After Walter had given his name to the man in a trembling voice, he stuck the reward of his misdeed under his coat and hurried out the door, like a cat making away with the prey for which it has waited for hours.
Walter ran and ran, and did not know where to go. He couldn't go home; he was watched too closely there—which was not very difficult, as the space was rather limited.
He selected quiet streets and finally came to a gateway that he remembered to have seen several times. It was a low, smooth arch, where it always smelled like ashes. Here, as a truant, he had taken that leap! He was with Franz Halleman, who had dared him to cut sacred studies and jump from the top of this arch. Walter did it just because little Franz had questioned his courage.
To this escapade he was indebted for his great familiarity with the prophet Habakkuk, whose prophecies he had to copy twelve times as a penalty. Further, the sprain that he got in his big toe on that occasion gave him a good barometer in that organ, which always warned him of approaching rain.
In a certain sense Habakkuk is to be regarded as marking a transition in Walter's life, viz. from nursery rhymes to books which deal with big people. For some time he had felt his admiration for "brave Heinriche" to be growing; and he was disgusted with the paper peaches that are distributed as the reward of diligence in the beautiful stories. Of any other peaches he had no knowledge, as the real article was never seen in the houses he visited.
Nothing was more natural than that he should most ardently long to talk with the older schoolboys about the wonders of the real world, where people ride in coaches, devastate cities, marry princesses, and stay up in the evening till after 10 o'clock—even if it isn't a birthday. And then at the table one helps one's self, and may select just whatever one wants to eat. So think children.
Every boy has his heroic age, and humanity, as a whole, has worn the little coat with the big collar.
But how far can this comparison be carried? Where does the identity stop? Will the human race become mature? and more than mature?—old? Feeble and childish?
How old are we now? Are we boys, youths, men? Or are we already——? No, that would be too unpleasant to think of.
Let us suppose that we are just in the exuberance of youth! We are then no longer children exactly, and still we may hope something of the future.
Yes, of the future—when this stifling school atmosphere has been blown away. When we shall take pleasure in the short jacket of the boy that comes after us; when people will be at liberty to be born without any legal permit, and will not be reviled for it; when humanity will speak one language; when metaphysics and religion have been forgotten, and knowledge of nature takes the place of noble birth. When we shall have broken away from the nursery stories.
There is some silk for my Chinaman's pigtail. Some will say it is only flax.
CHAPTER II
Walter thought neither of the heroic age nor of Chinese cues. Without any feeling for the beauty of the landscape, he hurried along till he came to a bridge that spanned a marshy ditch. After looking about carefully to assure himself that he was alone, he selected this bridge for his reading-room, and proceeded at once to devour his robber undisturbed.
For a moment I felt tempted to make the reader a participant of Walter's pleasure by giving a sketch of the immortal work that chained the boy's attention. But aside from the fact that I am not very well versed in Glorioso—which fact of itself, though, would not prevent me from speaking about him—I have many other things of a more urgent nature to relate, and am compelled therefore to take the reader directly to the Hartenstraat, hoping that he will be able to find his way just as well as if he had crossed the Ouwebrug—the old bridge.
Suffice it to say that Walter found the book "very nice." The virtuous Amalia, in the glare of flaring torches, at the death-bed of her revered mother, in the dismal cypress valley, swearing that her ardent love for the noble robber—through the horrible trapdoor, the rusty chains, her briny tears—in a word, it was stirring! And there was more morality in it, too, than in all the insipid imitations. All the members of the band were married and wore gloves. In the cave was an altar, with wax tapers; and those chapters in which girls were abducted always ended with a row of most decorous periods, or with mysterious dashes—which Walter vainly held up to the light in his effort to learn more about it.
He read to: "Die, betrayer!" Then it was dark, and he knew that it was time to go home. He was supposed to be taking a walk with the Halleman boys—who were "such respectable children." With regret he closed the precious volume and hurried away as fast as he could, for he was afraid he was going to get a whipping for staying away so long.
"You will never get permission again"—thus he was always threatened on such occasions. But he understood, of course, that they didn't mean it. He knew too well that people like to get rid of the children for a while when they are a little short of space at home. And then the little Hallemans were "such extraordinarily respectable children; they lived next to a house with a portico, and recently they had taken off their little caps so politely."
Now, I don't believe that the Hallemans were any more respectable than other boys of Walter's acquaintance; and, as I would like to give some reasons for my belief, I am going to relate an incident that had happened some time before this.
Walter never got any pocket-money. His mother considered this unnecessary, because he got at home everything that he needed. It mortified him to have to wait for an invitation to join in a game of ball with his companions, and then be reminded that he had contributed nothing towards buying the ball. In Walter's time that useful instrument of sport cost three doits—just a trifle. Now I suppose they are more expensive—but no, cheaper, of course, on account of Political Economy.
On many occasions he was depressed by reason of this lack of money. We shall see later whether what his mother said was true, or not: that he received at home everything he needed. It is certain that at home he never had the privilege of doing with some little thing as he pleased, which is very nice for children. And for grown-up people, too.
The Hallemans—who were so especially respectable—gave him to understand that they had no desire to bear all the expenses. Franz calculated that Walter's friendship had already cost them nine stivers, which I find high—not for the friendship, but merely as an estimate. Gustave said it was still more; but that is a detail. Gustave, too, had let him have four slate pencils, that he might court "the tall Cecilia," who wouldn't have anything to do with him because he wore a jacket stuck in his trousers—the kind small boys wore then. She accepted the pencils, and then made Gustave a present of them for a kiss.
The reproaches of the little Hallemans, who were so very respectable, almost drove Walter to despair.
"I have told my mother, but she won't give me anything."
The little Hallemans, who were so respectable, said: "What's that you're giving us? You're a parasite."
This was the first time Walter had ever heard the word, but he knew what it meant. Nothing sharpens the wits like bitterness of heart.
"A parasite, a parasite—I'm a parasite," and he ran off screaming, making a detour in order to avoid the street where Cecilia's father had a second-hand store. Oh, if she had seen him running through the street crying like a baby—that would have been worse than the breeches pulled up over his jacket!
A parasite, a parasite!
He met lots of grown-up people who perhaps were parasites, but they were not bawling on this account.
Parasite!
He saw a policeman, and caught his breath