No More Learning

The world is filled with folly and sin,
And Love must cling where it can, I say:
For Beauty is easy enough to win;
But one isn't loved every day.
And I think, in the lives of most women and men,
There's a moment when all would go smooth and even,
If only the dead could find out when
To come back and be forgiven.
But oh the smell of that jasmine-flower!
And oh that music! and oh the way
That voice ran out from the donjon tower,
"Non ti scordar di me,
Non ti scordar di me! "
LUCILE'S LETTER
From 'Lucile
ET ere bidding farewell to Lucile de Nevers,
YET
Hear her own heart's farewell in this letter of hers.
THE COMTESSE DE NEVERS TO A FRIEND IN INDIA
Once more, O my friend, to your arms and your heart,
And the places of old .
never, never to part!
Once more to the palm, and the fountain! Once more
To the land of my birth and the deep skies of yore!
From the cities of Europe, pursued by the fret
Of their turmoil wherever my footsteps are set;
From the children that cry for the birth, and behold,
There is no strength to bear them-old Time is so old!
From the world's weary masters, that come upon earth
Sapped and mined by the fever they bear from their birth;
From the men of small stature, mere parts of a crowd,


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THE EARL OF LYTTON
9353
Born too late, when the strength of the world hath been
bowed:
Back, back to the Orient, from whose sunbright womb
Sprang the giants which now are no more, in the bloom
And the beauty of times that are faded forever!
To the palms! to the tombs! to the still Sacred River!
Where I too, the child of a day that is done,
First leaped into life, and looked up at the sun,-
Back again, back again, to the hill-tops of home
I come, O my friend, my consoler, I come!
Are the three intense stars, that we watched night by night
Burning broad on the band of Orion, as bright?
Are the large Indian moons as serene as of old,
When, as children, we gathered the moonbeams for gold?
Do you yet recollect me, my friend? Do you still
Remember the free games we played on the hill,
'Mid those huge stones upheaved, where we recklessly trod
O'er the old ruined fane of the old ruined god?
How he frowned while around him we carelessly played!
That frown on my life ever after hath stayed,
Like the shade of a solemn experience upcast
From some vague supernatural grief in the past.
For the poor god, in pain more than anger he frowned,—
To perceive that our youth, though so fleeting, had found,
In its transient and ignorant gladness, the bliss
Which his science divine seemed divinely to miss.
Alas! you may haply remember me yet,—-
The free child, whose glad childhood myself I forget.
I come -a sad woman, defrauded of rest;
I bear to you only a laboring breast;
My heart is a storm-beaten ark, wildly hurled
O'er the whirlpools of time, with the wrecks of a world.
The dove from my bosom hath flown far away;
It is flown and returns not, though many a day
Have I watched from the windows of life for its coming.
Friend, I sigh for repose, I am weary of roaming.
I know not what Ararat rises for me
Far away, o'er the waves of the wandering sea:
I know not what rainbow may yet, from far hills,
Lift the primrose of hope, the cessation of ills:
But a voice, like the voice of my youth, in my breast
Wakes and whispers me on-to the East! to the East!
Shall I find the child's heart that I left there? or find
The lost youth I recall, with its pure peace of mind?


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THE EARL OF LYTTON
9354
Alas! who shall number the drops of the rain?
Or give to the dead leaves their greenness again?
Who shall seal up the caverns the earthquake hath rent?
Who shall bring forth the winds that within them are pent?
To a voice who shall render an image? or who
From the heats of the noontide shall gather the dew?
I have burned out within me the fuel of life,
Wherefore lingers the flame? Rest is sweet after strife.
I would sleep for a while. I am weary.
My friend,
I had meant in these lines to regather, and send
To our old home, my life's scattered links.
Each attempt seems to shatter the chaplet again;
Only fit now for fingers like mine to run o'er,
Who return, a recluse, to those cloisters of yore
Whence too far I have wandered.
But 'tis vain!
How many long years
Does it seem to me now since the quick, scorching tears,
While I wrote to you, splashed out a girl's premature
Moans of pain at what women in silence endure!
To your eyes, friend of mine, and to yours alone,
That now long-faded page of my life hath been shown
Which recorded my heart's birth, and death, as you know,
Many years since,- how many?
A few months ago
I seemed reading it backward, that page! Why explain
Whence or how? The old dream of my life rose again.
The old superstition! the idol of old!
It is over.
The leaf trodden down in the mold
Is not to the forest more lost than to me
That emotion. I bury it here by the sea,
Which will bear me anon far away from the shore
Of a land which my footsteps will visit no more;
And a heart's requiescat I write on that grave.
Hark! the sight of the wind, and the sound of the wave,
Seem like voices of spirits that whisper me home!
I come, O you whispering voices, I come!
My friend, ask me nothing.
Receive me alone
As a Santon receives to his dwelling of stone
In silence some pilgrim the midnight may bring:
It may be an angel that, weary of wing,


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THE EARL OF LYTTON
9355
Hath paused in his flight from some city of doom,
Or only a wayfarer strayed in the gloom.
This only I know: that in Europe at least
Lives the craft or the power that must master our East.
Wherefore strive where the gods must themselves yield at
last?
Both they and their altars pass by with the Past.
The gods of the household, Time thrusts from the shelf;
And I seem as unreal and weird to myself
As these idols of old.
Other times, other men,
Other men, other passions!
So be it! yet again
I turn to my birthplace, the birthplace of morn,
And the light of those lands where the great sun is born!
Spread your arms, O my friend! on your breast let me feel
The repose which hath fled from my own.
YOUR LUCILE.
FROM PROLOGUE TO THE WANDERER ›
OH
H, MOMENT of sweet peril, perilous sweet!
When woman joins herself to man; and man
Assumes the full-lived woman, to complete
The end of life, since human life began!
When in the perfect bliss of union
Body and soul triumphal rapture claim,
When there's a spirit in blood, in spirit a flame,
And earth's lone hemispheres glow, fused in one!
Rare moment of rare peril! -The bard's song,
The mystic's musing fancy. Did there ever
Two perfect souls in perfect forms belong
Perfectly to each other? Never, never!
Perilous were such moments, for a touch
Might mar their clear perfection. Exquisite
Even for the peril of their frail delight.
Such things man feigns; such seeks: but finds not such.
No; for 'tis in ourselves our love doth grow:
And when our love is fully risen within us,
Round the first object doth it overflow,
Which, be it fair or foul, is sure to win us


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9356
THE EARL OF LYTTON
L
"
T
Out of ourselves. We clothe with our own nature
The man or woman its first want doth find.
The leafless prop with our own buds we bind,
And hide in blossoms; fill the empty feature
With our own meanings; even prize defects
Which keep the mark of our own choice upon
The chosen; bless each fault whose spot protects
Our choice from possible confusion
With the world's other creatures; we believe them
What most we wish, the more we find they are not;
Our choice once made, with our own choice we war not;
We worship them for what ourselves we give them.
Doubt is this otherwise. - When fate removes
――――――
The unworthy one from our reluctant arms,
We die with that lost love to other loves,
And turn to its defects from other charms.
And nobler forms, where moved those forms, may move
With lingering looks: our cold farewells we wave them.
We loved our lost loves for the love we gave them,
And not for anything they gave our love.
Old things return not as they were in Time.
Trust nothing to the recompense of Chance,
Which deals with novel forms. This falling rhyme
Fails from the flowery steeps of old romance
Down that abyss which Memory droops above;
And gazing out of hopelessness down there,
I see the shadow creep through Youth's gold hair
And white Death watching over red-lipped Love.


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9357
MAARTEN MAARTENS
(J. M. W. VAN DER POORTEN SCHWARTZ)
(1858-)
BY WILLIAM SHARP
HERE are few authors of the day more widely popular with
the English-reading public all over the world than the now
celebrated Anglo-Dutch romancist, Maarten Maartens. It is
interesting to note that the testimony of many of the leading librari-
ans, both in America and Great Britain, is to the effect that few
if any novels are in such steady demand
throughout the year as those of the able
writer just named.
This is the more interesting from the
fact that Mr. Maartens is, as his name ap-
plies, a foreigner; and the more remarkable
because that he, a Hollander, does not (as
commonly supposed) translate his original
Dutch MS. into English, but writes at first
hand in his adopted language. Naturally,
after he had first won reputation, there was
a general idea that his books were success-
ful romances in Holland itself, and that they
had been translated into English as a ven-
ture, and as it proved, a successful venture.
As a matter of fact, it is only quite recently that Maarten Maartens's
novels have appeared in the Dutch language in Holland. For long
his own countrymen, curious as to his writings, had to procure his
books from the Tauchnitz Library, or else to purchase English copies.
One might well wonder why a novelist should have so little heed for
reputation in his own country. Perhaps it is because of too keen a
recognition of the fact that a prophet is not without honor save in his
own land; perhaps it is because the small Dutch public in little Hol-
land is infinitesimal in comparison with that in America and Great
Britain, to say nothing of Australia and Canada; perhaps - and indeed,
here we have the real cause, I understand - it is because Maarten
Maartens has depicted certain aspects of Dutch life only too vividly

MAARTEN MAARTENS


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9358
MAARTEN MAARTENS
and exactly,— written them, in fact, with all the verve and detachment
from parochial partialities which might be expected of a foreigner
rather than of a native. It is said that Mr. Maartens would not have
agreed to a Dutch reissue of his books at all, were it not for the
fact that in the absence of a copyright law to protect his interests,
translations might well appear, and of course be wholly unsatisfactory
to him from every point of view. It is commonly understood that
the accomplished wife of the popular novelist, who is as notable a
linguist as he is himself, and indeed born with the gift of tongues, is
responsible for the translation into Dutch of those several romances
which have won so much recognition among the English-speaking
peoples. The author, of course, has revised them; but to all intents
and purposes we have the strange, and perhaps unexampled, instance
of a romancist choosing to write wholly for the foreign public.
Not that any one meeting Mr. Maartens for the first time would
consider him a foreigner. Both in appearance and in manner, as well
as in speech, he suggests an Englishman of a very recognizable type;
and when he and his wife, as frequently happens, are in London,
there is nothing outwardly to distinguish them from scores of their
friends and acquaintances. Recently I saw a so-called authentic
account of this writer. It stated that Mr. Maartens was the son
of a Dutch peasant of that name, and that his books had long en-
joyed a remarkable popularity in Holland. The latter misapprehen-
sion has already been set right. As to the first misstatement, that too
is easily corrected; for "Maarten Maartens" is merely a pen-name,
and belongs, so far as Mr. Maartens himself knows, to no industrious
peasant or to anybody else in particular-though of course a fairly
common name in Holland. How wise the adoption of a good pseu-
donym was, is at once evident when we know the real name of the
novelist. It is only his intimate friends, however, who know the
novelist as Mynheer Van der Poorten Schwartz. To correspondents
in general, as well as to the outer world, he is invariably Maarten
Maartens.
J. M. W. Van der Poorten Schwartz, to give him his native name
once more, was born in Amsterdam on the 15th of August, 1858. He
has, with his wife, traveled much; and this is perhaps one reason why
they both speak Dutch, German, French, Italian, and English with
facility and intimate knowledge. Although so English in his tastes,
and so largely English by his interests, Mr. Maartens in his private
life is primarily a Dutch gentleman. True, he has incurred a good
deal of dislike, and even given serious offense, to many of his com-
patriots by what they consider his undue or disproportionate repre-
sentation of Dutch life; but his neighbors at least do not hesitate to
be glad that he is one of their number, and that he takes part in the


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MAARTEN MAARTENS
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Maarten
busy communal life which is the general ideal in Holland.
Maartens, who is now in the prime of life, lives for the reater part
of the year—that is, when he is not traveling abroad-in a beautiful
house near the ancient city of Utrecht.
The first of his books to attract wide public attention — and I
understand, the first that he wrote-is the moving story entitled
'The Sin of Joost Avelingh. ' Almost at once this clever and fasci-
nating study of human motives working out towards an inevitable
end attracted the notice both of the critics and of the reading world.
'The Sin of Joost Avelingh' was successful from the first; and every
one was asking who the new novelist with a foreign-sounding name
was, and what else he was going to give us. This book was followed
by 'An Old Maid's Love,' which had for sub-title 'A Dutch Tale told
in English. In actual craft of writing, this reserved and almost
austere romance displays a marked advance upon its predecessor in
certain points of style; it had not, however, the same success. This
was reserved for God's Fool,' which both serially and in volume
form was read and admired everywhere. The novelist's growing rep-
utation was still further enhanced by what many people consider his
best book, 'The Greater Glory. ' This "story of high life" was actu-
ally written in 1891, and revised in 1892, though it did not appear
in an English magazine-Temple Bar -until the winter of 1893-4.
Early in 1894 it appeared in the then conventional three-volume form,
and in the autumn was issued in a popular one-volume series. Seri-
ally, it appeared in America in the Outlook; and besides the author-
ized edition there have been several pirated issues. So early as 1894
also it was added, in two volumes, to the famous Continental Series
of Baron Tauchnitz.
Mr. Maartens has written several other romances than these; and
indeed we have come to look for at least one book yearly from him.
But in those named the reader will find all his characteristics ade-
quately represented. He is a writer with a grave sense of his respons-
ibility to the public. Conscientious both as to the matter expressed
and as to the manner of that expression, scrupulous in his effort
to maintain a high standard of purity and distinction in the use of
English, and eager to permeate all his work with the afflatus of a
dominant moral idea, he may broadly be ranked with two such rep-
resentative writers as George Eliot in England and Edouard Rod in
France. With the deep and subtle author of 'La Vie de Michel Tes-
sier' he has in fact much in common. Some time ago an American
gentleman asked one of the chief librarians in London which would
be the best books by living writers, that would at once interest the
attention and improve the minds of young readers in country districts
in the States. Among the two or three names that were specified
in particular was that of Maarten Maartens; and this indeed is a


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9360
MAARTEN MAARTENS
verdict that can honestly be indorsed. His work is strong, virile,
reserved, dignified, and true to life; while at the same time it is
profoundly interesting, pictorial, dramatic, and with unmistakable qual-
ities of style and distinction. It is more than probable that his best
work will survive that of writers of much greater temporary vogue;
and if so, that happy result will be to the credit of the always sane,
and in the long run generally wise, judgment of the reading public
at large.
Of his first six books- 'The Sin of Joost Avelingh' (1890), ‘An
Old Maid's Love' (1891), 'A Question of Taste' (1891), God's Fool'
(1892), The Greater Glory' (1894), My Lady Nobody' (1895)- Mr.
Maarten Maartens considers the chef d'oeuvre to be God's Fool';
and "the fool of God," Elias Lossel, is his favorite character. Un-
doubtedly, however, his first book and 'The Greater Glory' are those
for which the public care most. There is one often quoted sentence
in the latter book which I may give here:-"This is a true story. It
is what they call a story of high life. It is also a story of the life
which is higher still. There be climbings which descend to depths.
of infamy; there be also-God is merciful—most infamous fallings
into heaven. "
The following extracts are as fairly representative as is possible,
both as to style and subject-matter. The reader must bear in mind
that they are excerpts, and allow for an apparent haziness in atmo-
sphere, of necessity an evasive quality when what should be given.
intact has to be presented fragmentarily. Perhaps however they may
send yet more readers to the always instructive, stimulating, and
deeply interesting romances of Maarten Maartens.
Wanane Sharpe
JOOST SURRENDERS
From The Sin of Joost Avelingh'
OOST AVELINGH went up to his wife's room.
J°
The doctor's last words had been spoken low; but Joost,
stopping for a moment in the hall to pass a hand over his
eyes and collect his bewildered thoughts, just caught them. He
stumbled up-stairs, opened the bedroom door, and walked in.
God had answered him. There lay his wife, white and mo-
tionless, with staring, meaningless eyes, under the white coverlet;


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MAARTEN MAARTENS
9361
unconscious, insensible.
A shaded lamp burned on a side table;
Dientje the maid rose softly from her chair near it, and came
forward. He motioned her away- towards the adjoining dressing-
room-and then sat down alone by the bed.
God had answered him. In the pride of his heart he had
sought himself an answer, and had triumphed at the thought that
it should be a pleasing one. But the very fact of his yearning
for a sign in the heavens was the surest proof that the oracle
in his own heart had spoken already. It had been speaking
through all these months, as each successive experience led him
nearer to the truth, all the shouting and din of the election had
not been able to silence its voice completely; and now, over the
tumult of this wild hour of false exultation, it shrieked aloud!
The intoxication of the moment died away from him, leaving
him the more dejected. And the hatred and contempt of him-
self which the last weeks had fostered, once more overflowed his
heart.
God had answered him. He sat staring at the senseless face
before him, and he read the answer there. He did not believe
in such connection as the doctor seemed to snatch at between
Agatha's illness and the trial. Living with her day by day, he
had seen her well and happy, triumphant even, in the recognition
of his innocence. The change had come suddenly; in the last
fortnight, perhaps. He had watched it; her mother had spoken.
of it; her brother—but he had watched it, and seen it for him-
self. It was God's reply to all his lying self-exculpation, to his
life of deceit. The curse of her race would fall surely and
swiftly upon this innocent wife of his; for so mysteriously, yet
wisely, doth God visit our sins upon our loved ones. Or, in his
mercy, he would take her to himself and leave her husband com-
fortless, him whom no comfort could advantage, and whom mis-
ery alone yet might save. But whatever the future might fashion,
it would bring them separation: Joost's heart cried out that it
must be so, and the last words the doctor had spoken were become
an irrevocable decree to him. He understood that it must be
thus. He was unworthy to live longer by the side of this woman.
whom he cheated; and whether by death to relieve her, or by
insanity to punish him, she would pass out of his existence.
She would never speak to him again. Never!
In that thought
he first realized how unutterably he loved her, with a love which
had grown from a boy's rash fancy for a pretty face, through
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MAARTEN MAARTENS
trials and mutual enjoyments and deepening sympathies, into
the very essence and existence of the soul. And yet his first
yearning was not to retain her, if God bade her pass from him:
it was only that-oh, by all his unworthiness of her, by his guilt
and her gentle innocence, by his passionate love and her answer-
ing affection-by their oneness-of Thy giving, great Father-
he might obtain mercy to confess his iniquity in her sight. For
death was not death to him in that moment, nor detachment
separation. And ere she-his soul's diviner part-pass on to
fuller purity of knowledge, he would gather from her lips that
she had learned his secret on this earth, had understood it, and
forgiven him. Not, not to be left here standing with eyes
that cannot pierce the darkness, and yet with a hope that told
the loved one loved him still, and now read the soul he had so
shrewdly veiled before her, and now-mayhap—mourned for-
ever for a unity, high and holy, broken and trodden under foot.
O God, have mercy!
He sank down by the bed and buried his face in his hands.
And in the untroubled silence his heart cried aloud. It was of
God that he must obtain forgiveness in the first place, and he
knew it. But his prayers, in that turmoil of feeling, were of the
woman he loved.
-
THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM
From An Old Maid's Love'
IT
T WAS on a golden summer evening-a long June sunset, soft
and silent that Mephisto crept into the quiet old heart of
Suzanna Varelkamp.
She was sitting in the low veranda of her cottage on the
Wyker Road, with her gray knitting in her hands. She always
had that gray knitting in her hands. If it rested on her knees
for one brief moment, her friends could tell you that some singu-
larly difficult question-probably of abstruse theology, or else
about the linen-basket or the preserves—was troubling Suzanna's
mind. Suzanna was a woman of industrious repose. She loved
her God and her store cupboard. She did not, as a rule, love her
neighbor overmuch: little unpleasantnesses in connection with
the overhanging apples, or Suzanna's darling cat, were apt to


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MAARTEN MAARTENS
9363
intervene and stifle the seeds of dutifully nurtured benevolence.
Nor did she love herself to any excess of unrighteousness; know-
ing, with a perfervid knowledge, that she was altogether abomina-
ble and corrupt, and "even as a beast before Thee," from her
mother's womb upwards-a remote period.
The gentle laburnum at her side was slowly gilding over in
the sinking sunlight, fragile and drooping and a little lackadaisi-
cal, very unlike the natty old woman, bolt upright in her basket-
chair. Just across the road a knot of poplars quivered to the
still air; and in the pale, far heaven, companies of swallows cir-
cled with rapid, aimless swoops. Nature was slowly-very, very
slowly, tranquilly, dreamingly, deliciously settling itself to sleep;
silent already but for a blackbird shrilling excitedly through the
jasmine bushes by the porch.
-
-
Another bird woke up at that moment, and cried out from
Suzanna's bedroom — through all the quiet little house — that it
was half-past seven. Then he went to sleep again for exactly
half an hour; for, like all man's imitations of God's works, he is
too hideously logical to be artistic. And Mejuffrouw Varelkamp
began to wonder why Betje did not bring out the 'tea-water';
for every evening the sun went down at another moment. - Prov-
idence, being all-provident, was able to superintend such irregu-
larities, but every evening, at half-past seven to the minute,
Mejuffrouw Varelkamp must have her 'tea-water,' or the little
cosmos of her household arrangements could not survive the
shock. "It is difficult enough for one woman to superintend one
servant! " said Suzanna. "It is possible, but it is all-engrossing,
and requires concentration of power and of will. And not being
Providence, I cannot regulate disorder. " The regulation of "dis-
order," as she called it, the breaking away from straight lines
and simple addition,― was one of Suzanna's bugbears.
And so
Betje was efficiently superintended; none but she knew how
engrossingly. And evening after evening, the cuckoo stepped
over his threshold, and Betje out of her kitchen, so harmoni-
ously that you might almost have fancied they walked in step.
Somebody was coming up the quiet road-a Dutch road,
straight and tidy, avenue-like, between its double border of
majestic beeches; somebody whose walk sounded unrhythmic
through the stillness;-two people, evidently, and not walking in
step, these two: one with a light, light-hearted swing; the other
with a melancholy thump, and a little skip to make it good
-
――
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MAARTEN MAARTENS
again. But their whistling, the sweet low whistling of an old
Reformed psalm-tune, was in better unison than their walking;
though even here, perhaps, the softer voice seemed just a shade
too low. Had there been all the falseness of a German band in
that subdued music, Suzanna would not have detected it: her
heart and that far more than her ear-recognized with tran-
quil contentment the drawn-out melody, calm and plaintive; and
her bright eye brightened, for just one little unnoticeable mo-
ment, at the accents of the clearer voice. That sudden brighten-
ing would flash every now and then over a face hard and cold
enough by nature; nobody ever noticed it except Suzanna's
sister, the rich widow Barsselius,-not Suzanna herself, least of
all the young scapegrace who was its only cause.
Dutch psalm-singing leaves plenty of time for the singers to
go to sleep and wake up again between each two succeeding
notes. The whistlers came into sight before they had finished
many lines.
They stopped suddenly upon perceiving the old
lady under the veranda, and both took off their hats.
"Dominé," said Suzanna, "how can you countenance whistling
the Word of God? "
The young man thus addressed looked up with a quiet twin-
kle in his eye.
He had a pale face and a thoughtful smile; he
was slightly deformed, and it was he that walked lame.
"With pipe and with timbrel, Juffrouw," he answered gayly.
"Old Baas Vroom has just been telling me that he won't give
up smoking, in spite of the doctor, because he has read in his
Bible how the people praised the Lord with their pipes. "
Suzanna never smiled unless she approved of the joke. She
reverenced the minister, and she patronized the young believer;
it was difficult sometimes properly to blend the two feelings.
But at the bottom of her tough old heart she thoroughly liked
her nephew's friend. "He will make a capital pastor," she said
to herself unconsciously, "when he has unlearned a little of his
so-called morality and taken in good sound theology instead. Not
the milk of the Word with Professor Wyfel's unfiltered water,
but strong meat with plenty of Old-Testament sap. "
"Come in here," she said severely: "I want to talk to you
about that Vrouw Wede. I told her this morning that she could
not have any more needlework from the Society unless she sent
her son to the catechizing. She says the boy's father won't have
him go, because it tires his head. And I warned her I should


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MAARTEN MAARTENS
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report her to the Dominé. " Mejuffrouw Varelkamp's voice always
dropped into exactly the same tone of hereditary reverence over
that word. "Come in, Jakob, and you shall have a 'cat's tongue'
[a kind of biscuit], even though it isn't Sunday. ”
Betje had brought out the tea things meanwhile, triumphantly,
under cover of the minister's presence: the shining copper peat
stove, and the costly little Japanese teacups, not much larger
than a thimble, on their lacquered tray. "Take away the tea-
stove, Betje," said Suzanna: "the peat smells. " She said so
every now and then, once a week, perhaps,-being firmly con-
vinced of the truth of her assertion; and Betje, who never
believed her, and who never smelled anything under carbolic
acid, whisked away the bright pail and kettle from beside her
mistress's chair and brought them back again unaltered. "That
is right, Betje," said Mejuffrouw. "How often must I tell you
that a stove which smells of peat is full proof in itself of an
incompetent servant? "
"Humph! " said Betje. For even the very best of house-
keepers have their little failings and fancies and fads.
"Come in, Jakob," said Suzanna. "Not you, Arnout. You
can go down to the village and fetch me a skein of my dark
gray wool.
The dark gray, mind, at twelve stivers. You know
which. "
"You know which! " The young man had grown up with the
dark gray wool and the light gray wool and the blue wool for a
border. Ten stivers, twelve stivers, fourteen stivers. He knew
them better than his catechism, and he knew that very well too.
He touched his hat slightly, he was always courteous to his
aunt, as who would not have been? —and he strolled away down
the green highway into the shadows and the soft warm sunset,
taking up as he went the old psalm-tune that had been on his
lips before.
It was the melody of the Fifty-first Psalm. Suzanna had good
cause to remember it in after years.
And it was into this calm green paradise of an old maid's
heart-a paradise of straight gravel paths, and clipped box-trees,
and neat dahlia beds-that soft Mephisto crept.
―――→→→


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9366
MAARTEN MAARTENS
KNOWLEDGE
From God's Fool. Copyright 1892, by D. Appleton & Co.
THER
HERE was a man once-a satirist. In the natural course of
time his friends slew him, and he died. And the people
came and stood about his corpse. "He treated the whole
round world as his football," they said indignantly, "and he
kicked it. " The dead man opened one eye. "But always toward
the Goal," he said.
There was a man once- a naturalist. And one day he found
a lobster upon the sands of time. Society is a lobster: it crawls
backwards. "How black it is! " said the naturalist.
And he put
it in a little pan over the hot fire of his wit. "It will turn red,"
he said. But it didn't. That was its shamelessness.
((
-
There was a man once a logician. He picked up a little
clay ball upon the path of life. "It is a perfect little globe,"
said his companions. But the logician saw that it was not per-
fectly, mathematically round. And he took it in his hands and
rubbed it between them softly. "Don't rub so hard," said his
companions. And at last he desisted, and looked down upon it.
It was not a bit rounder, only pushed out of shape. And he
looked at his hands. They were very dirty.
There was a man once
—
a poet. He went wandering through
the streets of the city, and he met a disciple. "Come out with
me," said the poet, "for a walk in the sand-dunes. " And they
went. But ere they had progressed many stages, said the disci-
ple, There is nothing here but sand. "-"To what did I invite
you? " asked the poet. -"To a walk in the sand-dunes. "" Then
do not complain," said the poet. "Yet even so your words are
untrue. There is heaven above. Do you not see it? The fault
is not heaven's. Nor the sand's. "
MUSIC AND DISCORD
From God's Fool. Copyright 1892, by D. Appleton & Co.
"THE
HE principle remains the same," cried Lossell. "Keep out
of expenses while you can. "
"But don't if you can't," interrupted Cornelia tartly.
Till now her husband had resolutely fastened his eyes upon
the orchestra director's shining rotundity. He withdrew them for


## p. 9367 (#387) ###########################################

MAARTEN MAARTENS
9367
a moment-less than a moment- as Cornelia spoke; and their
glances met. In that tenth of a second a big battle was fought
and lost, far more decisive than the wordy dispute of the other
night. For Hendrik read defiance in Cornelia's look, and retreated
before it. In that flash of recognition he resolved to give up all
attempts to browbeat her. His must be a warfare not of the
broadsword, but of the stiletto. There lay discomfiture in the
swift admission; not defeat as yet, but repulse. Once more Cor-
nelia's eagle face had stood her in good stead. "After all, I can't
slap her," muttered Lossell, as he scowled back towards Herr
Pfuhl's bald head.
Indeed he could not.
"Can't' is an ugly word," he said to himself almost as much
as to her, and he walked away in the direction of the breakfast-
room. In the entry he turned round. "No concert this winter,
Herr Pfuhl! " he cried; and then he shut the door quickly behind
him.
He was still sufficiently master of his own house to say what
he chose in it. But he was not master enough to remain where
he chose after having said it.
He was far from sorry to think the door should be shut.
The repose of the Sabbath-that blessed resting on the oars
-had been broken by a sudden squall. He glowered discontent-
edly at the breakfast things; and as he lifted the teapot lid, he
sneered down upon the innocent brown liquid inside. Yet Cor-
nelia could make good tea. And he knew it. It is a beautiful
thing in a woman.
No man of nervous or artistic temperament should bind him-
self in wedlock before the partner of his choice has passed an
examination in tea-making. And even in Koopstad there are
nervous souls, though inartistic, in these days of ours when
Time travels only by rail. Hendrik was of a highly nervous
nature, irritable, and fifty miles an hour. He sat down to break-
fast and drew the Sunday morning paper towards him. Cornelia
might as well stop away as not. How unreasonable she was, and
how inconsiderate! He would walk out presently and see Elias.
The walk would do him good and brace him up a bit. Elias
was his brother; a step-brother, but still a brother, a Lossell.
Blood is thicker than water, and every now and then the old
truth comes home to you. And Cornelia was fast deepening into
a nuisance.


## p. 9368 (#388) ###########################################

9368
MAARTEN MAARTENS
She came in serene, as if nothing had happened. Her victory
satisfied her for the moment, and she was too wise a woman not
to relax her hold of the rope the moment she had drawn the
boat into her current. She had shown Hendrik the limit of her
endurance, and instead of leaping over it, he had shivered back.
That was enough for to-day. She did not really want the con-
cert very badly, especially not at that "scandalous" price.
"I quite agree with you, Henk," she said mildly, as she
busied herself with her tray; "and I have told Herr Pfuhl so,
and sent him away. It would be absurd to pay so much for his
band; and we can in any case very well wait till next year. "
Hendrik's whole being melted away into notes of interroga-
tion and admiration, as he stopped and stared at his wife,— the
open print in one hand, his half-lifted teacup in the other.
"We must give an extra dinner instead," continued Mevrouw.
"Why did you not wait for me to pour out your tea, Hendrik? "
"I am in a hurry," answered Lossell, still bewildered: "I
want to walk out to Elias's and see how the poor chap is get-
ting on. "
Mevrouw pulled a face. She did not like to think of the use-
less idiot who stood between her and the full glory of greatness.
Elias was her permanent eclipse. "Oh, depend upon it, he is
perfectly well and happy," she snapped. She avoided as much
as possible allowing her thoughts to dwell upon contingencies;
but she could not keep down an undercurrent of exasperation at
sight of the idiot's unbroken health. "It is only the people
whose existence has no raison d'être," she said, that go on liv-
ing for ever. ”
«<
<< So-o," muttered Herr Pfuhl to himself emphatically, in a
long-drawn reminiscence of his native land. He hurried down
the short avenue in fretful jumps, and as he went he struck his
greasy wide-awake down flat on his speckled cabinet-pudding of a
head. "So is it in the great houses. They have the butters and
the oils of life, and yet the wheels go creaking. The Mefrou,
ah, she will have her concert when she wants it. Not so was my
Lieschen. Never has she given me Blutwurst again, since I told
her it was Leberwurst I loved better. And yet Blutwurst was
her Leibgericht. "
Whenever he was strongly moved, his German seemed to break
forth again purer from some hidden spring of feeling, and to come
surging up across the muddy ditch of broken Dutch.


## p. 9369 (#389) ###########################################

MAARTEN MAARTENS
9369
A film spread over his eyes, for Lieschen would never eat
Blutwurst again. She had been dead for many years. She had
died in this strange, straight-lined country, of a chill at the heart.
Peace be to the old Director's ashes. He too is dead. But
his orchestra was heard in Mevrouw Lossell's rooms before he
laid down his baton. And on that memorable occasion Hendrik
Lossell went up to him, with nervous, puckered face, and compli-
mented him on the excellence of the performance; adding, with
a palpable sneer, that there were some things so valuable you
could never pay enough for them.
And the sneer was at himself.
GUILT
From God's Fool.