Chapter XIV: Act II (4)

Van Elst, moreover, with his warm temperament and strength of character, could ill brook his cold-blooded cousin. He liked men to be firm, and women tender-hearted; and Piet was so weak, and Emily so cold, and the two couples so directly opposed to each other in all their sentiments and opinions, that the most innocent conversations often led to collision. When, for example, Van Elst brought home the news one day that one of their acquaintances had been suddenly taken ill, and Jo asked, with a quaver in her voice and tears in her eyes, if she could do anything to help the poor wife, Emily scarcely listened, and Piet only to inquire anxiously what was the matter—he hoped nothing infectious!

With regard to society, there was great diversity of opinion between the couples. Up country in the Indies it is possible to live on such terms with all the Europeans as to avoid giving offence, while at the same time one cannot be intimate with all. One comes across many people there who are wealthy, who entertain, and are to a certain extent admitted into society, but of so low a stamp intellectually and morally that it is impossible for respectable families to associate familiarly with them.

The Van Elsts had thus soon chosen their own friends, and to this select circle they had introduced their guests.

But the Martendijks struck up acquaintance with a family with whom they had no wish to become intimate.

“Good gracious!” said Max, who did not approve of this at all; “what is there in that man to take your fancy?”

“Not much,” replied Martendijk.

“Surely his wife isn’t the attraction, then?—a stupid insignificant creature like that!”

“Yes, she is very stupid,” said Martendijk. “But she is a capital cook,” he added, after a moment.

“Well, but they’re not people to get so very intimate with. Perhaps you don’t know that he has a very shady reputation,—it is well known that he got that factory into his hands by a very dirty trick. They say he made the former owner drunk, and then——”

“That’s very likely true,” interposed Martendijk coolly; “he looks to me just that sort of man. But that does not prevent his keeping capital wine, and being very generous with his help——”

“For any sake hold your tongue!” cried Max, suddenly turning his back on his guest.

But the most violent explosion took place one morning at the breakfast-table, when the conversation turned upon one of their aunts—a sister of Martendijk’s father and Max’s mother—who was in great poverty, and had been very unfortunate.

“I have not troubled my head about her for years,” said Piet. “I may tell you I make a point of interesting myself only in my respectable relatives.”

“You mean in those who have got on well in the world,” observed Max. “Aunt Liza is a worthy respectable woman, whose only fault is her poverty.”

“But she had no position at all in Delft,” said Emily. (Martendijk was silent: he preferred not to argue with his cousin when Max’s eyes flashed like that.) “She dealt in tea, I think, or knitting-cotton, or something of that kind.”

“Yes, just so, in _tea_,” said Max; “exactly in the same way as your husband deals in sugar, and your father in cheese. Good-morning!”

“Good gracious, Jo, what a temper your husband is in!” exclaimed Emily, who was determined not to take offence, because she was very comfortable with Martendijk’s relatives, and the building at their own place at Soeka-Manies—the real reason for their visiting—was still going on.

“Yes,” said Martendijk, the courage of his opinions returning as soon as he heard Max drive away; “I don’t see why on earth he should get so excited!”

What surprised the Van Elsts more than anything else, was the relation of the couple to one another. The same man and woman, who had not one grain of sympathy for the troubles of others, or for the most terrible national calamity, and who were totally impervious to the sufferings of even their friends and relations, were full of devotion to one another.

If Piet was not quite the thing, Emily was full of anxiety; and if she looked worried, Piet did his best to conquer his despondency. In short, disagreeable though they were in every other respect, they were a model couple. It was difficult for a third person to start any subject of conversation with them, because nothing interested them which did not affect themselves directly or indirectly; but they were never at a loss for a subject when by themselves, and their conversation was inexhaustible so long as they could devote themselves unreservedly to the discussion of their own affairs, bringing every effort of mind to bear on what concerned them alone.

_Money_ was a favourite topic: how they could enjoy this or that together—it was always together!—without much expense; how to manage their domestic expenditure most satisfactorily; how to invest a small sum securely—and so on.

They spent so long over these interesting details, that it was impossible for outsiders to take any part in their discussions.

VI.

“Just look here a minute, Max; is it my fancy, or does Jan look a little pale to-day?” asked Mrs Van Elst one morning, as she went out to the verandah to see her husband off.

“Of course it is your fancy,” said Max, who made a point of never allowing that any of the children were ill,—a device intended to calm their nervous mother, but which always had precisely the contrary effect “Come here a moment, Njo; your mother says you’re not well. Come, my boy, tell me what’s the matter with you,” he added less carelessly, as Jan, usually anything but slow to respond to his father’s call, dragged himself listlessly towards them, and sank down upon a chair.

“Not comf’ble, papa—headache!” was all he vouchsafed.

Max took him on his knee, and glanced at his wife. Yes, the old story; she was pale, her lips trembled, and her eyes were bent tenderly and anxiously on the child. It was this readiness to take alarm which caused Jo more suffering than the patient, whenever her husband or children were ailing.

“Shall we just send for the doctor, dear?”

“No; did I ever!” cried Max. “The man would think we were mad. Because Njo has a little headache, forsooth! Come, my boy, go and play.”

“_Play!_ Good gracious! Max, just feel how hot his head is.”

“Well, put him to bed then. You can do that at least,” and he laughed, as it seemed to her, heartlessly, and called her “a silly thing”—a jocular remark which was met by none of Jo’s usual repartees.

“Papa must come too,” was Jan’s command, and we know that no general is better obeyed by his soldiers than a sick child by its parents. So Max carried his boy first over one shoulder, then over the other, after which he had to creep on all fours round the room, roaring like a lion, before Njo would be laid down. The patient was not particularly disposed to go to sleep; he allowed papa to coddle him, and mamma to bring him lemonade, and did as many children do when much notice is taken of their ailments—made himself out much worse than he really was.

When it was really impossible for his father to remain longer, he coaxed and whimpered a little, and finally cried himself to sleep, so that Jo was free to enjoy a quiet hour by his bedside with her work-basket, for every available moment must be snatched to make up for the time lost through Emily’s visit.

Their visitors had gone out very early that morning to call on one of their new acquaintances, a sugar manufacturer like Martendijk. It was so pleasant to come across some one in your own line, he remarked; they could discuss one thing and another while driving or walking together, and one got many a hint and idea in that way.

On their return home, the “boy” told them “Sinjo Jan” was ill.

“Oh, dear! that’s always the worst of visiting where there are children,” said Martendijk, as he sipped his _bouillon_; “there’s always something wrong.”

“Well, this would not be much to speak of,” said Emily, “only I’m afraid it may interfere with to-morrow evening.”

It must be explained that the Martendijks had talked so much about the attention shown to them on all sides as the Van Elsts’ guests (and they certainly had not been slow to avail themselves of the social advantages of the neighbourhood), that Jo felt at last obliged to give a small party in acknowledgment of the courtesy shown to them.

Her guests need never know all it had cost her to talk Max over, and how, when one argument after another failed to win over her perverse lord and master, she had at last taken refuge in that weapon which loses its power when too often used, and is the very last resort therefore of a clever woman—I mean tears.

For, though Jo would hardly admit the fact even to herself, Max had not been just altogether pleasant to deal with of late,—indeed, he had really been quite disagreeable and cross, and very unwilling to acknowledge himself in the wrong.

His liver had been bothering him for some little time (no wonder he grumbled), and Jo, only too ready to find satisfactory excuses for his ill-temper, was glad enough to reiterate constantly to her visitors, who had also a good deal to stand from his bearish ways, how the liver affects the temper, and how wretched it makes one feel.

This did not prevent their cousins from assuring one another repeatedly, once they were safe in their own room, that Max was a disagreeable fellow, and that were it not for the comfortable quarters they were in, and the building going on at home, they would remain no longer. For so wrapt up were they in themselves and in one another, and so absorbing was their _egoïsme à deux_, that it was impossible for them to realise how actions and remarks like theirs affected others; therefore, of course, they blamed Cousin Max for the rather strained relations which had come about.

As soon as she had drunk her chocolate, Emily betook herself to the nursery to see what were the prospects for the party.

“Well, dear cousin,” she began, making no attempt to lower her somewhat harsh voice, “what is this I hear? Is little Jan ill?”

“I am very much afraid he is,” said Jo; “he is so restless in his sleep.”

“A little feverish, perhaps,” said Emily, taking the child’s hand in her own for a moment. “I’d give him a good dose of quinine,” she continued, “and he’ll be all right by to-morrow evening.”

“Why to-morrow evening,” asked Jo, puzzled.

“Did I ever! Have you forgotten all about that? Why, it was to-morrow evening we were to have that party.”

“Dear me, so it was,” cried Jo. “I’d nearly forgotten all about it. But, of course, if he is ill it will have to be put off.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” said Emily, “if he is ill. But it’s surely nothing serious. You always get frightened so quickly.”

“Yes, I do, it is true; and it really can’t be anything. But oh, Emily, he is such an angel, my Njo! and you always see that particularly sweet children don’t live long.”

The wet eyelashes and quivering lips were not without their effect even on cold Mrs Martendijk.

“Well, well,” she said kindly, “I would not worry about that. Jan has his naughty fits just like other boys; and besides, if all the children were to die whose mothers consider them ‘almost _too_ good’ for this world, there would not be many left.”

Seeing how nervous Jo got, and how the event generally proved her fears groundless, Max was always making resolutions not to yield to such exaggerated anxiety another time. So when he came home at mid-day and found his wife still occupied with the child, he coolly carried her off to another room, and gently but firmly forbade her to leave it until she had rested for a few hours.

Jo was too tired to resist, and soon fell asleep. She did not awake till late in the afternoon, for which she could not forgive herself, though it was, in fact, the best thing that could have happened, considering the disturbed night she was to have. It did not need much persuasion to induce Max to send for the doctor next morning.

Emily took care to be in the verandah when he stopped to say a few words to Mrs Van Elst after his visit to the little patient.

“There’s not much the matter is there, doctor?” she asked.

“No—at least I think not,” was his reply. “It’s not easy to predict in a case of illness, but, as far as appearances go, it seems to me an ordinary cold.”

“There, you see, Jo, what did we all tell you? You do get anxious so soon!”

“Well, you see, I have so much to lose,” said Jo deprecatingly.

“If it gives you any pleasure to worry,” said the doctor, “you had better do so about yourself, and not about that sturdy little chap,”—and with a compassionate glance at the young wife, who had already been so often a patient of his, he took her hand in his own. “You’re not looking so well as you did, Mrs Van Elst,” he said. “You wear yourself out, and don’t do enough to get up your strength. I shall have to scold in good earnest—or speak to Van Elst.”

“Oh, no, for goodness’ sake, don’t do that!” exclaimed Jo, glad that Max was safe in his office. “How angry he would be!”

“Well, Jo,” said her guest, when the doctor had gone, “that _is_ a relief. An ordinary cold, it will be better in a day or two. Now let us set to work to get ready for the party.”

“Oh, dear Emily, what do you think? Shall we not rather put it off?”

“Put it off? and why? Come, Jo, what’s the matter with you? All the invitations are out already.”

“I’d like to have it for your sake,” Jo began again; “you know that, don’t you? But I am _so_ tired! I never closed an eye last night; and there is so much to be done—baking, and all that.”

“Well,” said Emily, “surely your maid can help you?”

“Siah? Oh, no; she must stay with Njo—she’s his old ‘baboe.’[45] No, really, it can’t be managed. Oh, if you only knew how dead tired I am!” and the poor little woman sank into a chair, and closed her eyes as if to shut out the mountain of work that the mere thought of the party conjured up.

“If _I_ undertook all the trouble,” asked Emily, after a moment’s reflection, “could we go on with it then?”

“Oh yes,” said Jo, “if you would be so very good.”

She was too much absorbed in her sick child to trouble herself much about the success of the party, else she would have been decidedly uneasy; for it had gradually dawned upon her that Emily did not know much of the noble art of cookery. Notwithstanding her great readiness to recommend dishes and to lend recipes, she had never yet concocted anything herself; and even when Jo had begged her to help with a few domestic duties on specially busy days, she had always tried to get out of it. To-day it was quite different, however.

She asked for the keys, and in ten minutes had all the “boys” and maids hard at work; while she herself was here, there, and everywhere, thinking of everything,—making cakes, planning the _menu_, and all with a deftness and briskness which were quite enviable.

“Oh dear!” thought Jo, when she saw her cousin’s activity, “if she had only helped me like that sooner, how much nicer it would have been having visitors.”

Jo arranged the flowers; Martendijk the card-tables; Emily superintended the supper; and by mid-day everything was ready.

Emily went to take a nap, while her hostess did the same, so as to be bright and fresh when the evening came.

And so probably she would have been, after a quiet undisturbed sleep; but the little patient grew worse about the middle of the day; and when his father came home, he saw at once that the child was feverish.

“Oh, dear Max,” sighed Jo, “what a worry! A sick child, and that party in the evening!”

“_Party!_” cried Max, to his wife’s great consternation. “It’s out of the question. Did you think I’d ever allow that? Certainly not. What a mad idea to think of having people here to-night! Emily’s at the bottom of that, I’ll be bound.”

“No, indeed, dear. I was quite anxious for it too,” pleaded Jo, shielding her guest at the expense of her own truthfulness. “And oh, Max, Emily has been so good; she arranged everything, and I have had nothing at all to do.”

“Of course she helps you now, as it’s her party, and she is bent on having her own way,—but I’ll soon see who is master in my house. The party will _not_ go on, I tell you. I’ll have the people put off. Where are the boys?”

Van Elst had spoken so loud in his passionate outburst, that it needed no eavesdropping to find out his intentions; and perhaps that was the reason that Emily appeared so opportunely just then.

“Oh! excuse me, cousin,” he exclaimed apologetically, running against her in his hurry. “Do you know where the boys are?”

“They are round at the back,” said Mrs Martendijk, looking brighter and livelier than he had ever seen her. “Look here, cousin,” and she took his arm confidentially to lead him to the back verandah, “have we not worked well to-day? Everything is ready——”

“But the party can——” began Max.

“And should you like to see what you’re going to have to-night?” And in the same friendly manner he was conducted to the pantry. “Just look at that magnificent trifle. And are not the tarts a success? But the _pâtés_ are _the_ thing. They look just as if they came straight from the best confectioner’s—do they not?”

“I am really sorry you have had so much trouble, and I must say it all looks beautiful; but the party cannot possibly go on,” repeated Max, firmly.

“What do you say?”

“Yes; it’s a great pity, and I can understand how annoyed you feel; but Jan is decidedly worse....”

Emily had recovered her composure by this time.

“Jan worse! My word! I had no idea of that,” she cried. “Gracious! cousin, if I had known that an hour sooner; and now the punch is made!”

It was now Max’s turn to be disconcerted.

“What do you say?” he exclaimed.

“Well, it was time it was done, you see;” and Emily seated herself. “One would really need to know everything beforehand,” she went on, coolly; “then we should at least not have opened those fine wines and the expensive champagne. The supper will cost a great deal too, to be sure, and the money’s all thrown away now; but we can eat everything some time or other among ourselves.”

“The _punch_ won’t keep, I suppose?” asked Max.

“Oh no! it _is_ a pity Jan is so ill.”

“Oh, he’s not so very much worse!” exclaimed Max impatiently. “But what a wretched amount of stuff,” he added, after a moment, when he had made a rapid mental calculation of the needless expense, and realised how odious it would be to see Piet and Emily devouring all the dainties. “If only Jo was not so very tired.”

“Yes; it would be very unfortunate if she were not able to appear. But we can always see how Jan is; and if she were to decide at the last moment to stay with the child,—well, I’d be glad to do the honours.”

“For goodness’ sake let it be, then,” said Max; and as his guest made her escape as fast as she could, without prejudice to her dignity, he sent a wish after her which was more expressive than courteous.

Emily only enjoyed a little laugh at his helpless fury, congratulating herself on the success of her diplomacy, for on hearing about half-an-hour before that the child was worse, she had given orders to have the punch mixed; and when she stepped into the store-room, she was met with a request from Piet, who had been told off to superintend, to taste and see if the ingredients were right.

VII.

Jo did _not_ appear that evening. Jan complained of sore throat; and the mother, in her dread of diphtheria, sent for the doctor at once, and remained at the child’s bedside, in spite of his assurances that nothing was the matter. Emily did the honours, and appeared to enjoy it.

Though each of the guests had privately resolved not to stay late for the little boy’s sake, it was two o’clock before the last had departed, and three before the house was quiet. Indeed absolute quiet there never was that whole night, for Jo, as she lay awake, heard first all sorts of unaccountable sounds proceeding from the guests’ apartment, and then an excited calling out for servants, who either could not or would not hear, followed by a knocking at her own door, and an agitated demand for laudanum, and a confused story about salad and punch, which might be the death of people who suffered from internal complaints. Tea must be infused, and hot-water bottles filled; but when Jo sprang up eager to go and help, her husband held her back authoritatively. He had feigned to be asleep all the time, but when the door was shut, while the strange sounds continued to be heard, then he was seized with such an uncontrollable fit of laughter, that Jo was infected by his merriment, and lay in mortal terror lest Emily should hear them, or Jan be awakened.

But Jan was the last to think of awaking. He slept not only the whole night, but far into the morning. Max was not permitted to go to his office before he should awake, for just as she would have thought it “very alarming” if he had not slept at all, so it seemed to be “very alarming” that he should sleep so long.

At last, about nine o’clock, he opened his eyes. The rest seemed to have done him good, for not only did he demand bread and butter, but, as soon as his glance fell on the new box of bricks papa had bought for him the day before, he jumped out of bed, and seated himself on the floor to play, as if nothing had happened.

“How is the poor little throat?” asked Jo, as soon as she had recovered from her glad surprise.

“My throat?” repeated the child wonderingly; “my throat is not ill.”

Max was so relieved, and thought it such a capital joke that he burst out laughing; even the Martendijks laughed; and Jo tried to join in, but the joy was too sudden after the anxiety she had undergone, and she broke into a hysterical fit of weeping instead.

“There you are now! I told you so—insisting on the party like that!” cried Van Elst, losing his temper completely.

“What kind of an outbreak is that?” asked Emily, forgetting the repairs at home for the moment, in order to give vent to her indignation.

“What is it? It is your fault, Emily, if she is laid up. I could have told you beforehand,—Jo is not fit for all that worry and fuss!”

Emily followed her husband from the room—the thought of the building recurring to her; while Van Elst led his wife away.

When the doctor came, he spoke of over-excitement, nervous strain, and prescribed strong beef-tea, absolute quiet, and keeping to her room. Jo submitted. Jan was nearly all right again; it had been a mere cold, and in her joy and gratitude for his recovery, she could have submitted to much; to remain in one’s room, however, is a trial to appreciate which one must be the mother of three children.

“Your visitor can surely manage the house for a few days?” the doctor had said. But, strangely enough, now the party was over Cousin Emily seemed totally incapable of domestic duties.

So Jo lay listening to piercing cries from Nonnie, who was evidently tumbling downstairs, and hungry little Ada’s wails would penetrate to her ears; or the maid would appear one moment, the “boy” the next, to ply her with questions. Worse than all were the fears she created for herself,—Jan would be sure to catch cold, or the children would venture too near the well or the cistern; who was to put away all the plate and crystal? and would not the servants appropriate all the remains of the feast?

Luckily Van Elst came home early; but he brought no balm to Jo’s heart, for when he saw that she was no better, he began by scolding her, and then abruptly left the house.

This was the very opportunity his neighbour over the way had been watching for.

With apparent unconcern he sauntered across his own grounds, where he had lain in ambush for some time; for ever since he had witnessed the doctor’s repeated visits, his curiosity had known no bounds.

“Well, Mr Van Elst,” he began, feigning great surprise at meeting him there, “and how are you all at home?”

“Oh, first-rate,” said Van Elst; “mother sick, child sick, and husband no longer master in his own house!”

“Bless me!” said Mr Smits. “Come, I’ll walk up and down a bit with you. I understand how it is when the wife is ill, especially a wife like yours, but we’ll hope she’ll soon be herself again. And then things will be all right, won’t they?”

This was very diplomatic on Mr Smits’s part; he wanted to know about more than the wife’s illness. It was a well-calculated move, for the whole story came out.

“_All right!_ No, indeed, we shall not. What upsets my temper is those guests of mine. You will hardly believe, Mr Smits, what a tiresome, irritating fellow that Martendijk is, with his terror of infection, and his eternal complaints about his health. And what a heartless creature his wife is! But, above all, what studied egoists they both are!”

Mr Smits had to hear it all; how worn-out Jo was; how their guests had taken advantage of them; how he had been driven into giving that confounded party. “And if I could once for all just give them a piece of my mind—but you see I can’t, as they are my guests. My wife is always giving me nudges and winks to keep me quiet; and if I do break loose occasionally, I get nice little scoldings from her into the bargain. Oh, there’s no standing the life I lead just now!”

“And is there no chance of their leaving soon?” asked Mr Smits.

“Oh, no! they talk of remaining another month at least,” replied Van Elst, in so despairing a tone, that his neighbour pitied him from the bottom of his heart.

“But if there are unwelcome guests in one’s house, it’s surely easy to find some way of getting rid of them?”

“I don’t know any way. They are not particularly sensitive on some points.”

“You may ask what old Smits has to do with it,” began the bachelor; “but you must remember I have gradually grown to take an interest in you and your wife.”

“Take care, Mr Smits, I am jealous,” cried Max, who had totally recovered his good-humour now he had unbosomed himself.

“Absurd! an old fellow of sixty!” said Mr Smits, not a little flattered. “But what I wanted to ask you was, may I try to devise some plan for your deliverance?”

“Oh, yes; and if you succeed I’ll be grateful to you all my life.”

The first thing put into Van Elst’s hand next morning, when he sat down to his early coffee in the verandah, was a carefully sealed note from his old neighbour over the way. It was concise, and to the point.

“FRIEND,—Your wife is feverish. Your cousin has a dread of infection.
Is there any danger of typhus?—Yours,

“SMITS.”

With a heartier laugh than he had indulged in for a long time, Van Elst sprang to his feet. “The very thing! What a capital idea!” He would take steps at once.

“How is Cousin Jo?” asked Emily half-an-hour later at the breakfast-table.

“No better,” said Max gravely; “I would not go near her if I were you, Cousin Emily; I think she’s asleep.”

The doctor came, and pronounced the patient convalescent; so he sat chatting sociably with her for some time, and then left her, prescribing a tonic.

Scarcely was he gone when Max joined his cousins in the front verandah.

“What a long time the doctor stayed,” Emily remarked. “It’s nothing serious, is it?”

Van Elst preserved an ominous silence.

“Cousin Jo will soon be going about again, I hope?” asked Martendijk, with some concern; for domestic affairs had not gone so smoothly, nor had they, personally, fared so well, since Mrs Van Elst had been laid up.

Max’s face assumed a very serious expression. “Going about! No, indeed, not for a while yet.”

“What do you say?”

“Well, you see—h’m—after all,” said Max, as if making a sudden resolve, “I think it’s best to tell you frankly, the doctor is afraid of typhus fever.”

“_Typhus!_” shrieked Martendijk. “Good Heavens! Emily, d’ye hear?”

“Yes,” said Emily, and, to her credit, we must confess that her first thoughts flew to the poor husband and children, who, if the worst should happen, would lose so devoted a wife and mother. “Alas! Cousin Max,” she said, “how terrible.”

“Was the doctor quite sure of it?” asked Martendijk, his face blanched with mortal terror, the remembrance of which long remained an unfailing source of amusement to Van Elst.

“No, not at all certain; he thought it might perhaps be small-pox,” he replied.

Martendijk stared at him in the wildest consternation.

“Good God!” he stammered, “that’s no trifle either. Small-pox and typhus fever! One every bit as infectious as the other!”

“Yes,” said Max, “small-pox especially. Well, I’m off to the office,” he concluded. “Good-morning, you’ll go and see after my wife every now and then, won’t you, Emily?” he asked, as he sprang into his _bendy_.

“No, Emily, indeed you’ll do nothing of the kind, I hope,” cried Martendijk, as soon as Van Elst was beyond earshot. “You might bring back infection, and——”

“Ah! Piet, you really are rather a coward in that respect.”

“Yes; but, Emily, _small-pox_! Just fancy if you were to take it——”

“Well, of course; but you need not be so ready to accept it as a fact. If Max were sure of it he would not have been so calm about it.”

“Dearest,” and Piet’s voice was as meek as any child’s, “I hope you agree with me, we must get away from this _at once_.”

“What would people say if we left Jo——”

“Oh! my dearest wife, do not agitate me with all these objections!”

“It looks so cowardly, Piet. And the climate here agrees with you so well. And the building is not finished yet.”

“Well, we must just make the best of it. Anything rather than remain in this infected atmosphere. Oh, Emily, dearest Emily, have you no more affection for your husband? O Lord! the pain, the pain! The shock has set it going again!”

* * * * *

When Van Elst came home from his office at mid-day, his “boy” brought him another letter. It was not from Smits this time, however, but from the Martendijks.

“DEAR COUSINS (it ran),—You will quite understand our haste to get
away, now your house is attacked by such a terrible epidemic. We would
willingly have remained much longer, and it is our intention to repeat
our visit soon.

“In the meantime accept our cordial thanks for the hospitality you
have shown to us.

“Though your behaviour to us has not been all it might have been, dear
Cousin Max, we do not bear you the slightest grudge, and are quite
ready to excuse it, knowing what a bad effect the liver has on the
temper.

“We wish dear Jo a speedy recovery, and earnestly trust that she may
be spared to her husband and children.—With our kindest regards, your
affectionate cousins,

“P. & E. MARTENDIJK.”

“Hurrah!” exclaimed Van Elst. “Hurrah! Jo! our guests are gone!”

Though Jo received the news with considerable consternation, and
thought it disgraceful and inexcusable in Max to joke about anything
so terrible as typhus fever (in which Max agreed with her penitently),
it was amazing how rapidly she sprang out of bed,—the departure of her
guests proving more effective than all the doctor’s tonics.

So when their old neighbour strolled past the Van Elsts’ house a
little later, with an air of indifference, and Max rushed out to tell
him the glad news, and to thank him for his friendly and timely help,
he found Mrs Van Elst in the verandah, as bright and merry as ever,
ready to assure him—though she insisted on thinking it a disgraceful
proceeding!—that he had done her a great service by his lucky
inspiration.

An invitation to a quiet dinner on the following day was the result;
and the dinner was so good, the host in such excellent spirits, and
the hostess so sweet, that the solitary old bachelor caught himself
thinking, as he always did when a spectator of the Van Elsts’ domestic
bliss, “I might have known this sort of thing too, if only——”

ANNIE FOORE.

BIOGRAPHICAL INDEX OF WRITERS.

BUNING, ARNOLD WERUMEUS, born at Uithuizen (Groningen), in 1846, and
served in the Dutch navy from 1861 to 1876, when he was forced by
ill-health to retire on a pension. He then settled in his native
town, but afterwards removed to the Hague, where he now lives. He
is the author of a great number of short stories, mostly more or
less naval, and one or more novels, of which the principal is “The
Burgomaster’s Inheritance” (Leyden, 1873), and frequently
contributes to _Eigen Haard_ and Elsevier’s _Geïllustreerd
Maandschrift_. He is not remarkable for the subtleties of humour,
his genius being more akin to the rattling fun and boisterous
spirits of such writers as Captain Marryat and the late Henry
Kingsley. But he can be touching too, and there is unaffected
pathos as well as fun in the little volume, “Marim-Schetsen,” from
which our extract is taken. The education of the orphan boy by his
father’s old mate, “The Red ’Un,” who trains him up with unsparing
rigour in the way in which all good sailors should go, is good in
both ways; so is the sketch (in _Verschillende Ouwe Heeren_) of
old Jan Hallema, the Hilligermond pilot.

CATS, JACOB,[46] born at Brouwershaven, in Zeeland, 1577; died
September 12, 1660; and was buried in the Kloosterkerk at the
Hague. He studied law at Leyden, and then travelled in France and
Italy. Returning, he practised as a lawyer in his native town for
some years. His health gave way, and he visited England in order
to consult Dr William Butler, at Cambridge, but received no
benefit. He went home to die, but was unexpectedly cured by a
strolling alchemist. He then settled at Middleburgh, and married.
His profession seems to have left him abundant leisure for poetry,
and for enjoying the society of his family at his country place of
Grypskerke. It was during this period he produced his “Emblems of
Fancy and Love,” “Galatea,” “Mirror of Past and Present,” and
“Marriage” (Houwelick). In 1621 he was appointed Pensionary
(stipendiary magistrate) of Middleburgh, and in 1623 transferred
to the same office at Dordrecht. In 1627 he was sent on a
diplomatic mission to England, and knighted by Charles I. After
his return he lost his wife, and dedicated to her memory the
_Trouwringh_ (“Wedding Ring”), published in 1635. In 1636 he was
chosen Grand Pensionary of Holland, resigned his office in 1651,
and in 1657 went on another unsuccessful embassy to England, where
he delivered a Latin oration before the House of Commons. On
coming back to Holland he retired to his villa of Zorgvliet, near
the Hague, where he devoted himself once more to farming and
poetry, and died at the age of seventy-three. He has always been a
most popular writer in Holland, his mixture of canny morality and
shrewd homely wit being in thorough accordance with the national
genius, which found his long-windedness no drawback. His
reputation for “soundness,” and his tendency to preach also, no
doubt secured his popularity among a nation peculiarly suspicious
of heterodoxy, frivolity, and anything “without a moral at the
end,” though it must be said that his notions of propriety appear
to be somewhat large when judged by present-day standards. It may
seem difficult to believe, after all this, that he possessed the
faintest spark of humour; but his shrewd mother wit makes him
sometimes amusing, even to an outsider, and now and then he
records a touch of that “detached outlook in life, which goes to
the making of a real humorist.” Southey, who read Dutch among
other things, and was probably introduced to a great deal of Dutch
literature by the poet Bilderdijk, has a highly complimentary
reference to him in the epistle to Allan Cunningham:

... “Father Cats,
The household poet, teacheth in his songs
The love of all things lovely, all things pure.
Best poet, who delights the cheerful mind
Of childhood, stores with moral strength the heart
Of youth, with wisdom maketh mid-life rich,
And fills with quiet tears the eye of age.”

Cats’ works used to occupy in Dutch households the position of the
“Pilgrim’s Progress” and Fox’s “Book of Martyrs” in old-fashioned
English ones. He is still popular, not only among his Protestant
countrymen, but even in Belgium, and a complete edition of his
works has lately been issued at Antwerp. It includes a large
collection of proverbs, some of the quainter ones being given in
the text. A translation of some of his “Zinne-Beelden” was
published, under the title of “Moral Emblems,” by Richard Pigott,
in 1860, in a large and handsome volume, with reproductions of the
original woodcuts.

CREMER, JACOBUS JAN, born at Arnheim in 1827, is now living at the
Hague. He devoted himself for a time to painting, but in time
entirely abandoned the pencil for the pen. He is most successful
in his village stories, the best being located in his native
“Betuwe,” which he calls “The Paradise of Holland.” The list of
his works, which include novels, short stories, and sketches
(published in serial collections), and plays, is far too long to
reproduce. Like Dickens, he was at one time conspicuously
successful in giving readings and recitations from his own works.

DEKKER, EDWARD DOUWES, best known by the pseudonym of _Multatuli_, was
born at Amsterdam, March 2, 1820. He went to Java in 1840 or 1841,
with his father, the captain of a vessel, and shortly afterwards
obtained a Government clerkship. After a succession of
appointments in different places, at one of which he made the
acquaintance of the lady who afterwards became his first wife,[47]
he became “Assistant Resident” at Lebak,—a post which he threw up
in 1856, because the Governor-General would not listen to his
representations with regard to the extortion and tyranny practised
by the native chiefs, and (indirectly) by the Dutch Government.
Coming home, he embodied his opinions and experiences in the novel
of “Max Havelaar,” which, crude and formless as a literary
production, startled the reading public with its origin and
audacity, and, having regard to the effect it produced, may fitly
be called the Dutch “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.” For some time after
landing in Holland he and his family were in the greatest
distress, as through his hasty resignation he had forfeited the
pension which would have been due to him in another year or two.
He obtained some grudging help from his wife’s relations, who
offered to provide for her entirely if she would leave him, and
were righteously indignant at her refusal. With the appearance of
“Max Havelaar” his success as a literary man was assured, and from
thenceforth he was able to live by his pen, though continually
harassed by debts (he was careless, generous, and extravagant, and
had a constitutional incapacity for accounts), controversies, and
quarrels, well or ill founded, with friends or foes. After the
death of his first wife, he was married a second time—to Mej.
Schepeles—and made his home in the Rhineland, first at
Niederingelheim, and then at Wiesbaden. He died at Mainz, in
February 1887. Perhaps his best work is to be found in the _Ideen_
(filling in the collected edition of his works some seven
volumes). They are a kind of continuous rambling _causerie_,
contributed to a Dutch daily, the _Dageraad_, and ranging over
every possible topic, full of aphorism, paradox, epigram, and with
an occasional story woven in here and there. The most important of
these is the delightful fictitious biography of Wouter Pieterse,
which, though certainly not an autobiography, incorporates many of
the experiences of his childhood and youth. It was never finished,
and proceeds in a most capricious manner, being frequently
interrupted by digressions for dozens of pages together, and then
suddenly taken up again. Some extracts are given from this and
other parts of the _Ideen_. Most of his other works, except the
dramas “The Bride in Heaven” and “The School for Princes,” are of
a more or less occasional and fugitive character. But Multatuli’s
position is not to be measured by the mere number and extent of
his works. He is a distinct force in modern Holland, and a name to
conjure with to the younger generation of Dutch readers.

EEDEN, F. VAN, is the editor of the _Nieuwe Gids_, and author of
novels, sketches, critical articles, &c., besides the poem
“Ellen,” and some plays, including the comedy from which our
quotation is taken, and a farce, “The Student at Home.”

FOORE, ANNIE, is the pseudonym of Mevrouw W. J. F. Ijzerman, whose
maiden name was Francisca J. J. A. Junius, daughter of a learned
theologian, the minister of Tiel. She was born at the latter place
in 1847, and married an engineer, at Padang, Sumatra, in 1873. Her
principal works are the novels, “The Colonial and his Superior”
(1877), “A Family Secret,” “Florence’s Dream,” and several volumes
of short stories. The specimens in the present volume are taken
from “Family Life in the East Indies.” She has great power of
observation, a fine sense of humour, and an easy flowing style of
narrative, though sometimes her stories are defective in
construction. Her pictures of colonial life are admirable. For the
translation of the story “Unbidden Guests,” I am indebted to Miss
Margaret Farquharson, of Selkirk.

HUYGENS, CONSTANTIJN, born 1596, at the Hague. His godfathers were the
Admiral Justinus von Nassau and the City of Breda; he was named
after the “constancy” shown by the latter to the House of Orange.
He enjoyed a singularly complete and brilliant education, studied
law at Leyden, and became, in 1625, private secretary to Prince
Frederick Henry. He was on friendly terms with Hooft, Cats, and
the beautiful and talented daughters of Roemer Visscher,—Anna and
Tesselschade. Like Cats, he had visited England (in 1618), where
he made the acquaintance of John Donne, whose poems he afterwards
translated, and whose influence is visible in his writings. He was
knighted by James I. in 1622. He married in 1627, and the loss of
his wife, ten years later, was the great affliction of his life.
He had four sons, the second being the celebrated mathematician,
Christian Huygens, and one daughter. He continued his political
activity till 1672, when, being to a certain extent superseded on
account of his advanced age, he devoted himself to literature and
(like most Dutch gentlemen) to gardening at his villa of Hofwijk,
near the Hague; he died there in 1687. His works are of various
kinds,—didactic and descriptive poems (“Batava Tempe”), satires
(“The Costly Request”), epigrams (we give a few translations), the
frightfully coarse farce of “Trijntje Cornelis” (taste of the
times again!), &c. His best poem is “Oogentrost” (Eye Comfort),
dedicated, in 1647, to a friend, Lucretia van Trello, who feared
she was going blind. He also wrote a Latin autobiography, under
the title “De Vita Propria Sermones.” He published his collected
poems under the title “Corn Flowers.” Personally he seems to have
been in every way worthy of respect, and is described as “one of
the most lovable men that ever lived.”

KELLER, GERARD, born at Gouda, February 13, 1829. He was for some time
stenographer to the Dutch parliament, and afterwards editor of the
_Arnheimsche Courant_. He is a clever journalist, and voluminous
writer of fiction, in which latter department he would appear to
have been influenced by Dickens. His earliest novel, “The Tutor’s
Family,” appeared in 1857; “Overkompleet,” the sketch from which
our extract is taken, appeared in a volume with other short
stories in 1871, but has been reprinted in a complete edition of
his “Novellen,” of which three volumes have already seen the
light. Among his other novels we may mention “The Mortgage on
Wasenstein” (1866), “The History of a Halfpenny, and other
Stories” (1872), “Off the Rails” (1872), &c. He is also the author
of several volumes of travel-sketches, among which we may mention
four illustrated quarto volumes, “Amerika in Beeld en Schrift,”
and a lively description of a tour in Scotland (“Een Uitstapje
naar de Schotsche Hooglanden”), which has appeared quite recently.
Keller acted as a newspaper correspondent in France during the
Franco-German War, and his experiences there resulted in two
books, “Paris Besieged” and “Paris Murdered.” Besides all this he
has written several comedies, and numerous contributions to
periodical literature, and is now, we believe, the editor of the
monthly magazine, _Vreemd en Eigen_, having previously edited, at
different times, _Kunst Kroniek_ and the _Geldersche Almanach_.
His style has a lightness of touch, perhaps due to French
influence, and conspicuously wanting in all but some of the most
recent Dutch authors, with the exception of Multatuli.

LAMBERTS-HURRELBRINCK, L. H. J., is a young writer, living at Leyden,
who has published more than one collection of short stories,
mostly dealing with the province of Limburg and its people. His
first volume, “Limburgsche Novellen,” was reviewed, with perhaps
undue severity, in _De Gids_ for July 1890—a judgment which, it is
said, was not altogether uninfluenced by party spirit. A later
volume is “Van Limburg’s Bodem.” The sketch in the text appeared
in _Elsevier’s Maandschrift_ for September 1892, and is to a
certain extent founded on fact.

LENNEP, JACOB VAN, one of the best known of modern Dutch writers.
Belonging to a literary family, he was born at Amsterdam in 1802,
studied at Leyden, and took a law degree in 1824, and settled as a
lawyer at Amsterdam. In 1854–56 he was a member of the Second
Chamber of the States-General. He died at Oosterbeek (Gelderland)
on August 25, 1868. His literary industry was so prodigious that
we cannot attempt to give a list of his works, which were chiefly
poems, novels (published in a collected edition of 19 vols.),
plays, and historical studies. Perhaps his best novel is “Klaasje
Zevenster,” from which the bit of description we have quoted is
taken. We give his comedy, “The Village on the Frontier,” entire.

SEIPGENS, EMILE ANTON HUBERT, born at Roermond (Limburg), August 16,
1837. He was at first in the brewing business, but is now a
teacher of German language and literature in the “Rijks Hoogere
Burgerschool” of his native town. He has written several plays,
some of them in the Roermond dialect, and two or three volumes of
short stories, most of them strongly “Limburgsch” in local colour.
The extract here given is taken from the volume entitled “In en om
het klein Stadje” (Amsterdam, 1887). Another collection is
entitled “Langs Maas en Geul.” He is an occasional contributor to
the monthly magazine _De Gids_, and also to Elsevier’s
“Illustrated.”

-----

Footnote 1:

The oldest “Chambers of Rhetoric” (or _Collèges de Rhétorique_—the
name probably originated in the French influence introduced by the
House of Burgundy) date back to about 1400, or some years previous.
The oldest would seem to be the “Alpha and Omega,” at Ypres, and the
Antwerp “Violieren” (wall-flowers). The most famous, perhaps, is the
Amsterdam association, “De Eglantier,” better known perhaps under the
name of its motto, “In Liefde Bloeiende” (Blooming in Love). They held
poetical competitions, placed upon the stage (usually with great
magnificence) plays written and acted by their members, and arranged
the most splendid pageants and processions on the occasion of any
festival or public rejoicing. They also celebrated festivals of their
own, the most important of which were known by the name of
_Landjuweelen_. In 1496 a great Landjuweel was held at Antwerp by
twenty-eight societies, at which the Eglantier gained the first prize.
But the most famous of all was the Landjuweel of 1561, also held at
Antwerp, beginning on the 3rd August, when the chambers of Brabant and
Flanders vied with one another in magnificence. The Brussels society,
“The Book,” was represented by 340 members, all on horseback in
crimson mantles. This festival was revived on the occasion of the
jubilee of the Belgian Academy of Antiquities, August 1892.

Footnote 2: