourable to break with
her and to pray for his soul for the rest of his life.
But as soon as she opened the gate and laid her hand
on his arm, so confident and so happy, he was filled
with a sorrow that brought him near to weeping.
He was silent because he could not answer, and he
felt it was a good thing that they were walking in
the darkness and she could not see the tears in his
eyes. Then half an hour or so with her parents
round the coffee-table, where he did not need to
talk because Kroon always had so much to say, and
was so long-winded that he hadn’t finished by the
time they were standing at the door again. That,
too, was 'dishonourable of him, to let these people
believe that he had serious intentions. And,
without a word, he took her home again. Before
he went home himself, he walked a while longer
through the quiet streets to throw off his depression.
And so it went on all through the autumn, twice
a week when they went out. He did not dare to
speak.

154

And once, in February, when he was walking thus
after taking her home, in the drizzle along the
Raamgracht, he was accosted under a lamp-post by
Jan Blusser, tall, bent, with hollow cheeks. They
exchanged a few words, and Floris wanted to go on,
but Blusser walked beside him, up one street, down
another. He had been rusticated, he related, but
he had never studied, that was all right for virtuous
people, but not for him. In Ridderstraat he took
Floris by the arm and dragged him into a beer-house;
there were only a few tables and there was no one
sitting at them. Floris wanted to go away again,
he knew that no decent person ought to go in there,
but the waitress was already coming out of the
side door. He sat down, and Blusser led him
on to talk so that he said more than he had in¬
tended.

When he got home he felt a weight had been lifted
from him, and as soon as he got into bed he fell
asleep. The following morning, at his copying,
Blusser 3 s words were perpetually ringing in his ears,
his tone of voice, casual and defiant, and he felt
himself to be a fool. What good had all his thinking
and seeking done him ? He was just the same as
he had been two years ago, with just as little hope
of improvement. Sin had eaten into him, and no
amount of thinking could help to get rid of it. It
was only now that he felt how tired and feverish
his head had been all this time. Although it would

*55

not do to go about with Blusser, for then he would
quickly go from bad to worse, he could at least learn
from him not to take life so hard as though there was
nothing but sin without end. He looked with scorn
at Mr. Opman who sat there dozing, and when he
got up to take the letters round, he walked ordinarily,
without worrying about waking him up.

Two days later the junior partner began com¬
plaining about his writing, about spelling mistakes,
about blots. When he came down from the office
upstairs he threw the documents down on to the
table angrily : ‘ What’s the matter with you, boy,’
he asked, ‘ that you’ve grown so careless ? The cost
of the paper will be deducted from your wages,
bear that in mind.’ At the end of a week, Mr.
Wessels summoned him upstairs, and asked him why
he was doing his work so carelessly ; he warned him
not to forget that for legal documents the utmost
accuracy was essential.

He arrived late at the office, he stayed out too long.
He was scolded by the junior partner, and at home
his uncle, who kept himself informed of every detail,
talked about it all the time while they sat at meals,
in a bitter and abusive tone of voice that he had never
used before : * If you neglect your duty, the next
thing will be to stumble on the path of honour ;
anyone who doesn’t keep on his guard every moment
of the day will find himself in perdition before he
knows where he is. But there are hardened sinners.

156

and with them everything falls on deaf ears, and
though you may see the devil standing on their roof,
still they will not listen . 5 And even Uncle Frans
began about it; he came into his room and said
in an embarrassed tone : ‘ My boy, do try to be
more careful, for, look you, Fm afraid Uncle Ger-
brand will take it to heart if complaints are made,
and his health is failing, he can’t stand much. And
it’s true enough that one thing leads to another,
and you can never be too much on your guard against
temptation . 5 At first Floris answered sharply, then
he was silent.

But he had to hear remonstrance from so many
sides that he grew angry and wilfully adopted an
air of indifference at home and at the office. For
years there had been no intercourse between the
family of Diderik Werendonk in Gierstraat and the
brothers in Little Houtstraat, apart from the mutual
New Year’s visits and the odd occasions when the
eldest went to talk over the big debt and the paying
off. Diderik had joined a different denomination,
and was much stricter than his brothers, and as an
Elder of the Church he felt himself superior. He
despised Kroon, who never went to Church with
his wife, and when he walked past the house in
Kerkstraat, where Kroon sat close up to the window
turning his ivory, he would look straight in front of
him. He had given his elder brother a talking to,
telling him that it was a scandal for their nephew to

i57

be walking out with the daughter of this man, and in
that he saw the explanation of his misbehaviour.
One evening when Floris went with Wijntje to her
parents’ house, her mother began, even before he
had sat down at table, reproaching him with his
bad conduct which was being visited on them, for
Werendonk from Gierstraat had been in and had
implored them urgently to forbid their daughter to
walk out with him, because it was leading him, so
he said, on to the path of frivolity, where he forgot
his duties. He had insulted them with his arrogance,
saying that a young man who was apprenticed to a
notary couldn’t after all be serious in his association
with a servant girl. Now she began enquiring into
his intentions, she spoke sharply, saying that there
had been enough trifling, and threatened to put a
stop to it. Wijntje sat with her handkerchief to
her eyes; her father looked down at the floor.
And Floris merely shrugged his shoulders. He could
easily have explained that all the notary had been
scolding bim for was for untidiness in his writing
and for arriving late, nothing worse than a boy
might do at school, they would probably have over¬
looked that. But he knew that behind these trifles
lurked something serious and that it would be useless
to seek evasions. And all this fault-finding put his
back up. He answered that he didn’t care an
atom, and that his uncle should look after his own
children. Mrs. Kroon went on grumbling as she

158

knitted and looked up angrily at him from time to
time. When they tried to talk of something else,
she would snap at them.

When Floris took Wijntje home, she clung to his
arm with both hands; they had to battle against
the fierce wind. In the darkness of Little Houtstraat
the bare branches tossed wildy, crashing and
creaking. It was impossible to talk. But, close to
the gate, she held him back and pulled him with her
behind a tree-trunk where they were sheltered;
she put her hands on his shoulders and she whispered
that he must not desert her, she would go on helping
him with his difficulties. He put his arm round her
waist and his mouth touched her cheek. The wind
howled, the trees swished beneath the lowering sky,
a branch fell on the ground close beside them. He
started and said that he must get home quickly,
but her cold hands still held him firmly. ‘ You
mustn’t go away,’ she whispered again, ‘ something’ll
happen if you do.’ When they heard the Tower
clock in the distance, she ran off so swifdy that all
at once she had disappeared from his sight in the
darkness.

The next time he visited her parents, , nothing was
said of the incident, her mother looked friendly
again, her father smoked his pipe contentedly and
told them about the time when he was young
himself.

But it looked almost as though Blusser was

159

following him, so frequently was he accosted by him.
They went to the beer-house again. He disliked
the things Blusser said, his cursing and swearing, his
low talk, and yet, without noticing it, he was using
the same expressions himself. He thought his
mockery of religion and good conduct were wicked,
he knew 1 he would lead him into bad ways ag ain,
and yet he couldn’t resist making another appoint¬
ment with him. Then at work in the office he was
always wondering whether there was anything to
look forward to in the evening, and before it was time
to leave he would be gone. He banged the door
after him, saying to himself: ‘ I don’t care what
happens.’ He thought of the lies he had told that
day, he counted them up, and he felt himself grow
hot with shame and anger, but he repeated : * I
don’t care.’

Mr. Wessels asked Werendonk to come and see
him to talk over the change in the boy, and at parting
he advised him to see if he could discover the bad
influence. And Werendonk sat in the evenings with
his head in his hands. He didn’t believe what his
brother Diderik had said about the godlessness of
the Kroons, any more than he believed what Jansje
had told him about the bad youth Floris was some¬
times seen with. He thought and thought and he
encountered a wall in his mind beyond which he
could not penetrate. The fellow was a good-for-
nothing, and all the care he had taken to make a

good man of him, and the example of his home,
had failed. Sin throve better in some than in
others, and the reason for it must remain a riddle.
All the prayers that he had offered up for him
morning and evening for twenty-one years had been
unheard. Werendonk was in despair and blamed
himself. But perseverance in faith, he thought,
will save his soul.

On his round of payments one Saturday morning
he met his brother Diderik, who asked him if he
knew that his adopted son frequented low taverns.
He, Diderik, had contributed for long years out of
his savings, depriving his own children, to cleanse
the boy from his father’s shame, but if it was all to
be of no avail he would give up doing it. He was
convinced that it was Kroon’s daughter who was
inspiring him with evil thoughts, and he persuaded
Gerbrand to go with him and talk to Kroon. Frans
must be present too, he said, because it concerned
them all.

That afternoon they rang the bell in Kerkstraat.
Wijntje, who opened the door, said that her father
and mother had unexpectedly been called away
through a death in the family. The brothers
hesitated and exchanged glances, but Diderik said
that they could talk it over with her and he stepped
to the front and walked in. When they were seated
round the table, Frans was the only one who re¬
moved his cap. Diderik began to speak. * Child,’

he said, c we have heard of your association with our
nephew, and that’s not surprising, since the whole
town is talking about it. We don’t know if your
parents have brought you up with sound principles,
but you are old enough to know for yourself that it
is not right to go out walking with a young man unless
your association has been approved. You are
causing a scandal. But the moral attitude in this
house is your parents’ business. In short, we have
come to tell your father that he must forbid it,
because our nephew is not behaving himself as he
ought at present. I won’t say that you are to
blame for this, but, after all, it is you who have
caused him to lose his head. Therefore, our
urgent request is : Leave him alone. Before he
knew you Floris went regularly to Church, the
domine was pleased with him, and now he is set on
the path of godlessness. I hope you have under¬
stood.’

She held her head bent over her breast, a tear
rolled down her cheek. 4 You mustn’t take it to
heart so,’ said Frans, 4 my brother didn’t mean it
like that.’ Then she began to sob, and the three
brothers looked at her.

Gerbrand sighed; he said in a quiet and
friendly tone : 4 If you love him, perhaps we can
see about it later. With an upright heart every¬
thing will come right, I can tell you that, my

Holding her hand to her mouth to control herself,
she answered : ‘ Thank you. 5

They all stood up. Frans, who was the last to
leave the room, gave her his hand.

CHAPTER TEN

Every time floris came into the shop without
stopping to wipe his feet, Frans looked up at him,
alarmed, until he had gone up the steps and slammed
the glass door behind him. Sometimes a customer,
standing there, would say : { Your nephew should
be careful he doesn’t break the glass.’ Neither
of the brothers answered. Gerbrand Werendonk
wearily tied up the parcels, and polished the
measure, slowly, carefully, and behind the other
counter Frans did the same, his eye cast down,
equally silent. He had noticed the expression of
indifference on the pursed lips, foreboding the rude
answers that would be heard preently in the parlour.
He dawdled purposely, in order to stay longer in the
shop, for the silence when they were together oppressed
him, as though at any moment something terrible
might happen. He could have told them it was a
mistake to warn the girl; after all, it had grieved
the boy, and it was only to be expected that it should
have exasperated him. He had spoken to his brother
about it, but the reply had been that he must

remember the path of virtue was not strewn with

163

164

roses. There were perpetual complaints from the
notary, Frans saw it from the notes that were
delivered or from Gerbrand’s face, and sometimes
he was present when his brother asked : ‘ Why were
you late for the office again ? ’ Latterly Floxis had
not even given an answer. And in the evening he
went out immediately after grace had been said,
for a walk, he told them, but many of the neighbours
were able to tell them how he had been seen with
that tall friend of his in ale-houses that Frans had
never heard of and that apparently were of bad
repute. The last time his brother had forbidden
him to go there, Floris had walked out of the door
s milin g. Gerbrand must be feeling more upset than
he showed.

And Jansje sighed. When Frans walked through
the passage where she was swabbing the floor, she
would leave off and, lifting up her head, that shook
perpetually, would say : ‘ You ought to pay more
attention to your brother’s troubles ; you do your
duty, but apart from that you leave him in the
lurch.’ But how could he help ? He only went
out for about an hour, otherwise he worked as much
as he could, and, in any case, he had no authority
over Floris. Certainly he, too, had noticed that
there was gossip in the street; the neighbours
looked through the window as they passed the shop,
as though they thought something unusual was going
on in there. Jansje and Stien never talked outside

165

the house, and yet it was known that there was
something wrong with their nephew.

But towards the spring Floris became so unruly
that no one in the street could fail to notice it.
He rang the bell at night after twelve o’clock, so
loudly that it could be heard houses away. Some¬
times he stood outside the door for a while with his
friends, with noisy talk and loud laughter, and
Briemen, who always sat up late, pulled his blind
aside to look. Once he had called through the
window to them to be quiet, and one of the boys had
shouted back at him. On another occasion the
whole street was talking of the scandal, how a party
of louts, among them young Berkenrode, boys they
didn’t even recognise, came rolling up with Thijs,
the druggist, who was too drunk to walk, and when
his wife came to the door to fetch him in, they had
hooted at her. There had been quarrelling in the
shop between Wouters, who had asked loudly
whether these disturbances at night couldn’t be put
a stop to, and Werendonk, who answered calmly
and politely that he would not put up with being
called to task in his own house. And Mrs. Sanne,
now almost too infir m to walk, scoffed, saying that
Werendonk’s idea of religion was a fine one—he
went to Church regularly, but had no authority over
that gad-about. Warner’s wife told Stien what all
the neighbours knew, that two of the companions
with whom Floris went about, boys from an ale-

i66

house in the Donkere Spaame, had been involved
with the police. She gave her to understand that
the company he kept was worse than the Werendonks
probably were aware of.

Werendonk kept his head high, although people
realised that this was an effort for him. He served
them attentively, always giving good measure, and
when a customer said “ Thank you,” he just nodded ;
he counted out the change calmly, so that it was
easy to check it after him. In the evening his broad
figure could be seen behind the table, just as it had
always been seen. And on Saturday mornings he
went out as usual with his basket on his arm, his
cap without a speck of dust on it, his eyes always
turned up towards the sky. Certainly his shoulders
were bowed now as he walked, but everyone knew
that it had been a heavy task he had been fulfilling
without fail for the last twenty years or more. He
seemed to be invincible, as though his troubles had
no effect on him. There might have been Sundays
now and again when the younger Werendonk had
not been seen on his way to Church, but no one
could recall such a thing of the elder.

Although nothing had happened at the Weren¬
donks’, the gossip about them continued. That
Frans was a simple fellow who did his work well
had been known for a long time, nevertheless people
remarked now that he must be rather too simple, to
work all his life for less than a servant; someone

167

had heard that for weeks on end he hadn't asked
for a single cent. When some curious person
wanted to know what the position was with the
brother-in-law's creditors, Wouters was able to tell
him which of them was still alive, how much was
owing to those who survived, and they counted and
reckoned and came to the conclusion that it was
a large sum the brothers had raised in the course
of the years. 4 And what for ?' someone asked.
Merely for honour's sake, a notion that the eldest
had in his head, for no reasonable person would hold
it up to the child as a reproach. But that was his
idea of what was right. There was a good deal of
talk even about Jansje and the servant maid.
Jansje, who suffered from palsy, so that her head
shook slightly all the time, lived much more
economically, and didn't even allow herself any
coffee now. One could only imagine that thrift
was catching, for Stien who, three years ago, had
talked of buying a coat, was still wearing her old
one, green and threadbare. And she had grown
serious ; after a long day's work she would sit up
late with her Bible. The only thing she couldn’t
give up was singing her doleful songs.

At last, one day the neighbours were startled by
what had happened at the Werendonks'. In the
early morning people were standing outside the
door, with their hands to their caps, their coats
flying open, for the wind was blowing in wild gusts.

168

The curtain was hanging out of one of the windows
on the first floor, where the panes were broken, the
blind was flapping outside. Briemen’s wife had seen
it at half-past six when she was opening her shop.
The window had been pushed out by the beam which
was still sticking through it, a cloud of dust had come
swirling out, and she had heard young Floris
screaming as he stood there in his nightshirt. She
had immediately rung the bell and a policeman
had come. The onlookers stayed for such a long
time that by the time the schools were open the
carts could hardly make their way through the
crowd. A good many people had thought for a
long time that something of the kind would be sure
to happen; the house was so old and, except for
painting the outside, Werendonk had had no money
to spare for it. Now he would be involved in heavy
expenses, probably the whole ceiling of the first floor
would have to be renewed. In the shop, too, that
morning there was a rush of customers, who stayed
longer than usual to watch the carpenters with the
scaffolding. Werendonk, his arms crossed, calmly
talking to the foreman, said he thought it was not
as bad as it looked and that the ceiling didn’t need
propping up, but he would leave it to him, since he
himself was no expert. Many of them thought he
was making too light of it, seeing there were cracks
through which you could see into the room above.
The injury Floris had received from the falling

plaster was not serious ; he had gone to the office
with his arm in a sling, still pale from the shock.
Before twelve o’clock the shop was in order again,
and later on the workmen came to remove the
broken glass and splintered wood from the frame.
And all through the gossip that went on over the
disaster until late that evening there was a note of
pity for Werendonk—old Werendonk, as he was
called for the first time. They realised what a
burden this unexpected expense would be for him,
who never spent any money except on his task.
Little enlightenment could be obtained from Floris,
either by the carpenter or by Werendonk, who
questioned him in turn. He had been asleep, he
was awakened by the crash of the falling ceiling
and the pain, that was all he could say; he had
been very much upset by it, too. To Stien he said,
when he stood with her in the attic looking through
the hole, that he had seen it coming for a long time,
in fact he lay in bed all the time expecting something
to happen, and he believed that still worse things
were hanging over them. She said that was non¬
sense, for everyone had always said that the house
was on the point of collapsing, so it was hardly to
be wondered at that one floor should give way.
He pursed his lips as though he were on the point
of tears, he went on looking at the hole and it
seemed to him a mournful sight. c Come , 5 she said,
c help me instead of standing there, what’s broken

170

can’t be mended.’ So he helped her to carry the
mattress up into the attic, and it was put in Uncle
Frans’s little room.

For days after he could be seen peering at the walls
and ceilings, he fingered them and scratched at the
paint. It was obvious that his thoughts were
perpetually occupied with the accident. ‘ Wouldn’t
it be better to pull the whole house down and build
a new one ? ’ he asked. Werendonk answered,
without looking at him : ‘You don’t know what
you’re talking about.’ And when they were alone,
Uncle Frans said : ‘ No, indeed, you don’t know
what you’re talking about, the house where your
Uncle Gerbrand and your mother were bom, and
your grandfather and your great-grandfather, and
their fathers and grandfathers. Maybe it’s a bit
dark and not so convenient as the new houses, but
we must put up with that considering all the good
things that an ancestral home brings us.’

The first evenings he only stayed out for an hour
or so, and then he sat for a while with Stien in the
kitchen. With the Bible open in front of her, she
would chatter to him as though she knew he needed
cheering up, but she found it difficult, for there were
things she couldn’t mention, and when she asked
him questions, he answered gruffly. There was
something weighing on his heart, and she daren’t
ask about that. Sometimes he looked at her as
though he would like to tell her something. She

told Jansje that there was no doubt he was suffering
from the break with his sweetheart. * No,’ she said,

‘ I know that look better than you do, there’s some¬
thing that pursues him, and, if he was older, he would
look exactly like his grandfather used to look some¬
times. And if you pay attention you can see it in
Werendonk’s eyes, too; those folk have a struggle
which we know nothing about.’

But after a few weeks, when the house was
smelling of new wood and turpentine, he began
coming home late again; he said good-night
casually and had left the room so rapidly that
Werendonk, deep in his figures, hadn’t even time to
answer.

Werendonk had to work late every night now.
He had got into the habit of working slowly because
his limbs were so stiff and recently, in addition, he
had noticed that his head would get muddled. At
first he had continually polished his glasses, t hink i n g
that they were clouded over and prevented him
from seeing the figures clearly, but, even when he
had seen them correcdy, he would copy them
wrongly, and he made so many mistakes in his
calculations that he sometimes laid his pen down and
waited before starting afresh. Then he got the
impression he had been thinking of something else,
what he didn’t know. And he sat so long, his chin
on his hand, staring in front of him, that he was
startled when the clock struck. More than once

172

he put his books and accounts away in order to
think over the situation.

He foresaw that there would be trouble with the
boy, sooner or later. Mr. Wessels was being very
lenient, but if there were too many complaints he
would lose his position. He wasn’t suited for the
shop, and still less for any trade ; he would never
find his right place unless his conduct improved.
That was the root of the matter. You couldn’t
expect good work from an imperfect tool. He had
been strict with him and had shown him the right
path from the moment the boy was able to stand
on his feet, he had reasoned with him and had im¬
planted in him a respect for the scriptures, he had
forgiven him much, too, time and time again. What
good had it been ? . The explanation must be one
of two things ; either this human creature was not
capable of improvement, or the hands whose task
it had been to mould him had lacked skill. He
had no right to believe the former. But there had
been no other hands, more skilled than his own, to
take charge of the child. And even though he might
have fallen short, he had always had the will to bring
him up in strict accordance with his duty. And
more than that too. For on these evenings, when he
stared in front of him and neglected his figures, he
had felt in his innermost heart that the child
meant more to him-than the fulfilment of a duty.
In the beginning it had been no more than that,

*73

but even in the days when he was irritated by the
crying of the little creature in the room upstairs,
he had felt pity too, because the cries had sounded
to him like wailings over the fate he had been bom
to. And later, when he held the little hand in his,
he had certainly thought that this ought to have
been his own child. After such memories he would
sit for a long time, lost in thought.

And again, sitting at his figures, trying to work
out how they were to make all the money for the
normal and the unexpected expenses, he would once
more begin worrying about the boy, fearing that
worse troubles were approaching for which he ought
to prepare himself quickly. Any day he might be
dismissed, and what was to be done then ? Send
him to America, as Diderik had suggested, or to the
East ? As though it wasn’t just as necessary there
to have a basis of high principles in the struggle
to earn one’s daily bread. And who was to keep
an eye on him so far away?

He picked up his pen again, he began on his
calculations, but something kept gnawing at his heart
and he wrote the figures down without thinki ng
about them because of something he saw in his
memory. Why had he taken in this child without
counting the cost ? He had been conscious of guilt,
but after so many years he no longer knew what
that guilt was. That his brother-in-law had made
away with himself had happened in fulfilment of

174

God’s will, an insoluble riddle—there was no reason
why he should be held responsible for it. And yet
at the time he had felt a sense of guilt. But we are
all guilty, every one of us, even of our neighbours’
misdeeds, guilty from birth until death, and those
of us who bear this in mind are bowed beneath the
weight of it. He felt chilly. He looked at his hands,
purple with cold in spite of the fact that there was
still turf in the stove, though it was late in the season.
It was old age, a chilling of the blood and a dimming
of the mind.

He had seen it approaching for a long time;
he knew that the business and worry of the payments
were becoming too much for him, he had discussed
the question of Frans taking over a part of it. And
once or twice in the evenings Frans actually had
sat at the other side of the table and listened while
he explained the accounts to him. But he wasn’t
capable of grasping much of it, and he seemed to
be more restless than ever. He nodded, he said
“ Yes, yes,” before he had understood, and his eyes
were perpetually wandering to the door.

Something Jansje had said flashed across Weren-
donk’s mind. ‘ Your brother is restless, you can
see he doesn’t feel at ease.’ There couldn’t be
anything the matter with Frans except his passion
for the bells. But he remembered that he had seen
him once or twice in the passage in conversation,
sometimes with Jansje, sometimes with Stien, and

i75

they looked serious and ceased talking as soon as he
appeared. When Frans came in on this particular
evening, and his hand was already on the door-knob
preparatory to going upstairs, Gerbrand, his brows
knitted from persistent pain, said to him : ‘ What
have you on your mind that makes you so restless ?
Tell me . 5 Frans’s pale cheeks flushed; he answered:
‘ Nothing, nothing at all. Except, perhaps, I need
hardly say, that I am certainly worried about Floris’s
comings and goings. He’s getting wilder, he’s
talked about in the town and it isn’t pleasant to
hear that.’ And when asked what was being said,
he made a gesture with his hand and said lighdy :
‘ Oh, it’s too absurd to bother you with it, people
think such bad things sometimes, don’t worry your¬
self more than is necessary.’ And he went hurriedly
through the door.

Frans had heard more than he wanted to repeat,
but in the kitchen he did talk of it. In the evenings,
he left the house shortly after Floris. He followed
him, hesitating what to do, until he saw him meet
some other youths. Then he stood still as though
he were looking at something else. Twice he had
addressed him and told him gently that he ought
not to associate with these boys. Floris had laughed
in his face. And when the youths saw him they
pointed at him , shouted and called him names.
He didn’t venture to speak to Floris again, but he
continued to follow him, always as far as that beer-

176

house, and when he had seen him go in, he sighed
and raised his eyes to heaven. So it went on for
weeks, until the summer came. Then he realised
that he could do nothing about it, and he gave up
following him.

It was summer, an afternoon heavy with heat,
there was no sound in the street, and Werendonk
was standing alone in the shop which was empty
of customers. Frans came in, his cap in his hand,
the collar of his shirt open ; exhausted, despair in
his eyes, he went up the steps into the parlour as
though he were at the end of his tether. When
Gerbrand came in to see what was wrong, he was
sitting by the wall, his hands hanging down at his
sides. He tried to speak, but the tears sprang into
his eyes. Gerbrand waited, standing in front of
him. The door opened, Jansje put her head round
it, and Stien came after her. Frans stammered,
repeating the name of Floris, and pointing helplessly
in one direction. They gave him water. Then he
spoke, but so incoherently that Gerbrand, although
he shook him by the shoulder, could only guess what
he was trying to say. At last he grasped that Floris
had been seen in Great Houtstraat between two
policemen. Werendonk took his cap and went out.

He was away for an hour, and when he returned,
with a drawn face, he went upstairs to his room.
Frans sat alone at the supper-table. He was still
sitting there at nine o’clock when Gerbrand came

177

down at last, but the latter only shook his head
when questioned and spread his account books out
on the table.

Jansje heard it on her way home, she returned to
tell Stien. They sat for a long time with their
aprons to their eyes.

During the days that followed Werendonk went
out morning and afternoon. When he came back
he called Frans into the parlour to tell him about
the business. Mr. Wessels remained obdurate, and
the reason he gave for refusing to accept repayment of
the sum stolen was always the same, that his own
good name would suffer if it was known that there
had been a thief in his office who had gone un¬
punished. The matter would have to go to court-,
Werendonk had been to the advocate, but the lattx&
held out little hope of a light sentence, because Flodfc
had been associating with young men the police ba&
their eyes on.

He continued to go out, but he no longer ca!k$l
Frans, for there was nothing to tell him. Beridk^l
Frans had heard already that he was no longer going
to Mr. Wessels or the advocate, but simply walked
about the town.

The younger brother served alone in the shag*.
It was usually quiet, one would have thought the
customers were staying away on purpose* And when
he had nothing to do, he stood looking through
the top of the window at the little patch af dqr.

K.K»

178

On the day that the case came up in court Weren-
donk kept the shop closed ; only Stien and Jansje
sat waiting in the kitchen, but he himself went out
and later Frans also. The latter came home at
dusk and sat up for his brother without lighting the
lamp. But, after sitting in the dark for a long time,
he went softly into the kitchen and said : ‘ I’m going
out for a while, the bells must ring whatever happens,
and Simon isn’t able to do it.’

Then he, too, stayed out a long time. At eleven
o’clock he found his brother at the table with the
Bible in front of him. 4 What is to happen now,’
said Gerbrand , 4 when he is released in October ? ’—
4 May God have mercy on him,’ answered Frans,

4 we humans are too weak to help one another.’

For three months there was an oppressive stillness
in the parlour, in the kitchen and even in the shop,
where the people waited and said little. As
October drew nearer the brothers grew restless, and
even Gerbrand often went out. Sometimes they
would meet each other, and although they did not
mention it, both knew whence the one was coming
and whither the other was going. Once they saw
Stien on the bridge, and when the day of his release
approached Wijntje too. Werendonk spoke to her,
asking her what she wanted, but she could not
speak and hurried away.

Before the appointed hour the porter allowed
the brothers to go inside to wait. When they saw

i79

Floris coming, a strange smile on his face, they
looked at the ground. Without a word they walked
out. Then Floris stood still facing Werendonk and
said : ‘ Do you think I’m going with you to that
house ? Once more to hear of nothing but sin ?
Once more to be in the old room ? And to be
stared at in the street ? ’—‘ Everything in your room
is new,’ said Werendonk, ‘ as for the rest, we’ll talk
about that later. The main thing is that you’re
going to be comfortable again.’—‘ No,’ he replied,
‘ I’m going in the other direction.’ And he turned
round. Both the brothers together held him fast,
but he wrenched himself free, tearing his sleeve,
and walked away. At the comer they saw Wijntje
coming towards him ; he stood still for a moment,
then leapt to one side and ran.

Before the brothers had reached Little Houtstraat
they had to put up their umbrellas and, as they had
to hold them in front of their faces against the wind,
they did not see that the neighbours were at their
windows. In the dark parlour Stien and Jansje
were waiting, and seeing the astonishment on their
faces, Frans told them at once that he had run away.
Stien began to cry and hurried out of the room.

That evening Werendonk closed the shop even
before his brother had gone out. He laid his papers
on the table and sat down, but he did not look at
them. All the time the Damiaatjes were chiming
he listened to them, and the one thought in his mind

i8o

was, how could Frans be so unfeeling as not to be able
to forget his hobby even on this day. Somewhere
a door slammed, then it was quiet. A memory
came into his mind—he saw himself in a strange town
opening a bag and holding up a nightshirt. He
shuddered, folded his hands and bent his head over
them. ‘ O Lord,’ he prayed, ‘ punish me as I
deserve.’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

It WAS ON A SATURDAY AFTERNOON, AS HE WAS

getting ready to go out, that Werendonk was struck
by the spotlessness of everything in the house. He
had paid no attention to the fact that Stien was
working harder, but now he recalled that he never
went into the passage, up the stairs or into any
of the rooms, without seeing her busy with cleaning
materials or a leather, and the sound of the pump
in the yard or of water running from the spout into
a pail could be heard the whole day long. Not a
speck was to be seen on the floors or the window-sills,
often they were damp ; the cupboards and chairs
shone and the copper looked like new. And all
the time she sang. Her songs, which could be heard
in the shop, had been getting on his nerves, par¬
ticularly the lugubrious ditty that began: “ Without
father or mother, I take up my cross,” and he had
told her two or three times already not to sing so
much. He realised that she did it without thinking,
but it irritated him. It was certainly not high
spirits that made her do it, and there was enough
sadness without being reminded of it. Werendonk

181

i 82

said nothing, he uttered no reproof, though there
was much he could have said. He thought Stien
was extravagant with a number of things, the whole
house smelt too strongly of hearthstone or soft-soap,
but he said nothing. He frequently felt annoyed
with Frans too. Sometimes he talked a lot, in a
slow monotonous voice, about things of no impor¬
tance, at other times he refused to open his mouth,
or twitched his lips and blinked his eyes. Weren-
donk thought it would be better for him if he went
out more, but when he told him to go, Frans stayed
away longer than he could be spared. That again
irritated him, because he felt the need to go out him¬
self. This feeling was so strong sometimes that even
on a Saturday afternoon he called Stien to help in
the shop, saying, for no reason that he knew of, that
probably he wouldn’t be back to supper. He
talked, too, about being obliged to have an assistant
again.

When the neighbours saw him coming out of the
door, his face turned upwards, they knew whither
he was bound, and each one of them had something
to say about it; whether it was any good looking
there, whether it wasn’t sad that a good man should
put himself out for a good-for-nothing, who could
come to no good in any case.

In the early winter days Werendonk went at least
twice a week to one of the ale-houses that Klaas, the
son of his next-door neighbour, Minke, or Hendrik,

the tin-smith's boy, had told him about, and he
discovered that these lads were better known in
these haunts than was realised in their homes. In
return for a trifle they told him whereabouts in the
town he would find gambling-dens, or where to
look for the receivers of stolen goods. Those were
the places to look for the young men who might be
able to tell him something. He, who had never
been in an ale-house, went into bars where the smell
revolted him and the tobacco smoke made him
cough. At first he was stared at when he ordered
lemonade, but when he began to cross-question the
bar-tender, the man at once realised what he wanted.
In an ale-house in the Wood Market the waiter
brought a certain Kleuns up to him, who said he
had heard that Floris was in Amsterdam. He went
with him to another beer-house in New Kruisstraat,
where it looked very clean and there was white sand
on the floor, but when he saw two painted women
coming out of a side-door, Werendonk felt ashamed
to be sitting there. Nevertheless he waited until
the other youth came, who was supposed to be
a friend of Floris, and who said that he had
had a post card from him from Hoorn, that was
all he knew, but he thought he was probably with
Blusser. Werendonk asked the young man to go
with him to Amsterdam to show him the place
where his nephew might be. He didn't see the
wink exchanged between the two.

184

Wouters, who had heard that he was searching in
Amsterdam, asked if he could speak to him in the
parlour. He said that a man like Werendonk, who
had a good reputation and was no longer fit enough
to wear himself out with wandering about all day
in low quarters, would do better to let his son,
Steven, help him. Steven was more in the know,
he had already told them that those young men were
leading Werendonk up the garden path and taking
him here and there in order to get free drinks. So
Steven, who was a sheriff’s clerk, came to see him,
and it was arranged that he should make enquiries.
He said there were boys in the street who were no
whit better than Floris, although no one knew
anything about it.

Werendonk had realised that his journeys to the
town would be of no use, they exhausted him and,
moreover, he did the shop no good by being away
so often. He decided to wait and do the work that
had fallen into arrears. At the end of two days,
one evening, before he sat down in the parlour, he
went out to see Wouters on the corner and to ask
if Steven had heard anything yet. And he went
every evening, just for a moment. Afterwards he
sat in the lamp-light with his papers. But he had
no peace, there was always something to disturb
him. He went into the kitchen to tell Stien to stop
scrubbing the floor, and he was hardly seated again
before he could hear her sweeping in the yard. That

185

maid, he thought, had as little peace as himself, she
worked more than was good for her at her age.
Once or twice he noticed that she sat up late, and
that Frans, who was also beginning to come home
later than usual, would even then go and sit with
her in the kitchen ; he could hear them talking,
although they spoke softly. There were noises, too,
that disturbed him at his calculations. There was
always something creaking in the woodwork for no
apparent reason. There were a couple of boards
in the passage in particular, sometimes they could
be heard even when no one was walking on them.

On New Year’s eve he said it would be better
not to bake any cakes this time; when he came
back from Church he would go to bed early.

That evening Frans and Stien sat alone in the
kitchen, in silence, staring in front of them. When
the clock had struck twelve and they had wished
each other a happy New Year, Stien said, raising
her glistening eyes : ‘ Let us pray for him, as it is
written in the first Epistle of Saint John : “ If any
man see his brother sin, he shall ask God, and He
shall give him life.” ’

They stood up and prayed silently, and after
saying “ Amen ” they wished each other good-night.

Shortly after the New Year Werendonk became
cantankerous, his face contracted as though he was
b eing bothered with twinges of pain again, and one
afternoon, after he had called out to Stien that she

186

ought to be ashamed to be singing all the time like
that as though she was a young girl, he went out in
a temper, although there was no one in the shop
but the new assistant. He went to Amsterdam.
There he roamed through what he took to be
dubious quarters of the town, and every now and
again he came to a standstill outside an ale-house.
He went into one of them in a narrow street between
two canals ; it was dark there, and it was not until
he was seated that he saw Frans at a table behind
him. Frans came and sat beside him, lowering his
eyes in embarrassment because his brother gave
him such a straight look. * I’ll tell you all about it
in a moment,’ he said. They did not speak again
until they were outside. Walking slowly beside him
on the dyke, Frans confessed that he hadn’t dared to
ask his brother for the money, but he had talked it
over with Stien and she had offered to lend if to
him out of her savings. Minke’s boys and another,
whose name he didn’t know, had brought a message
from Floris that he was in great straits. Frans had
come with the money and had expected to meet
Floris himself, but he had sent that fellow Blusser to
say that he was afraid of his uncle. This was the
second time that Frans had brought money here.
‘ He can’t be allowed to starve,’ he said. Where
Floris was he had not discovered.

* So that’s what you’ve been doing,’ said Weren-
donk. * But the money shall be returned to Stien.’

i8 7

When he spoke to her about it, she said that
Jansje, too, had given money, that they had done it
a number of times, even before the disgrace had
come on them. He insisted that they should reckon
up what it amounted to.

Once more Wouters came with his son to warn
him that his credulity was being abused, for they
had been making enquiries, and their belief was that
the youths did not themselves know where Floris
was. Werendonk listened with his head on his
hand, he asked for their advice like a helpless creature
and he implored Wouters to think what he himself
would do if his son were in danger.

The neighbours noticed that his face had become
grey, his eyes hollow, as though he had no sleep at
nights. Every day about six o’clock when Steven
came home he could be seen crossing the road,
sometimes forgetting to put on his cap. People
shook their heads, they were filled with pity to see
this man, who had spent his whole life working to
fulfil a task, tortured with anxiety. Many of them
began enquiring here and there to see if anyone had
heard of the truant. And rumours were rife, gradu¬
ally more and more of them.

Tops, the Werendonks’ right-hand neighbour,
with whom they’d had no dealings for years owing
to an old-standing disagreement, brought the milk¬
man into them early one morning. The previous
evening the man had been walking in the meadow

188

down by the water, opposite the Heemstede reed-
ground. There, beside a boat moored to the bank,
he had seen three youths ; one of them, who looked
like a townsman, he had recognised as Werendonk’s
nephew ; the two others looked as though they
might be tramps. This morning he hadn’t gone so
near, but, even in the dim light of dawn, he had
seen in the distance that the boat was still there,
and two figures were standing on the bank. Al¬
though it was wild weather, with hail and an icy
wind, Werendonk put on his jacket at once, and
when the eldest Minke boy—for they, too, had heard
the story—offered to go with him, he agreed. In the
Forest they had to wait for the steam-tram, walking
up and down to keep warm. When they arrived at
the Heemstede road, Werendonk realised that he
had forgotten the way to the meadows, he had to
follow Klaas along a footpath, across a ditch beside
a gardener’s cottage, where he asked a labourer if
he had seen a boat. The man went with them.
They walked along the reed-ground beside the
Spaame, but the boat was not there. This man
told them that a policeman had been there that
morning. Werendonk had to walk slowly because
of his legs ; he had to rest in the inn, and he sat
there silently looking at the floor.

Two days later it was Warner who came to say
that he had heard from his brother in Overveen that
there, too, three youths had been noticed, of whom

189

one, from the description, must be Werendonk’s
nephew. Werendonk could not walk so far, he
waited until the afternoon in order to go with the
carrier. The Overveen baker’s boy was to show
him the way, and he led him through Duin and
Vaast down the path that leads to the bottom of the
hill, for that was where the boys had been seen.
They walked the whole afternoon, sometimes enquir¬
ing at a cottage, sometimes questioning a passer-by,
occasionally they were told that tramps had passed
that way, one of them a tall youth. Time after
time they took a path that lost itself in the dunes,
looking right and left to see if they could find a trace
of footsteps. It was beg innin g to grow dark when
Werendonk’s leg became so troublesome that he had
to sit down on the sand, but it was something worse
than the pain that tortured him as his eyes searched
beside the dark bushes and along the slopes over
which the clouds were drifting. When he arrived
home he said that he was too tired to stand in the
shop. Frans came in for a moment and questioned
him, but he only shook his head.

Late that evening, when his brother returned
from his outing, he said that the searches tired him
grievously, but he would continue to hunt, for he
was convinced that the boy was wandering in the
neighbourhood and was in bad company. Even at
the cost of his own health he must save him; who
could tell what crimes were being committed. * I

igo

understand now,’ he said, ‘ what the father in the
parable of the Prodigal Son must have suffered.’
He said he would like Frans to take over more of
his work in the shop so as to leave him freer to go
out when it was necessary. The Saturday round
of the creditors, too, he would hand over to
him because he himself had a more arduous task
now.

He sat up later because the accounts had got into
a muddle, and because his thoughts were elsewhere
he did the work more slowly. But he was up again
early in the morning, he swallowed a hasty mouthful
and went out, telling them not to wait for him. For
weeks on end he could be seen going out in fair
weather or in rain, and the Wouterses, who were in
his confidence, always knew where he had gone.
Some people said that it was beginning to affect his
mind—how could he expect to find anyone between
Velsen and Hillegom with nothing definite to go
on, and he a heavy man who suffered from his legs.
They did what they could to help him. Those who
had relatives outside the town wrote to ask whether
by chance a young man had been noticed tramping
.with two companions, if so, to let them know at
once. The young people in the street, too, did their
best; they went out on Sundays in twos and threes
into the districts of the polders as far as the dunes.
And no day passed but Werendonk had a visit from
someone to tell him what he had heard. And he

would go off again with his slow steps ; sometimes
he stayed away from morning until evening.

Shortly after Easter the fishmonger came with a
definite report. Two days previously, returning
along the Zandvoort road, driving slowly because
his old donkey couldn’t get along in the loose sand,
he had pulled up and had seen in the dimes a sort
of tent, covered with potato-sacks. A youth in a
blue suit, with wild hair, had come into the road
and had asked for a few cents, to buy bread, he had
said. The fishmonger had had a good look at him,
and had asked him too : ‘ Aren’t you Werendonk’s
lad ? Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself to
be tramping about like the scum of the earth.’ He
hadn’t given him any money, but he had given him
some bread and butter he had left over. And this
morning he had seen him again. He had cautioned
him that the police were on the look out for some
suspicious characters about whom complaints had
been made at Boekenrode. Werendonk told the
man to go and sell his fish in the Fish Market, and
then to come back for him with his cart.

The neighbours stood at their doors, as though
they had heard good news. The Warner and the
Wouters boys, anxious to help, set off at once and
said they’d probably be there before the cart.
Werendonk was seen to be walking rapidly when he
came out and there was a touch of colour in his
face. They looked after him and, when he had

192

driven out of the street, there was a lot of discussion
in the shops as to whether he was right to put himself
to so much trouble. ‘ That man has the moral
standards of an earlier generation,’ said Wouters ;

‘ he realises that we are responsible for all members
of our households, and there’s no one has better
reason for knowing that than he has.’

The sun was going down when the boys came
home and described how they had searched with
Werendonk. They had each taken a different
direction through the bushes and kept calling to
one another ; a gamekeeper and a couple of labour¬
ers had joined up with them, so that it was like a
battue. They had found no one, but they had
found footprints as far as the Vogelenzang road.

The next morning Werendonk stayed in bed later,
but in the afternoon he was attending to his business
again.

Then reports came in from even farther away,
from Hillegom, from Leimuiden and from the
Westeinder Lake. Each time Werendonk set off-
on the steam-tram, in a cab, or on a labourer’s cart,
and often he had to walk for hours on end. He
went to Schoonhoven, too, because his brother-in-
law, from whom he hadn’t heard for years, wrote to
say that he had received a post card from their
nephew asking for money.

On arriving home one evening in June, Frans
found his brother sitting at the table with his head

193

on his arms. c Are you asleep ? 5 he asked. He
wouldn’t have been surprised, for Gerbrand went
to bed late, rose early, and he knew he was not sleep¬
ing well at night. He shook him by the shoulder ;
his head dropped on one side, his face was grey and
he was dribbling at the mouth. Frans went at once
to fetch water, and Stien, who was still sitting read¬
ing, came back with him. He had to rouse their
neighbour, Wouters, for he could not carry his
brother upstairs alone.

Jansje stayed late in the evenings, because there
was so much to do. c You ought to get someone
else,’ she said, her head shaking, ‘ I’m no good any
more.’ But Werendonk wouldn’t have anyone else
in the shop or to sit by his bedside. It was she who
had to bring him his food and milk and attend to
his room. After a day or two Stien noticed that
she had grown quiet and sometimes stared in front
of her with fear in her eyes ; once before she had
asked what was the matter with her, but Jansje
had answered curtly : ‘Go on with your singing.’
But one morning, when Stien found her in the
kitchen with her apron to her eyes, she suddenly
burst into tears and opened her heart. 6 1 know
he’s only wandering, but I can’t bear to hear it,
it’s so terrible : “ Chastise me, chastise me,” he
keeps saying in a voice that pierces your very soul.
“ He has made my flesh old, he has broken my
bones.” And then again, whimpering like a child :

N

H.K.

“ When I call upon Him, and lift up my voice, He
closes His ear to my prayer. 55 But worst of all is
when he raves about blood and about the scarlet
that no hands can wash away. About blood and
snow. Surely that man can have nothing on his
conscience, you know him as well as I do. There
must be heavy guilt deep in the hearts of all men,
that a man like him should suffer so grievously from
it. And at times he looks as though he could see
something ; at other times he starts up and asks if
all the creaking is in the next room. I don’t know,
but reading the Bible all the time seems to lead to
a lot of misery. Go on singing, child, and forget
your sins. 5

She dried her tears and hurried up the stairs
again. When Frans went in to look at his brother,
he saw that she was only pretending to be tidying
things up so as not to leave him alone. After those
first days Stien did not notice anything strange
about her, only that she was still quiet and that her
head rocked to and fro more than usual.

In August, when Werendonk came into the shop
again, he had lost a lot of flesh. He thanked the
neighbours who congratulated him on his recovery
with a nod, saying that it was no more than might
be expected at his age ; and he served again, as of
old, slowly and carefully. In the evenings he went
up to bed early. ‘ The accounts will have to wait, 5
he said to Jansje. But on Saturdays he was seen as

r 95

usual walking down the street with his basket on
his arm.

It seemed as though all at once the‘neighbours
had given up helping in the search ; no one came
with reports any more, they had forgotten about
Floris. But gossip still continued about the house.
One had something to say about the gable, another
about the front steps with their rusty railings that
grew more rickety every day, or about the high
shop door with its one purple pane at the top, which
had probably been there for the past hundred years.
The corn-chandler’s shop had become a house apart
in the street. Outside it looked so dilapidated,
inside it was so gloomy.

CHAPTER TWELVE

He had been away for nearly a year, one
morning, when the smell of autumn leaves from the
Forest hung about the town, and the cobble-stones
in the street looked as though they had been washed
clean by the rain, while it was still dark Wijntje
came into the shop with her umbrella drip pin g.
The assistant was still standing alone, and she asked
to see Werendonk. He was sitting with Frans at
breakfast; he beckoned to her to come in, and
pointed to a chair. But she remained standing, for
her dress was wet. c Well, child, what is it ?’ he
asked. She hesitated, she asked if she could count
on Frans not repeating anything she said, and when
the latter had reassured her, she said that she had
news; her cheeks flushed red as she said it. Weren¬
donk rose and stood in front of her. A week previ¬
ously she had received a letter, but she couldn’t tell
them what was in it, and yesterday another letter
had come. He wrote that he was destitute and that
in despair he would probably join up in a colonial
regiment. He wanted her to ask his uncle to forgive
him, he could bear it no longer, but he daren’t write

196

i97

himself. c I’m sure he means it, 5 she said, ‘ he suffers
terribly because he is sinful, and he has always
struggled so hard against it, I know that better
than anyone. 5 She would have liked to go to the
Hague to find him, but she couldn’t stay away from
her place so long and, in any case, she didn’t know
where to go, for the only address he had given was
the post office. ‘ You’re a good girl,’ said Weren-
donk, * but now you must help me to get him back.’

He went with her to her mistress’s house, the last
one in Little Houtweg, and as they walked under
their umbrellas they discussed what ought to be
done. They came to a stand under the tree where
Floris had always waited and continued their talk,
and, seeing the tears well up in her eyes, he said :
‘ Once we can get him back then I’ll have a talk
with your father.’ Warner’s boy, who was coming
along with the baker’s cart, looked at them in
amazement. Werendonk walked back slowly, gaz¬
ing with a smile at the green and yellow foliage from
which big raindrops were dripping.

In the afternoon he came back again and talked
to her in the passage. The money would have to
be sent from her. Every day he visited her there,
until her mistress sent a message to say that he might
talk to her in the ante-room. Then he would walk
for a while in the Forest and when he got home, he
said he had enjoyed the walk under the trees, with
the wind and the fresh smell, he hadn’t even noticed

the damp. They had never heard him talk so
much about the Forest and the trees. The neigh¬
bours asked each other what he could be doing
there, and what was the reason for his being seen
talking to that little servant girl. In the kitchen
Jansje said : € Mark my words, she’s a kind, bright
little thing, she’ll save the boy yet.’— c Yes,’ said
Stien, ‘ you never know what way salvation’ll come.’

One day Wijntje came in the evening. She sat
talking to Werendonk for a long time. And he
closed his books and took her home because the road
was so dark. At the gate he held her hand for a
while, pressing it in his. On his return he went
into the kitchen ; Frans and Stien looked at him
in astonishment, he spoke so cheerfully. He said
he was going on a journey the following morning,
and he believed that this was an end of their trial.
Stien broke in to say that everything in his room
was in order, so that he would find everything he
needed there. They went upstairs to see it. And
he commissioned Frans to get in some bellefleurs
and wine-apples, because the boy was so fond of
them. He was preparing to go to bed when he
remembered that he had to put his accounts away,
and as he was doing this, strangely enough he
suddenly thought of that evening when the little
book in which his father’s words were written had
fallen out of the cupboard.

It was not yet daybreak when he went out, a light

i99

was burning in Warners 5 , and through the open
door came the smell of biscuits baking. Stien, look¬
ing out at him, noticed how rapidly he was walking.

When he got to the Hague, he asked his way,
and when he had found the number on the narrow
door of the ground-floor rooms, he rang the bell.
A man in shirt-sleeves opened it and he told him
he had come to see Floris. c He isn’t here, 5 replied
the man and shut the door again. Werendonk
stood still in bewilderment. A policeman who was
passing asked him if he was looking for something,
and he explained that he had arranged to meet his
nephew here. The policeman then advised him to
go and look in some of the beer-houses, and he
walked with him saying he could see he didn’t know
his way about. That man, he told him, was a
fortune-teller, but he probably did other things with
cards as well, and it would be a good thing to get
his nephew away from there.

Werendonk went into a beer-house and there he
saw Floris. ‘ I want to speak to you, 5 he said, ‘ come
with me. 5 The boy followed him, pale, silent; and,
out on the street, they walked beside each other
without saying a word. At last Werendonk spoke :
e My boy, everything is forgiven you, so far as it is
in my power to forgive, and if it is your wish to live
the life of an honest man, then come home with me,
I will do all I can to help you. 5 As though he were
a child, Floris held him by the hand, and, sobbing,

200

his head bent, he walked at his side. Street after
street they walked without saying a word, but when
they came to a canal, where it was quieter, Floris
began to speak. During this past year, he said, he
had done things so wicked that he dared not mention

them, he was no longer fit to associate with decent
people. He was filled with remorse, and often
wondered how it came to be that he had to be like
this, for he had struggled against it more than his
uncle could know. Werendonk did not ask him what
he had been doing all this time. * We are all
sinners,’ he said, ‘ old and young, rich and poor,
but some are weaker and do wrong, while others
are protected from it. They are the elect. The
main thing is to have faith that one day you will
find salvation. Have faith, my boy, it is so comfort¬
ing, and you’ll be able to overcome many things

then, you’ll see. And if temptation becomes too
strong for you, tell me and I will help you. I’m
the man to whom you can look for help.’

They stayed in the town until it was evening,
because Werendonk thought it would be better to
come home when the neighbours’ shops were shut.
Tired as he was, he chose a long way round from
the station, beside the Spaame, where it was quiet
and dark. In their own street there was no one
about, the lights in the street-lamps flickered in the
wind. As he rang the bell, the blind in Thijs’s
house on the other side of the road was drawn aside,

201

but their front-door was opened immediately. In
the darkness, all that Stien said was that she had
put a piece of turf in the stove because it was so
chilly, and when they were in the parlour she
looked at Floris and saw how thin he was ; then
she suddenly laid her head on his shoulder. Frans
stood up and gave him his hand, his mouth twitched,
but he said nothing. Werendonk asked for choco¬
late to be made ; they were tired, he said, they
must go to bed soon. Thus after a year the boy
came home. They spoke of the weather, nothing
more. Then Floris went to his room with Stien
who carried the candle-stick ; once more he heard
the stairs creak. When she had lighted the lamp,
he saw that there was a new table and a new bed¬
stead. c It’s a nice room, isn’t it ? 3 said Stien.

‘ Sleep well now. 5

Floris was awakened by the sound of loud singing
down below, and while he was listening Jansje came
in with some breakfast. She gave him no special
greeting, treating him as though he had never been
away. She told him he was to stay in bed, for rest
was always a good thing. He stayed in bed, listen¬
ing to the singing until he fell asleep again. It was
nearly midday when Frans wakened him.

In the parlour downstairs the voices of his uncles
sounded cheerful as they sat round the table at their
meal. Floris said that everything looked so clean,
the plates, the forks, the table-cloth, it seemed like

202

a miracle. And together with his uncles he folded
his hands for grace. They talked a lot, about the
news in the papers; about a great Exhibition which
was to take place in Amsterdam next year, where
people were to go about dressed in the costumes of
their ancestors ; about the news in the town too ;
about what had been said in the Town Council
about the Fair, which some people wanted to do
away with. Floris talked too, he didn’t even notice
that there was more conversation at table than there
used to be. But when Frans said that he ought to
go to the barber he replied that he would go after
dark, and after that he was silent.

He took the Bible up to his room with him. He
frequently had to force himself to go on reading, for
often he found himself looking out of the window
with thoughts he did not want. At Thijs’s they had
already seen him. While he was reading Weren-
donk came in with a bundle of papers in his hand ;
he sat down beside him and said : * Look here, I
know you don’t like the idea of being seen by people,
but what’s past is past, and it’s better to go out as
usual. Judgment is not with men, but with the
Lord, and it’s there you must seek it. Go out if
you want to, it’ll be a little time yet before you’re
yourself again. You’ll have to have some new
clothes. And if you want to stay at home, you can
relieve me of work by copying these wholesalers’
accounts into the ledger. Behave as though you

203

were just back from a journey full of perils, and
take your ease/

Floris caught his hand, he suddenly felt a warmth
from that broad chest, and he began to cry. c Come,
come , 3 said Werendonk, ‘ don’t cry, you’re on the
right path . 3 And the boy smiled through his tears.
c Stien is still at her singing , 3 he said, c nineteen to
the dozen ; wherever does she learn them all ? 3
She was singing loudly downstairs, in a high-pitched
voice : c Sweet maiden, do not grieve ; thy heart
deserves no pain . 3

He took his cap and went through the shop,
where he noticed the clean smell of the chandler’s
wares. In the street he saw that heads were turned
to look at him, but when he got to the comer and
Wouters dashed out and gave him a long handshake,
he felt relieved, and ventured to look about him.
When he returned, the neighbours greeted him.

In the parlour the lamp was lighted early with a
new wick that burned brightly. He went into the
kitchen where Stien was busy cooking pancakes.
And in the evening, when he sat at the table with
Werendonk, talking quietly about the work he would
be able to do, Wouters came in with his son, bringing
a cake that Frans had ordered. One or two custo¬
mers in the shop observed that there was something
afoot, someone asked what it was, and another, who
knew all about it, nodded and smiled.

Before he went to bed, Werendonk called Stien

204

into the parlour and told her there must be some
gaiety in the house, he had arranged with Steven
that he should come in now and again, and then
the company must be served with coffee and cakes,
or, when the cold weather came, a cup of saffron
milk.

The winter evenings were cheerful. There was
only a comer of the table left for Werendonk and
his papers, for opposite him, beside the plant, Steven
and Floris had to have room for their dominoes, and
often Frans would join them when he came home
immediately after the chiming of the Damiaatjes.
Werendonk looked on at them more than he meant
to, so that later, sitting alone, he still had a lot to do.
Stien came in every evening, smiling, with a plate
of one thing or another. And there was joking,
and the sound of voices was heard more than had
ever been heard there before. No one noticed that
sometimes Werendonk’s face was contorted with
pain.

He had to do his work at night. But even in the
silence his mind was not entirely on his task, for
his thoughts wandered. As long as the boy was so
thin and run-down, he would have to rest and be
looked after, but what would the future hold for him
when he was well enough for work ? Once fallen,
it is difficult to raise oneself again, and not many
people would hold out a hand. He himself would
not take into his shop a boy with a bad name and a

205

prison record. So long as a man had never com¬
mitted a crime he could be trusted, but once he had
transgressed he might easily have another lapse.
That was the great trouble. Once sin has been
experienced, it tempts more easily, and then, too,
it is much harder to struggle against it. A boy like
Floris had to begin right at the beginning again, be
led once more to realise the difference between right
and wrong, and how could that be done without
Werendonk’s help? And he no longer had the
strength of his earlier years. He was beginning to
feel his age, and now that he had so much sorrow
behind him, it was dear to him what the boy meant
to him.

Every evening he pondered until after midnight;
he saw no way clear. Always he returned to
questions and riddles. However much man strove
and struggled, there was no salvation for him save
in grace.

Before Christmas it was Floris himself who men¬
tioned work. He had thought a lot about it, he
said, but he did not know what it ought to be, and
he would very much like to get to work. Otherwise
he did too much thinking, and he was afraid of
that. Hesitating, with bent head, he said that morn¬
ing and afternoon he read his Bible, and then when
he thought about it he realised that he possessed all
the sins of mankind, so many that he would never
be able to struggle against them, and those were

200

the sort of thoughts he used to have in the past.
If only he hadn't to think about what he had done,
it would be easier for him. * There you are right , 5
said Werendonk. ‘ The labour that has been given
to us to bear since the first man is a punishment,
but also a blessing, it keeps us from much wrong¬
doing. It is difficult to find something for you to
do, unless you care to help me in the shop. You
haven't been brought up to it, because I used to
have bigger plans for you, but you can become a
good man in any station of life. In a year from
now we shall be free from our worries, and when we
are no more the shop will be yours.' Floris asked
him if he still trusted him with money. c Yes,' was
the answer, c you won't do those things any more,
we are praying for that with all our might.'

In the New Year things were busy in the house.
Floris was in the shop too, and although he was not
talkative, he served deftly, without making mistakes,
and he was polite. The customers were pleased to
see him there. The work was done quickly, so that
Werendonk frequently stood with empty hands.
And when there was nothing more to do, Floris
could be seen clearing up, tidying, sweeping, and
polishing the measures. It could hardly be made
to look more spotless than it had always been, and
yet he always found something for his cloth or his
duster. Jansje and Stien, too, worked more busily
in the mornings before the shop was opened, with

207

scrubbing-brush and window-squirt; the floor was
scoured, the steps scrubbed and the panes gleamed
brightly. Passers-by looked in at the shop windows.

And workmen came into the house to build a new
staircase and to lay new boards in the passage, for
Werendonk thought the old ones had served their
time. The wainscoting in the passage had to be
renewed, when it was discovered that the woodwork
under the paint was crumbling. For days there
were painters and plasterers about the place ; the
shop and the entrance steps were painted. The
neighbours said that there was a change in Weren¬
donk, and that it must be that he was no longer so
heavily burdened with the debts.

It was known that he no longer visited his brother
in Gierstraat; he had mentioned to Wouters on
one occasion that he had had words with him, about
his nephew, about money, and about other things.
The neighbours realised that it had been about
Kroon also, for he and the other Werendonk were
enemies, and Kroon was often seen, sometimes alone
and sometimes with his wife, going into the shop.
Besides, in the back-parlour a party of dominoes
was played, a thing that Diderik Werendonk, now
that he had become so strict, would certainly not
have approved. There had never been dissension
among the Werendonks ; on the contrary, they had
always stood together and helped each other. Floris
knew that he had been the cause of this difference.

208

His cousin had said to him : ‘ Do you think that
my father is going to go on paying for a criminal ?
We and the uncles would have been well off if it
hadn’t been for you.’

It stuck in his mind. Sometimes the parlour was
crowded with company; Werendonk had never
seen such a thing there in his life before. And he
observed that, perhaps in a moment of gaiety when
they were all laughing and their voices were mingled
in merriment, Floris would suddenly become silent
and stare in front of him. He thought it must be
that his mind was not yet cleared up, and that the
thoughts of the dark period tormented him. One
afternoon, when Floris was setting out to do some
errands, he spoke to him about it: ‘ My boy, we
are doing all we can for you, but there’s still some¬
thing worrying you. If you’re feeling remorse,
remember that the Lord can see into your heart,
and if it’s sincere you may trust in him. Or is there
something else ? ’ And he mentioned the name of
Wijntje whom Floris had not yet seen again. ‘ It
isn’t that,’ was the answer he gave with a deep
flush, ‘ she knows well that I cannot face her yet,
but one day soon I must talk to her.’ And he took
up his cap quickly and was gone.

The moments of oppression came more frequently.
In bed his thoughts returned to him. He owed
everything to his uncle, years of trouble had been
spent on him, and he had been rescued from the

209

lowest depths of mire, everything had been done to
make a decent man of him, and he asked himself
again and again : What had been the use of it ?
It had been nothing but charity which he hadn’t
deserved.

Nowadays he visited at the houses of some of the
neighbours : Wouters, who always pressed him to
come in and sit at the table with his sons and
daughters ; Warner, who was noted for his surliness,
but who was always kind to him and never spoke of
the bad days; Briemen, whom he didn’t like
because the man got into such tempers, and would
beat his wife and daughters for no reason at all,
but he insisted that Floris should sit down in their
parlour and eat a cake, all to give him pleasure.
But he didn’t feel at ease with any of them. It’s
not for my sake, he thought; if I wasn’t the nephew
of Uncle Gerbrand, they wouldn’t even want to
recognise me. They do it for him because they
know well that he is a better man than any of them.

Frans, who was much livelier this winter, often
talked to him. Once he took him with him to St.
Bavo’s to show him how difficult it was to manage
the ropes of the bells. Frans had never been known
to confide in anyone about this. He sat down in
the middle of the Church on a rush chair, and the
candle-stick stood on the ground in front of him.

4 That’s how Simon used to do it,’ he said, c with
his elbows in the loops because his arms were stiff,

. H.H. O

210

but then you can’t prevent the ropes up there from
getting entangled, and then one of the clappers
strikes double, you know, ding-ding-dong, three
times instead of twice.’ As they were walking home,
Frans said : ‘ I’ve never told anyone about that
before.’ It was a sign of this uncle’s goodwill
towards him.

But once, coming down from upstairs, he stood
by the kitchen door, listening to the words of the
song Stien was singing. In the middle of it she
stopped, and it was Uncle Frans’s voice he heard :
£ Yes, my girl, it might have been different for me,
too, if it hadn’t been for that big debt.’

He turned cold at the words. He went into the
shop and he thought : That debt means me.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

He met wijntje by chance, at dusk, on the
Kampervest. She was walking there with her
shopping-basket. They stood still facing each other,
but except to say good-evening, they found no words.
They looked at some boys who were playing noisily
with a dog beside the trees. He saw how her eyes
glistened, how slender she looked in her clean dress.
It was she who spoke first and asked him to talk with
her, for she was on her way home. Little Houtweg
was deserted, her white apron gleamed under a
lamp which had just been lighted. ‘ I’m not going
to ask you any questions,’ she said, and after a little
while he answered that there was so much to say
that he couldn’t even begin. When they came to
the sandy path, he held her arm tightly to make
her walk more slowly, and at the tree where he used
to wait they stood. * I must talk to you,’ he said,
‘ it’s worrying me.’ She came closer to him. Above
their heads, the branches, with their swelling buds,
did not move. There was no sound to be heard.
They stood, each knowing that sorrow had not
parted them, and yet oppressed at the thought of

212

what had to be said. She asked him to come and
call for her on the following evening.

And then, walking in the dark beside the low
bushes, his arm linked in hers, he told her about
things that frightened her because she could hear
from his voice how bad they had been though she
did not understand them. He didn’t dare either to
mention them by name, he merely said : ‘ When
you’ve done things like that, you’ve fallen low,’
and perpetually he made the excuse that he had
struggled against it, but the others had been too
strong for him, and when he had done it once he
did it the next time without thinking. Sometimes
he fell silent as though he saw it all before him
again, then he called himself a coward, who would
have done better to stay away. That things had
been very bad she grasped, and that was quite
enough for her, she didn’t need to know what and
how. She asked no questions, she let him talk.
And in the end he was addressing himself with
questions and answers, accusing and defending,
and they walked for so long that she was tired
out.

It was almost too late to go and see her parents,
but she dared not stay away. And after that she
had to hurry back. She arranged to meet him,
and then went, but suddenly she turned back and
threw her arms round his neck, whispering that
everything would come right. Standing alone in

213

the darkness, for the first time he felt that a weight
had been lifted from him.

He called for her regularly on her days out, and
he visited her parents ; they were engaged now.
Often he walked beside her in silence, and often
she couldn’t help asking him if something was the
matter with him. Then he began again, discon¬
solately, with his self-reproaches, saying that he had
committed worse crimes than he had confessed to
her, and could not believe that he would ever feel
himself free from guilt. Nothing she did to cheer
him up was of any avail. She spoke firmly as though
she were older and wiser than he, saying that she
had forgiven him everything, however bad it might
have been, and after all, his will was good and he
could count on her to help him to live an honest life.
Sometimes he pressed her arm closely and believed
that she would save him. But sometimes he shook
his head at everything she said. God had made him
wicked, full to the brim with sin ; what could human
beings like them do about it ? He couldn’t even tell
her about the terrifying thoughts that kept him
awake in bed, so dreadful that perhaps it would be
better if he made an end of his life. ‘ Oh, laddie,’
she said, ‘ you have gone through so much, and it
can’t all be put right in a day, but, believe me, you
are no worse than me, but you worry more about
it.’

She encountered Werendonk one morning and

214

she stood for a moment to talk to him about Floris
being so tormented with remorse. She had been
thinking he ought to have a little gaiety to divert
him. * That’s so,’ he assented, ‘ his youth must
not be wasted in the shadow of his sense of guilt.’
He said he would think it over and probably he
would discover something.

He read in the paper about the International
Exhibition in Amsterdam, and he asked Floris if
he would like to go with him to see it. They set
off one morning. In the great building workmen
were hammering and painting and unpacking, but
Werendonk found plenty to look at. After dinner
they examined the model steamboat, and they
loitered along the old market square that had been
erected for amusements, wine-houses and confec¬
tioners’ shops, with girls in old-fashioned costumes.
Floris said he must come back here some day soon, it
was probably very gay in the evening. Werendonk
suggested that he should stay on a bit, it was too
tiring for himself, and he gave him money. Floris
arrived home on the last train.

A week later, he went there on a Sunday with
Wijntje. It was crowded and warm. They walked
round Old Holland, behind the bandstand, and
twice they went and drank raisin-brandy at the
Hind’s Foot. He talked and laughed a lot, and on
the way home he said that she was right, he must
look on the cheerful side of life. She felt happy

215

at his side, and in the dark, quiet streets she walked
close to him, holding his arm. She herself suggested
he should take her again, she had enough money to
pay for it. The second time they joined up with two
others, a gay engaged couple, and they spent the
whole day together, the girls eating more sweets and
the boys drinking more beer than they were accus¬
tomed to. * You can see it’s doing him good , 5 said
Wijntje to Werendonk, * he isn’t always brooding
now . 5 It still happened occasionally, when they
were out for a walk, that he would suddenly grow
silent, and if she then questioned him, he would
speak calmly and seriously about the future when
they should be married and all the misery forgotten.
And frequently he told her that she was a great
support, that with her beside him he couldn 5 t fail
to keep straight. Wijntje was in no hurry to go
home ; they walked in step slowly, side by side,
and their voices sounded soft in the darkness.

In the early summer it happened more often that
he would ask his uncle for money for an evening
at the Exhibition, and Werendonk gave it liberally,
thinking that it was well earned after a long and
arduous day. Then on the following morning he
would tell them who he had been with, school-
friends he had met again or new acquaintances,
and about the fun that had kept them so late.
Once Werendonk said that it cost a lot when he went
so often, but every time that Floris asked for money

2l6

he gave it, saying : ‘ It’s your own wages, after all,
that you’ve earned, you can always ask for it.’
But when he had been several evenings in succession,
Werendonk, who was sitting up still, asked if he
could rely on his remembering his duty. Temptation
was proving too strong again and the boy didn’t
even realise it. He confessed that he had borrowed
money, he promised not to do it again. But when
he went into town to pay it back, he forgot all about
it, squandered it with his friends and came home late.

Not long after this, walking to the station, he had
two stolen guilders in his pocket. He felt there was
something strange about himself, but his thoughts
were on other things.

The next time he was walking that way, hurrying
although he was in plenty of time for the train, he
remembered how it had happened, his head grew
hot and heavy at the thought. Through everything
he did, everything he said, the whole day long there
had been something that hurt him, the perpetual
torture about the money he had borrowed and had
to pay back that evening ; the fear and the inability
to ask Uncle Gerbrand for it. He had given a
customer fifty cents in change, and the guilder that
had been handed to him remained in his hand when
he shut the drawer. It was done before he knew
it. And the torments grew worse because he was
waiting for an opportunity to put the guilder back
in the drawer. What had happened afterwards he

217

didn’t clearly remember, but there were two
guilders in his waistcoat pocket. It wouldn’t be
noticed. He felt it at the back of his head, he was
afraid of it. At the Exhibition he didn’t go and
sit with the group of friends, he called one of them
out, gave him what he owed him and went away.

He sat outside the cafe near the bandstand and
looked at the people all round him. The figures
looked dark as they drew near in the bluish light,
passing slowly by the festoons of coloured fairy-
lamps. There was a smile on nearly every face.
All at once he found himself thinking of Uncle
Gerbrand, who was sitting at home, bent and peering
short-sightedly through his spectacles. He felt faint
and ill, he tried to remember what it was he had to
do, but he couldn’t. Two thoughts were confused
in his brain : either he must speak at once and
confess, or he must struggle with himself in silence.
He wouldn’t be able to bear Uncle Gerbrand’s
eyes, when he addressed him again with the so often
repeated words about sin and forgiveness, looking
at him as though he didn’t know which way to turn.
And again there would be silence in the house and
at night sighs in the bedroom next to his. He would
rather have anything than that silence, as though
the very house turned away from him and grew
melancholy.

His glass was empty, he noticed that the people
were leaving. He looked round and he thought:

2l8

if only there were someone to talk to now, there
might be still hope. But he felt that he was alone,
that no one could help him. He went away and
another thought came to him : it’s nothing. I’ll
ask for the money I’ve worked for, and I’ll put it
back in the drawer. But the oppression in his head
remained, and he shunned the paths where others
were walking.

Uncle Gerbrand was still sitting at his papers.
He looked up and Floris realised that he observed
something about him. ‘ Have you had a jolly
evening ? ’ he asked. ‘ No,’ was the answer, ‘ I
was bored.’ While he was undressing he thought:
I must tell myself that I am ill, and that I can’t
help it, and no one knows about it. The clock
had struck one when he heard Werendonk’s heavy
tread. In the room next to his he heard a deep sigh.
Then there was silence in the house. There was no
more creaking in the woodwork, such as he used to
lie and listen for, but the silence was chill, and
oppressed him even more, it was as though the
dark walls were looking at him. He lay with open
eyes, his mind exhausted.

The very next morning his Uncle Frans asked :
‘ My boy, why are you so quiet ? ’ And that same
day Jansje seemed to be suspicious, she kept looking
at him, and that perpetual shaking of her head got
on his nerves. In the shop he felt restless, he kept
going into the parlour or upstairs, without any

219

reason, and just stood and looked round. Wherever
he was he noticed the silence.

For a few evenings he went out early, saying he
was going for a walk. He could bear the loneliness
better out of doors, for there he could think about
himself and what he could do to improve things.
Then he realised that it was the house that got on
his nerves, because, just as in the past, when he had
done wrong, it was the only thing he could lay the
blame on. He wondered if it would have been better
if he had been brought up and had to live in another
house ; he decided that was nonsense, for the guilt
was in him, and he had inherited that at his birth.
After all, the others who lived in that same house
were all honest people. The reason why it had
always seemed dark and dismal was because his own
wickedness had prevented him from seeing anything
cheerful. But why, then, did he again and again
try to fix the blame on the house? Silently he
walked beside Wijntje on her evening out, with a
feeling that there was something surrounding him
that separated him from others ; her voice sounded
to him muffled, like a voice coming from a different
room. How could he answer when she asked what
was wrong with him? What more could he say
than what he had said a hundred times before, about
sin and the urge to do wrong. c Floris , 5 she said,
* do answer me . 5 And he did not even hear her.

Sometimes, before she went to see her parents,

220

she had an errand to do in the town. Then he would
spur her on to haste, because he wanted to be in
the streets for as short a time as possible. Outside
in the Forest he did not feel the loneliness so badly
as among the passers-by. They looked at him, and
he lowered his eyes. But when they walked in the
Forest, even her presence began to oppress him.
He saw her feet beside his on the path, he knew
that she was waiting patiently and he couldn’t
speak.

It was a still, warm evening as they sat in silence
on a bench; there was still a gleam of twilight
over the outlines of the bushes. When the
Damiaatjes could be heard, she said that they must
go and see her parents now. She looked at him
and she saw that he was holding his hand in front
of his face. She shook him by the shoulder.
Through a sob she heard : ‘ I can’t go on.’ For
a while she sat with his head on her breast. And,
with his face hidden, he told her he had done it
again and was athis wits’ end. Her tears flowed. ‘ I
can forgive you everything,’ she said, ‘ and I can help
you, too, if only you will put your trust in me. After
all, there was no need for it, only a guilder or two,
why, I could have given you that.’ He shook his
head in denial—that was not the point. Her voice
rang clear, firm. ‘ Yes, it is, the sin is in the action,
for, but for that, we are all alike. Those guilders
tempted you, and if you had had a few guilders

221

from me, the temptation wouldn’t have been there,
and the sin wouldn’t have been committed. We
must guard ourselves against that, and you can
count on my helping you ; but then you’ll have to
tell me when you feel the temptation.’

When they got up to go he felt the warmth of
her hand on his arm. She was only small and
slender, but now he knew that she was stronger
and wiser than himself, he could put his trust in her.

‘ Perhaps I’m not lost yet, if you will help me,’
he said. The oppression was lifted from his breast,
he was able to speak again.

But when he got home the depression returned.
Werendonkwas sitting as usual, imperturbable, at the
table, a strict man who would no doubt forgive but
would never forget. In his bedroom he was aware
of the stillness again. And always he was aware of
that, wherever he walked or sat, when he was busy
in the shop or when he was seated at meals ; Stien’s
singing had a hollow sound in it, and when she left
off it was as though her voice had been hushed by
the silence around her. He felt the oppression still
more when Uncle Gerbrand spoke to him and looked
him straight in the eyes, sharply, through his glasses.
He thought about making a confession to him, too,
but he was afraid to do it. During this period
he felt he must see Wijntje every day. Almost
involuntarily he would take up his cap and go out.
Then he rang her bell and said to her : c I’ve just

222

come to get a little comfort from you.’ Without
speaking they stood in the shadow of the door,
gazing on to the sunlit foliage of the chestnut-tree.

It was particularly in the evenings that he felt it
was too much for him. There were no more round
games since he had been going out so often, so he
went out and walked about the streets, choosing the
lonely ones, where there were no people sitting at
their doors. And, although he felt tired, he put off
going home. He visited the Kroons and sat there
until it grew late ; he was so silent that they kept
asking him what the matter was. He went to see
Jansje, too, who, as was her habit, was sitting in
the dark beside her coffee brazier. ‘ If you’ve
something on your mind, why don’t you tell me ? ’
She had guessed it. But how could he tell her that
he had become frightened of the house ?

That night it struck him that it would be better
to go away. He lay wide awake, relieved, and
amazed that he had not thought of it before, his
head full of plans to earn his living elsewhere. He
decided he must talk it over with Wijntje, for without
her he knew he wouldn’t have the strength. To
the East or to America, it didn’t matter where, so
long as he was far away from here and had finished
for good with the house that had seen him grow up
to be a sinner. He couldn’t talk it over with Uncle
Gerbrand because he couldn’t tell him the reason.
They would have to go away secretly. He smiled

223

to himself as he pictured that door shutting behind
him for the last time.

Wijntje saw the happiness on his face as soon as
she caught sight of him waiting under the tree.
It was a mild day in mid-August, and already there
was a scent from the leaves that had been dried up
in the long drought. * Yes/ he said, * we’ve a lot
to talk about/ and he took her arm and walked
hurriedly in the opposite direction from their usual
way. He spoke quickly, eager now to unburden
himself of everything, to tell her of the moods of
depression he had had ever since he was a child,
of the house that he hated, of the terrors from which
he was suffering again now, of the certainty he felt,
he didn’t know why, that it was the house that was
driving him to disaster. * I don’t suppose I’ll get
rid of my wickedness/ he said, * but if that house
looks at me, I shall go to perdition without fail.’
He told her of the idea that had come to him to be
released from it. His voice sounded high and happy.
Somewhere else, far from here, would mean libera¬
tion, and if he could count on the support which she
alone could give, he would be able to become an
honest man and all the unhappiness of his youth
would be forgotten. They stood still at the edge of
the Forest beside meadows where cows were browsing
as far as their eyes could see, and above their heads
the branches swayed. Wijntje stroked the hand
that lay on her arm. And staring into the gathering

224

dusk she said : c Anything, that is what I have been
saying in my heart all the time, anything that will
bring salvation to you. I will do anything, more
than that I cannot say . 5

They were to go, they decided, secretly. Once
she said it would be terrible for her parents if she
went like that, but after that she didn’t mention it
again. He was to make enquiries about when a boat
would be sailing and how much it would cost. He
laughed a lot, and often as they walked he said that
the air under the trees did him good.

And once she asked him if he had thought about
how they were to get the money to go. Perhaps it
would be better if they spoke about it straight-for-
wardly, she with her parents, he with his uncle, and
asked him to lend them the money. Then they would
not need to go secretly as though they had something
to be ashamed of. She didn’t know his uncle, he
replied, he had got it into his head that he was his
protector for the whole of his life ; only yesterday
he had said that the last debt was paid off, and
that he had nothing to worry about now except to
make the shop prosperous for Floris. He would
never allow him to go to another country. But go
away he must, he was certainly not going to stay
in that house now.

On the Queen’s birthday Wijntje was allowed to
go out earlier, and because it was too crowded in
the town they walked longer in the Forest. They

225

came again to the edge beside the meadow, they sat
down there in the tall hemlock. The sun was still
shining on the tree-tops. For a while no word was
spoken, but Wijntje knew that he was thinking
about what she had said again about the money;
he sat with his head bowed. Suddenly she looked
at him in amazement, because he asked her some¬
thing she could not take in. c What are you saying ? 5
she asked. He repeated it: Did she think that her
mistress’s bracelet was very valuable ? 6 If we had

that,’ he said, c then we should be all right . 5 She
stared at him, she saw how white his face was in
the fading light. She turned her head away and let
it droop on her shoulder, tears came into her eyes,
and then she sobbed aloud in pain. He stood up.
He heard what she said between her sobs : ‘ O God,
save him, save him . 5 He walked away very quickly.
c Floris ! 5 she cried into the darkness of the lane;
all she heard was his rapid footsteps. Then she fell
forward, with her face in the grass.

H.H.

P

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

When he got home, soon after twelve o’clock,
the light was still burning in the shop, and in the
parlour Jansje and Stien were standing with their
arms crossed, waiting. In distress they told him
what had happened: an hour previously Werendonk
had gone upstairs, and on his way back he had been
seized with cramp, and had fallen downstairs. He
had broken his wrist. The doctor in the Gracht
was not at home, so Frans had gone with him to
the hospital. ‘ Falling downstairs isn’t much,’ said
Floris, ‘ some people get cramp in the leg, others
in their souls.’ The two women looked at him in
silence, and he went upstairs. Lying on his bed,
he heard his uncles return, the front-door being
locked. After that he listened to the revellers
singing in the distance, to footsteps in the street.
Something would have to happen tomorrow.

At the breakfast-table, where Werendonk was
sitting with his arm in a sling, looking out on to
the yard, Floris asked if he was feeling better. That
morning, too, in the shop, Frans noticed that there
was something queer about him. He didn’t hear

227

what a customer said to him, he swept the money
across the counter as though it were dust, frequendy
he frowned and looked up at the top panes of the
window, and stroked the back of his head. And
sometimes Frans thought he noticed the suspicion
of a grin on his face. It occurred to Jansje, too,
that there was something different about him today,
he kicked the shop door to so roughly, he stamped
so loudly on the steps. And he did everything as
though he were in a hurry. Werendonk observed
how rapidly he served in the shop. In the early
evening Floris spent a long time in his bedroom,
and when he came down and Werendonk asked
him where he was going, the answer he received
was : ‘ To the Bible reading.’ He said : ‘ But there
is no reading this evening.’ But Floris went out
without saying anything further. He came home
late, pale and exhausted. And on the following
morning Werendonk heard that Wouters had seen
him hurrying along the road to Bloemendaal. He
asked him what he had been doing so far away,
and thfe answer was : ‘ Oh, I was just going for a
walk.’ Afterwards everyone remembered that he
had hardly sat down, he was on his feet all day,
rushing about in a way that was foreign to him.

Latterly he had often neglected to go to Church,
and now there came a Sunday when he went to
the Great Church in the morning and evening, and
furthermore, so it was said, in the afternoon to the

228

Bakenesser Church. And when Frans went into
his room to look for something, he saw the Bible
lying on the table open at the seventh chapter of
the Epistle to the Romans. He spoke to Gerbrand
about it, and asked him if he remembered that that
was the chapter their sister was always reading,
her thoughts perpetually on sin. Werendonk made
up his mind to speak to him seriously, to find out
what he had on his mind, but nothing came of it,
for Floris was always in a hurry to go out, and only
came back when Werendonk, who, with his injured
hand, was slow, was just adding up his last figures.

Werendonk met the domine by the Spaame and
from him he learnt that his nephew was frequently
visiting him again. The boy had a scrupulous
conscience, he said, but it tormented him, and he
asked himself more questions than it was possible
to answer. What he lacked was not intelligence or
goodwill, but faith. To everything the domine
said he raised all sorts of objections, and it was only
when they had prayed together that he seemed to be
relieved for the moment. But the next time he
came back in the same state of dejection.

One evening Kroon came in to see Werendonk.
He asked if he had noticed any disagreement between
his nephew and Wijntje. Yesterday, an unusual
thing, she had come home alone, she had kept on
crying and would not say what was wrong. And this
afternoon when Kroon’s wife had been to see her,

229

her mistress asked her in to the sitting-room and had
said that Wijntje had red eyes all day. ‘ That
must be it,’ said Werendonk, ‘ a disagreement
between the two. They’ll make it up with each
other again.’

But that night he felt very uneasy when he sat
waiting until past one o’clock before he heard him
come in. Although he was too tired to have a
talk to him, he told Floris to sit down for a moment.
£ No,’ he answered curtly. c I’m going to bed.’
He looked hunted and he banged the door after him.

The following morning he asked for money to
go to the Exhibition again, and that night he stayed
out. ‘ I can’t understand that boy,’ said Werendonk
to his brother. * One day he is splitting hairs over
what is right and what is wrong, and the next day
it’s all frivolity again. In his bedroom the Bible
lies open as though he had been sitting reading it
before he went out, and meanwhile he is forgetting
temperance in pleasure.’—‘ I have been thinking
the same,’ answered Frans, ‘ he seeks it here and
he seeks it there, but he finds peace nowhere.’ In
the kitchen the women didn’t agree about Floris’s
behaviour. Stien was of the opinion that what he
had experienced at the time of his fall of the previous
year and thereafter had affected him too deeply, it
would be a long time before his heart could recover
from it, and therefore they would have to overlook
a lot. But Jansje no longer talked about him so

230

tolerantly as she had done formerly. ‘ The weak get
all the pity,’ she said, ‘ and nobody takes any notice
of what the strong have to suffer, even though they
may sink under the burden. Just think of Weren-
donk. All his life Floris has been his first care,
and did you hear what the boy said when Werendonk
broke his wrist ? For twenty-two years he has
watched over him like a father, worked for him
so that he might begin life with a clear name.
And do you imagine that he hasn’t noticed that no
fruit will grow on that tree ? The boy is a stranger
in this house. He has certainly inherited any
wickedness the Werendonks had, and more, but he
has none of their honesty and uprightness. And my
old eyes can still see well enough to know that no
pleasure will ever come from him.’

It was the second Sunday that he had been to
the Great Church for the morning and the evening
service. He went to bed early, and rose early. In
the parlour he did what he hadn’t been able to
bring himself to do for weeks past, he closed the
door carefully behind him. At the corner of the
Gracht he turned round and stood still for a moment.
Except for the baker’s, no shop was yet open.
Werendonk’s house was the highest in that part of
the street, it leaned over more than he had ever
noticed before, and in this morning light the brick¬
work looked darker. It gave him a feeling of chill
and misery to see it standing there, heavy and

231

drooping, with the blinds down, as though it was
sleeping from exhaustion. Above it a clear light
gleamed in the sky. He closed his eyes before he
turned round and went on his way.

It was not until he reached Amsterdam and was
leaving the station that he considered what he had
to do. He had made up his mmd once to go away
on a ship, but where to find one he did not know.
On his left he saw masts sticking up in the grey
light, and when he got there he saw the ships lying
out from the quay. He went on walking until he
came to a steamer with a black funnel, and on a
board he saw written that it was bound for the
West Indies. He walked up and down for a while,
hesitating, and at last he asked a porter what the
journey would cost. The man named a sum which
frightened him. Walking slowly into the town
he remembered the Exhibition ; he would go there-
again for the last time.

In Old Holland he went into a creamery to shelter
from the rain; the waitresses were busy clearing
away and packing up. He sat there alone over a
cup of chocolate, looking through the glass of the
entrance door which was closed against the bleak
wind. Already he was beginning to feel regrets.
He must go away, he couldn’t go back now, but
the thought filled him with melancholy. In his
mind’s eye, he saw his Uncle Gerbrand, with his
broad shoulders, his steadfast eyes, his slow move-

232

ments; he saw him in the parlour where, in such
weather, it would be terribly dark. And thinking
of the house, as it had looked down on him that
morning, it was all he could do to hold back his
tears. It wasn’t unlike the houses here, all round
the market-place, but these weren’t real and had
never seen things happen to the people who lived
in them. It seemed queer to him that he should
see it now so plainly before his eyes, the clean blue
steps, the yellow window-panes, the bricks dark
and dead. It was only to get away from that house
that he had taken the money. Uncle Gerbrand
would never understand it, for he would see that
the very evening before he had been reading the Bible.
But he didn’t understand himself, either, how there
could be such a great difference in him between
what he wished and what he did. It was useless
to think about it. The decision had been made and
he couldn’t turn back. But his heart was heavy,
and the grey weather didn’t make it any better
here in the midst of these houses, that had been set
up like toys for a summer’s amusement, empty now
and locked up.

In the evening he met some friends and went out
with them. A week later he suddenly woke up in
his lodgings. Why did I take the money ? he asked
himself. To get away from the house, away from
the temptation which was always dragging me into
sin, to go to some other place and live an honest

233

life. And what have I done with it ? Squandered
it. What matter if it is all spent so long as I may see
my house once more.

When he went out the sun was shining in a sky
clear except for a few clouds that hid it from time
to time. He wanted to go to the station immediately
but he decided that he would rather return in the
dark. He wandered about the town, slowly, aim¬
lessly. Sometimes he looked at a passer-by, some¬
times he thought: It might have been different if
people had helped me, but they have always been
strangers to me.

By the late afternoon he could wait no longer,
but in order not to get there too early he decided to
walk. Even on the Haarlem road he walked
slowly, staring at the sky, red and grey over the
meadows. He noticed that his feet were light and
hardly made a sound on the stones of the road.
The Amsterdam Gate rose up black in the darkness,
with a tiny yellow light in the entrance. He stood
still for a moment, and then made a detour. At
the cross-roads, he hesitated again ; he wanted to
go the shortest way, but fear drove him on to the
quiet ramparts, where, except for a few isolated
lamps, there was hardly a light. He started at the
sound of a door being slammed. At the bridge he
decided to wait before he went past the house, in
an hour or two the shops would be shut, and he
would not be seen by the neighbours. Once again

234

he made a detour through narrow streets where he
had not been since he was a small boy ; he walked
along the waterside, all round the centre of the
town, here and there he stood still, footsore, and
retraced his steps again. When he heard the big
clock striking ten he was beside the Spaarne behind
his house. Uncle Gerbrand was sitting there now
in the lamp-light, and his other uncle was probably
still out. It was only a few steps from here ; he
could venture now for, except for Thijs’s, the lights
in the shops were all out. He turned into the lane,
looking in front and behind him, but half-way
along, by the lamp-post, he stood still. He thought,
when he had seen the house, that would be the end.
He turned back. Without realising it, his feet led
him into the darkness of the Forest. And, although
it was so dark that he had to hold his hand stretched
out in front of him, he knew that he must be outside
Wijntje’s house. He groped and felt the trunk of
a tree. Suddenly he felt so exhausted that he
couldn’t stand, his knees gave way and, leaning his
head against the tree, he said : ‘ O God, redeem
me from my sins.’ He could go no farther, he began
to tremble with fear. Then he stood up and, groping
in the darkness which turned red in front of his
eyes, he found the gate and opened it cautiously;
he came on the summer-house where there must be
a bench. He lay down, he saw that there was no
light in the house, it seemed as though suddenly

235

the leaves of all the trees were rustling in the wind,
he was seized with homesickness for his own house
and, weeping, he fell asleep.

It soon became known in Little Houtstraat that
he was wandering about in the neighbourhood.
Nuyls was the first to come with a story that some
boys who had gone out to gather beech-nuts had
seen him close by the Laurens Coster Memorial. He
was standing bare-headed, leaning against a tree,
and he had behaved so strangely that they had
run away. A forester came to warn Werendonk,
for it was quite possible people might think he was
mad. Yesterday at dusk he had seen him go into
a thicket; he had followed and had come across
him, kneeling in the dry leaves, his face uplifted,
beating his breast softly ; he had spoken to him and
asked him what he was doing there, and he had
answered : ‘ If the Church is closed, I suppose I
may pray in the open air . 5 Then he had stood up
and walked away. Maybe it was piety, said the
man, but it was the piety of somebody out of his mind.
The milkman had seen him, too, pale and famished
looking, and when he had addressed him, he had
walked away.

The neighbours looked at Werendonk, but not
one, of them asked him anything. He walked with
difficulty, sometimes tottering slightly, he was seldom
in the shop because, with one arm in a sling, he
couldn’t be of much use. Through the window he

236

could be seen sitting at the table, his head sunk
on his breast. Often Jansje was standing by him
talking.

He had not mentioned to anyone that money had
disappeared from the box, for there was no point,
he thought, in making more disgrace public. But
Jansje pestered him with her questions and her
advice. From the day that the boy had run away,
she came and stood by him every minute asking him
what he was going to do now. Then it would be :

‘ Werendonk, think of yourself at last. You have
done everything humanly possible, but it’s hopeless,
and no one will think the worse of you if you leave
him alone.’ She had a right to say this, had she
not worked in his house from the time when his
parents were still alive. He merely shook his head.
When every day fresh stories were told of the queer
way the boy was wandering about, and it was quite
understandable that the neighbours should be
thinking he had lost his reason, Jansje became
more insistent. ‘ You’ll never be so foolish as to
take him into the house again ? ’ she said. ‘ If he’s
mad, be done with him and send him off to the
asylum at Meerenberg. Don’t forget that there’s
been nothing but trouble in your house from the
day your sister got married. When he appealed
to your pity, you did right to protect him, and when
he was a transgressor too.’—‘ He is still a trans¬
gressor, he has stolen money from the box again.

237

And it is my duty to watch over him. Even if he
were in hell, I would go and fetch him. My legs
may be failing me, but my mind thinks of nothing
but how I can get him back here.’ She clasped her
thin hands and held them out to him in distress
and supplication : 4 Oh, don’t, don’t, it will be your
undoing.’

She spoke to Frans about it too. ‘ Have a talk
with your brother, and try to make him see reason.
To forgive seventy times seven - is all very well, but
he isn’t our dear Lord, and he’s already done more
than can be expected of an ordinary man.’ But
Frans merely knitted his brows and answered :
‘ Ah, Jansje, you don’t know him.’ Frans himself
went through the Forest every morning and afternoon,
but he would walk along lost in thought, or he would
gaze up at the crows, and when he came home he
would say that he had searched everywhere. He
would try to comfort his brother, saying : * Have
faith, the worst trial passes.’

One day, when it rained continuously and the
wind'was boisterous, Werendonk sat all the time
close to the window looking up at the sky and across
the red roofs. And the following morning he
went out with the walking-stick he had bought
himself. The neighbours saw him walking with
difficulty in the direction of the Little Forest Bridge,
and craned their necks to look after him.

It was wild autumn weather ; in the Forest gusts

238

of wind shook the branches, tearing off the leaves
and tossing them in eddying swarms, and the rus tling
in the tree-tops was like the sound of the sea. He
frequently had to stand still for the wind took his
breath away. On the outskirts, near the road to
Heemstede, he sat down on a bench. He felt hopeless,
not knowing what to do. His only hope was that,
if the boy saw him, his old affection would make
him come up to him, and then he might be able
to persuade him. But it was senseless to go on
sitting here. He stood up and looked across the
meadow, where the sun was breaking through the
clouds.

He turned round and caught sight of Floris, not
ten paces away, holding back the undergrowth with
one hand. His eyes looked big in his white face,
staring as though they saw nothing. Werendonk
turned his head away and, so as not to startle him,
cautiously put one foot forward and then the other.
He waited before repeating the movement. Then
he turned round and what he saw terrified him.
Floris had come close up to him, his mouth was
stretched wide in a grin, his fists were tightly clenched
and lifted on high. Werendonk saw the same eyes
with which Berkenrode had looked at him, years
ago, when he met him at the railway station before
his flight. * My boy, my boy , 5 he said in an im¬
ploring, quivering voice. Floris leapt back and ran
screaming away.

239

Tottering, leaning on his stick, he returned to the
seat and sat there, his bowed head resting on his hand.
He felt how weak he was, he could not even cry out
in his loneliness, he took off his cap and gazed up
at the rustling trees and the clouds.

*

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I HAT EVENING AFTER HE HAD SHUT THE SHOP THE

bell rang and he opened the door. Floris slipped
past him into the shop and ran up the steps and
through the parlour so quickly that he was taken
aback. He waited in the lamp-light, hesitating
whether he should follow him. After a moment,
Floris came in; he walked past him, timidly, and
turning his grey face towards him, he said : ‘ Don’t
ask me anything.’ And before Werendonk realised
what he was doing, just as rapidly and almost with¬
out a sound, he had gone out of the shop door.
Stien came in with an astonished face. He had
come to her in the kitchen, she said, had asked for
a piece of bread and butter and, after eating it
ravenously, had said : ‘You mustn’t think -it was
for the bread I came, but I had to be in the house.’
Werendonk fetched his cap and umbrella, telling
her to remain in the parlour in case the bell should
ring again, and went out to look for him in the
neighbourhood. When he came back, she was
sitting waiting with Frans, but he shook his head,
and drew his chair up to the table. * Fortunately

340

24 1

it’s not raining any more,’ said Frans, 1 and it isn’t
cold.’ Werendonk sat until long past twelve and
when he was in bed he lay sleepless.

The following evening, at the same time, Floris
rang again ; he seemed to be less timid, and Weren¬
donk, who could only walk slowly, followed him until
he saw him go into the kitchen again. Later, he
heard the door on to the yard opened; he recog¬
nised the rapid footsteps on the flags ; he heard,
too, the hinges of the shed creaking. While he was
still listening, Floris appeared suddenly in the par-
loin-. ‘ I can’t stay yet,’ he said almost in a whisper,
‘ don’t ask any questions, there is a time for every¬
thing.’ And when Werendonk stood up, he shrank
back in fear, his voice was hoarse : ‘ Don’t stop me.’
He went down the steps rapidly and at the shop door
Werendonk saw him put his head inside again for a
moment.

An hour later Wouters came in, at the same time
as Frans, to make enquiries, for he had seen the boy
come and go. Werendonk told them of his strange
behaviour. ‘ Don’t worry,’ said Wouters. * He’s
in a terrible state of mind, but he’s sure to recover
himself.’

After that Werendonk closed earlier, as soon as
the chiming of the Damiaatjes stopped, and after
he had put out the lamp he saw that Thijs’s wife
on the opposite side of the road was standing peeping
through a chink of the blind. He was just about to

242

go up the steps, when the bell rang. Floris stood
in the darkness. * You won’t stop me ? ’ he asked.
‘ Calm yourself,’ began Werendonk, but Floris gave
him no time to speak, he shouted, stamping his foot:
‘ I dare not stay.’ Then he went slowly into the
parlour, looking behind him all the time. Before
he opened the door into the passage, he said : ‘ I
cannot stay so long as I don’t know what sin is and
whether I can be redeemed from it.’ Werendonk
sat alone and waited. He heard him go out of the
kitchen and up the stairs, then he heard him in the
room above walking rapidly to and fro. When he
returned he came close up to Werendonk, and his
voice sounded melancholy : ‘ I can’t do it, not
while the neighbours keep looking. Oh, you don’t
understand. I’ll try another time.’ He stopped
speaking and looked down at the floor. He sighed.

‘ No one can help me,’ he whispered to himself and
went out slowly through the dark shop. Werendonk
was still staring at the door when Stien came in again
and looked at him silently.

All the neighbours knew that he came home every
evening, timidly and looking behind him all the
time like someone who is pursued. At Briemen’s,
opposite the lane, they had seen him coming from
that direction, creeping, standing still and looking
behind him, and when he left he ran through the
lane again. Others had noticed him an hour earlier,
in the short end of the Gracht, or in the Peat Market,

243

wandering up and down like a shadow beside the
lamp-posts. When he saw Minke’s boy standing
there, he ran round the corner; the boy had
followed him and had seen him hiding behind a tree.
Warner’s wife had seen him coming out of the lane
when she was fastening the shutter of the cellar, she
had asked him if he would like a currant-bun, but he
darted to one side. Wherever he was mentioned it
was with pity, for he looked miserable and neglected;
his jacket was tom, his shoes in tatters, his cheeks
sunken and hollow. They all knew that Werendonk
was unable to do anything ; his leg was bad again,
and he was rarely in the shop, besides which there
was his hand that he couldn’t use.

It had become the custom for Floris to arrive
about half-past nine; he walked with bent head,
and they could see that he was on the watch. On
wet autumn evenings the street was always quiet
at that time, for nobody would be out shopping, and
at nearly every window was the face of someone
peeping to see him come and go away again.
Jansje, too, although as a rule she went home earlier
now because she was getting too old for the work,
had been seen returning about half-past nine. They
had questioned her—they knew she was against
Werendonk taking the boy into his house again.
But she had become a cantankerous old woman,
and gave them sharp answers. ‘ Give heed to your
own faults ; keep your spying for your own homes.’

244

And it would be late before anyone saw her going
home again, dejected, stepping cautiously in the
dark.

Jansje waited for him in the kitchen, and when he
saw her he shrank back from her. She was on her
feet more quickly than Stien, and it was she who
cut him a slice of bread and butter. When he had
eaten it, she said, looking at him sharply : ‘ If you
want bread, come to my house. 1*11 give you as
much as you can eat, but don’t come here every
evening, scaring your uncle.’ Without answering
her he went upstairs to his bedroom. When he
came down Jansje was sitting with Werendonk. He
looked at her as though he were afraid of her. * I
can’t help it,’ he said, ‘ I have to come here, I am
always thinking of my own house.’ He looked
round the parlour and suddenly, as though he had
seen something on the blind, he ran down the steps
and was gone, the glass panes in the door rattled.

Werendonk was sitting huddled up, exhausted by
what he had experienced the last few days, his eyes
on the floor ; opposite to him sat Jansje, her eyes
fixed on him : ‘You see, don’t you,’ she said, ‘ that
he’s out of his mind, coming here every evening like
a ghost, talking nothing but nonsense. What’s it
going to lead to, Werendonk, if you let him go on
like this and don’t do what you ought to ? I don’t
suppose he has anything to eat but what he gets
here, his toes are pushing through his shoes, and who

245

knows where he sleeps, and the winter not far off.
And what’s to become of you ? You’re tormented
with anxiety, your misery is written on your face,
and you’re not so fit as you used to be to bear so
much. It only means walking over to Meerenberg,
they’ll fetch him away and take him there. Not till
that’s done will there be the peace in this house
that you’ve a right to in your old age.’

He shook his head in disapproval. ‘ He is just as
right in the head as you or I,’ he said, looking straight
in front of him, ‘ but he’s being heavily tried. The
sins of his ancestors are rending his mind, and I am
waiting and praying that grace may come to him
to bring him the light and redeem him. It’s the
struggle within : I went through it, too, when I was
his age. And God knows, for a man who thinks,
that struggle is never really over.’ Jansje stood up
and sighed. Putting her hands on the table and
bending right over him, she said : ‘ Then you must
have it your own way, man, I have warned you.
But remember what the end of his father was.
There is some sin that can only be cleansed by blood,
I don’t need to tell you that. Your own father
wouldn’t have been drowned if he hadn’t had sin
on the brain, don’t forget that. Now I must go
home again. Good-night, Werendonk.’

She fetched her basket and her shawl and went
down the steps out into the darkness.

Werendonk stood up and laid the Bible on the

table before him. He was going to open it, but he
thought: Why ? All that is written there about
sin I have known for many years. What need for
me to seek or question further ? I must pray, pray
as long as I have the strength. He placed one hand
on the Bible, and laying his head on it, he prayed.
He did not lift his head until he heard Frans turning
the key in the lock. Frans lingered by the door,
and then he said : * Oughtn’t you to go to bed ?
There aren’t so many accounts to do, are there ? ’—
‘ It’s not the money,’ he answered. ‘ I have worried
about that long enough. There axe other accounts
to be settled.’

He sat in the silence, heavy at heart as he thought
of what Jansje had said. It was true that, without
realising it, he had grown very much like his father..
It was true that, that day in the Forest, he had seen
the same look on Floris’s face that he had seen on
his brother-in-law’s, long years ago, outside the
station. The spectres that oppress a man’s spirit
return in his offspring. He had always lived trust¬
ing in God, had done his best, as far as possible, to
keep free from transgression, to be upright in his
dealings with others and with himself. How was it
then that he was beginning to lose courage, that a
thought that he dared not even contemplate obsessed
his mind ? How was it that of late he had had the
feeling that a dark power was hovering over him ?
Was it the weariness of old age, the failing of bodily

247

strength, the need of the soul to find peace ? Here
he sat, day after day, helpless, unable to save the
boy, who but for him would have gone to perdition
years ago. ‘ No one can help me,’ he had said the
other night. He could not, that was true. He
realised that he was exhausted from praying and
waiting, and that it would be better to go to bed.
And when he closed his eyes tonight, or in the
morning, he must leave the boy’s fate in God’s hands.

On the way to bed he noticed that the light was
still burning in the kitchen. Frans and Stien were
sitting there, in silence, with folded arms. And he
knew well what they were t hink i n g as they sat. He
said it was getting late and went upstairs in front of
them ; he did not see how Frans and Stien, who
game after, followed him with their eyes as he
entered his room.

■ Early the next morning he was in the shop again.
Those who knew him well noticed that he was
absorbed in thought. When he looked up he would
fix his eyes on someone as though amazed to see him
there. Often he stared through the window with his
brows raised.

It seemed to him that people were changed.
When he looked at them their faces seemed larger,
pale, the eyes dark. Briemen, on the other side of
the road, stood perpetually at the window looking
in his direction, and when he turned round to do up
a parcel, he appeared to be t alk i n g about Weren-

donk, for then another face would rise and gaze at
him. Mrs. Sanne’s shop-girl kept lifting a comer
of the blind, there was only one peeping eye there.
And at Thijs’s, farther along, it was his wife, busy
dusting, who looked out of the window every minute
—through the top pane she could just see as far as
this counter. There had always been this peeping
into each other’s windows; it went without saying
that neighbours, who knew all about each other’s
joys and sorrows, should want to know what was
going on, but he felt that this was not ordinary
curiosity. The faces had a questioning expression,
he couldn’t help looking up at them all the time.

Towards dusk it struck him that Minke and Nuyl
kept walking by, as though they were only doing it
in order to look at him. At first they were talking
together, then they were silent and kept craning
their necks. Warner stood still, as though he had
suddenly been struck by something out of the
ordinary; he lifted his round face to the shop-
window where the name was painted, then walked
on. In the evening, before closing-time, Wouters
came in and said : ‘ I was meaning to come in and
have a chat with you, but I remember now this is
the time your nephew comes, so I’ll come tomorrow ;
we see so little of each other lately.’—‘ Yes,’ said
Werendonk, * that’s true.’ He felt too tired to talk.
But Wouters didn’t go ; he lingered, looking at the
bags, the scale, the litre-measures, and Werendonk,

249

who was watching him, noticed that his eyes were
stealthily turned towards himself. ‘ Good-night,’ he
said at last, and when he was outside the door, his
face remained for a moment at the window, pale,
with big eyes.

He waited at the table, his books remained closed.
Floris rang and went into the kitchen, then upstairs
where his footsteps could be heard; he went out
into the yard, too, and rummaged in the shed, then
he walked furtively out of the shop again. Weren-
donk prayed over the Bible; afterwards he sat
staring into the lamp. There was something he
didn’t want to think about.

He looked round because he seemed to hear some¬
thing ; he thought it must be the buzzing in his
pars that he had had lately when he was tired. He
knew he ought to go to bed, but it had become a
habit with him to sit up late. It grew chilly in the
parlour. Tomorrow Stien would have to put some
peat in the stove. Frans came in, rubbing his
hands. ‘ There’s a cold wind,’ he said, ‘ but, of
course, we’re not far off St. Martin’s Day.’ He
went into the kitchen.

Werendonk sat so still staring at the floor that he
was startled when the Tower clock struck the half-
hour. And now again he heard something in the
yard, he thought it must be Floris, although he had
seen him go out of the front door. It sounded as
though someone was whispering and then softly

250

laughing. He stood up, and in the kitchen he saw
Frans and Stien at the door peering out into the
dark. Frans threw the broom out into the yard,
it was cats, he said. When Werendonk made ready
to go upstairs, a memory he couldn’t capture seemed
to flit through his mind.

The following day was Saturday, the shop stayed
open longer ; Floris came later. Before he left, he
stood by the table : ‘ I can’t go on,’ he said, ‘ the
winter is coming and it’s getting cold. I must be
here because it calls me, but the house is too old for
me. I’ve always said so.’—‘ Nonsense,’ answered
Werendonk, * there’s nothing wrong with your ances¬
tors’ house. But if you would like to live somewhere
else, say so, and I’ll rent a room for you.’ With his
hands over his eyes, Floris said : ‘ That’s no use to
me.’ He wrapped a woollen scarf Stien had given
him round his neck and made his way backwards
to the door while Werendonk looked at him.

On Sunday it rained all day, but towards nightfall
the wind rose again. Stien didn’t want to go out,
but Werendonk told her that it was better for her
to have some diversion after sitting indoors so much.
She left the bread and butter ready on the kitchen
table.

When Werendonk answered the bell he noticed
that both at Thijs’s and Briemen’s there were faces
at the dark windows, lit up by the flickering street-
lamp ; there was no one in the street. The boy

251

went into the kitchen, and he waited by the table.
After a while he heard him going upstairs, and
then into the yard and in the shed; he couldn’t
think what he was doing there, but he decided to
leave him undisturbed. The reflection of a lantern
being carried to and fro kept passing across the
blind. Just as the Damiaatjes began to chime, he
noticed that the wind was blowing smoke down the
chimney, but it couldn’t have been from the stove.
Suddenly there was a loud ring, knocking and kick¬
ing at the front door. He went, slowly, because his
leg was stiffer than usual; he could see at least four
faces outside, arms waving wildly ; he heard shouts.
Bending down to open the bolt which must have
been pushed in by mistake, was an effort, and mean¬
while he saw that still more people were standing
there. When he opened the door he heard them
shouting ‘ Fire ! ’ He asked : ‘ Where is it ? ’

They pointed upwards. He went out on the steps,
looked up and saw the window glowing dark red.
‘ The fire-engine ! ’ they were shouting. The people
were jostling each other, more came from the doors
of all the shops. Werendonk stood motionless, he
seemed to be stunned. All at once he drew himself
up ; he was standing there alone on the steps outside
his door, a tall figure. It was quiet at that moment,
the Damiaatjes rang out clearly. The people turned
towards the fire-engine which was driving round the
comer of the Gracht; no one saw him go in.

252

Men ran into the shop with hoses, they came rush¬
ing back, for thick black smoke was swirling out of
the back-parlour, soon it was pierced by red points
of flame. They all rushed sideways, driven by the
smoke that was pouring out.

A boy saw it; he pointed upwards; the people
looked up at the window. There was the figure of
Werendonk, one arm was tearing down the blind,
the other hand held Floris by the collar; they saw
the young man beating at it. They saw the white
face of Werendonk fall forward against the window;
it broke; the sparks flew out; the whole window
space was filled with flames and smoke.

An hour later, when Frans came, the firemen were
still busy running in and out. The window of the
shop was shattered, the gable, charred black, leant
forward, showing the three black gaps of the upper
windows. He stood and looked, wringing his hands.
A neighbour led him away. When the clock struck
twelve, the street was empty save for a watchman.

ROUTLEDGE’S
INTERNATIONAL FICTION
LIBRARY

Some of the most important and representative novels
published abroad appear each season in this Library. We
announce this season novels from the French, German,
Russian, Dutch and Hungarian.

Appreciations by leading Reviewers :—

“ I have several times felt like thanking Messrs. Routledge m
public for the work they are doing in introducing the public to
* modern foreign fiction in good translations. I do so now; that
big R on the jacket has become to me a stimulant to
curiosity .”—Sean O’Faolain .

“ Messrs Routledge are doing a service with their translations
of contemporary foreign fiction. Too often British interest (or,
lack of it) in foreign politics is conditioned by British ignorance
of how the rest of the world lives, and fiction is a good method
of levelling this ignorance .”—Sylvia Townsend Warner.

“ I always look forward with hope and relief to the Routiedgo
wrapper .”—Kate O’Brien.

For early information, about new books on this list , please send mymt
name and address to —-

GEORGE ROt^LEDGE & SONS,JLTD.
68-74 Garter Lane, London, E.C.4

French

THE LEPERS

By Henry de Montherlant , author of Pity for Women.

Translated by John Rodker . &y. 6d. net

“ I regard Pity for Women as the most important, most
astounding and the most disturbing novel translated
from the French since the time of Flaubert and Maupassant,”
wrote John Brophy in the Daily Telegraph. The Lepers is a
sequel to Pity for Women and not inferior to it in interest and
importance. Montherlant makes a Byronic stand in favour
of the divine life of adventure against the feminine influence
in society. But here it is no ordinary Hippogriff he sallies
forth to slay, but that grim marital Hippogriff which lurks
in every woman for a husband.

Dutch

THE HOUSE IN HAARLEM

By Arthur van Schendel , author of Grey Birds, etc. Trans¬
lated by M. S. Stephens . &r. 3 d. net

Reviewing Grey Birds , the previous book in this Dutch trilogy,
Kate O’Brien writes in the Spectator , ” In my experience of
fiction reviewing I do not think that until now I have found
a new novel which I could commend to all readers, feeling
certain that those who could not read it, or reading, were not
moved and searched by it, would be shown up and to be
condoled with, whatever their arguments of defence or attack.
But here is that novel Grey Birds , ... we must hope that in
due course many more volumes of his work will be made
available to us.”

The background of this second novel is Haarlem in the
eighties and nineties of the last century. It tells how the
legacy of debt bequeathed by a dissolute man mars the lives of
his son and brother, who have accepted his responsibilities in
full.

It illustrates the familiar but always fascinating problem
of the relations between one generation and the next, and the
effect on the younger of submission to the rigid religious
principles of the elder.

Dutch

DUTCH VET

A Novel by A . Rootkaert. Translated by Fernand G. Renter

and Anne Cliff\ 9^. 6 d. net ,

This novel is a picture of life and people in a small manu¬
facturing town in the Catholic province of Brabant in
Holland. The principal character is a veterinary surgeon,
Johann Vlimmen, an unlucky, blundering, hard-working
man, kindly, as decent as they are made, the salt of the earth.

This story is full of action and interest and very out-spoken.
The satire, for example on the clergy and local small-town
politicians is very entertaining and the minor characters are
skilfully sketched.

But it is the author’s knowledge and experience of the
vet’s life, his love and enthusiasm for it, his plain-spoken
descriptions, which set the seal of character on this novel,
and will commend it particularly to English readers who
have much affinity and sympathy with the kind of life here
portrayed.

Hungarian

THROUGH THE EYES OF A WOMAN

By 7 salt von Harsanyi, author of The Star-Gazer, etc.
Translated by Edwin and Willa Muir. Qs. ad. net

Harsanyi is the author of that great historical novel depicting
the life and times of Galileo, The Star-Gazer, which was an
American “Book of the Month Club” choice. In this novd,
he breaks new ground. It is the story of the erotic life of a

W °Madgelena was beautiful, rich, heiress to a magnificent
Hungarian estate, and at the age of 18 seemed to have a feffl
and happy life before her, but an unfortunate love affair
leaves a profound disillusionment, and her subsequent hffe is
a search,not ended by marriage, for a love to which shecan
devote herself wholeheartedly and “>f es « v ^ 1
never fully realised, and in the end she findsttot rohtutte k
the one real human condition, arid m solitude she finds a
kind of peace-—almost happiness.

Russian

THE GANGSTER

By Yuri Herman , author of Antonina. Translated by Stephen
Garry . 7 s. 6 d. net

The story of a criminars regeneration and return to Recent
society, told without moralising and without the sudden
conversion beloved of revivalists. It is through the accumu¬
lation of petty factors that the criminal’s transformation takes
place, and even at the end there is no stressing the point that
he is now a saved man. There is no propaganda about Soviet
justice and the absence of moralising lifts the novel right out
of the general category of lost and saved novels.

Austrian

NOVEL OF AUSTRIAN LIFE

By Franz Hoeliering . Translated by Ludwig Lewisohn .

9 s. 6 d. net

Austria is perhaps the most romantic country in Europe,
and the Austrians, with their mondanite, poise and richness of
culture, the most lovable subjects; but since the war Austria
has had a tragic history. Vienna, once the capital of a proud
empire, became the centre of a truncated buffer state, and
has now been submerged in the rising tide of Nazidom. This
novel is a picture of Austria in the days immediately pro¬
ceeding the bloody suppression of the Socialists in February,
1934. The opening and closing scenes, set in a Viennese cafe,
are designed to reveal the effect which the all-pervading
political crisis had on the lives of the principal characters. .

This is an arresting novel. The characters really live and
immediately engage tire readers’ interest and sympathy, the
linking together of characters of different social strata has
been realistically managed, and the social criticism happily
interwoven in the narrative, either aspect enriching the other.