by Arthur Japin
Kwame and I exchanged looks. No one had ever asked us such a question before. I smiled faintly, hoping she would change the subject. Verveer slapped his hand on the back of his chair.
“Come now, boys, answer the question!”
I was about to say what I thought she wanted to hear, when Kwame blurted: “No, madam!” He did not even sound timid.
“What sort of answer is that?” snapped Verveer.
“An honest answer, Major-General.” Anna Pavlovna straightened her back. “Would you prefer it otherwise?”
“No no, of course not.”
“Grey skies and flat polderland, wind, water and aching muscles are not likely to make one forget the pleasures of home, I can assure you!”
At this point Princess Sophie came into the room. She was about fourteen, and carried a glass jar containing a specimen in preserving fluid. She stepped forward quickly, but carefully, to avoid jostling the contents of the jar.
“Come and look, Mamma, he’s got a skeleton next door, and things behind a curtain. And look at this, it’s got monsters in it, Mamma, look, look! It’s ghastly, all hairy and . . .” She held out the jar to her mother, and suddenly noticed our presence. Everything happened so quickly that I cannot say whether she was startled by the sight of us or by the lid slipping off and splintering on the floor. Alcohol splashed over her white frock, whereupon she jumped and dropped everything. Shards of glass flew in every direction.
“Sophie!”
There was a moment of silence, then Raden Saleh got up and said, drily: “A zoological specimen.” He wiped some murky liquid from his shoes and rang for a servant.
“I am so sorry,” said the girl. She wore her blonde hair brushed back from her forehead and hanging down on either side of her face in fine ringlets. They danced as she shook her head over her own clumsiness.
“It is nothing, Your Highness, nothing. Just some vermin in a formaldehyde solution. My servant will clean up the mess at once.” But Kwame had already crouched down to fish the dead insect from the floor, at which Sophie gave a little shriek.
“Mamma, Mamma, he’s picking it up with his bare hands!”
“It’s a spider,” I said.
Sophie took a step closer, shuddering. “A spider? As big as that?” she said, pulling a face.
Kwame held the creature under her nose and stroked the wet hairs with his finger. “It’s very soft. Go on, feel it.”
Sophie had to fight down her revulsion, she had to force herself to look, but she reached out and touched it. We told her we knew all about spiders, and she regarded us with such interest that we were encouraged to continue.
“Behind the mandible are the glands,” said Kwame. “Very useful. Two drops diluted with five gulps of water cures stomach aches.”
“How clever!” the girl cried. “Do you hear that, Mamma?”
“And under the legs are some other glands,” I added quickly, pointing them out to her. “There. Good for stiff joints.”
“Stiff joints?” her mother said, waving her hand to show she wanted a closer look. Kwame pressed one of the little sacs, and a tiny dab of colourless jelly squirted on his finger. Verveer stepped forward to intervene, but Sophie’s mother restrained him.
“Who knows,” she said. “It can’t do any harm.” She peeled off her gloves and rubbed a dot of jelly over her knuckles.
4
The summer of 1838 ended abruptly. In the early days of September the temperature dropped fifteen degrees in a single night. That same week it started to rain, and it did not stop until December. This was not the kind of rain we had known at home—a few heavy showers daily—nor the kind of rain that lasted for several days, as we had experienced during our first Dutch autumn. No, from one day to the next the entire country was swaddled in a cold, dripping blanket. The unusual weather conditions gave rise to all sorts of old wives’ tales. There had been the same heavy rains in the summer of 1818 and, just as twenty years earlier, prophets of doom arose all over the country, proclaiming that the sixth seal had been opened and the end of the world was upon us. Each Sunday in our room we heard an old man ringing a bell and shouting at the top of his voice about the spire of the great church in The Hague having been struck by lightning on account of the three Willems—king, crown prince and heir apparent—attending a concert of secular music in that sacred place.
Kwame laughed at all the superstition and said we should go to the park. We looked for a place where we would not be seen, took our clothes off and leaped about with our arms outstretched. We used to do this at home. We called such big raindrops “heaven’s fingertips.” There they were warm and fragrant, but here they ran down our bodies like cold tears. Kwame kept it up for a while, but I put on my wet clothes and ran home as fast as I could.
“The post has arrived!”
It was towards the end of November that Mrs. van Moock burst into the classroom and, in contravention of all the rules, interrupted me in my recital of Paul’s epistle to the Colossians.
“The post, sir. An envelope, a card. The finest parchment! Only two weeks from now! Oh my goodness gracious, and what shall they wear?”
I had prepared a little discourse on the subject of “the tolerance of the new life without idols and sins of the flesh,” but the headmaster was not listening. He tried to bundle his wife out of the room, but she stood firm. She pushed the embossed card into his hands, which he read while he shouldered her to the door.
“A royal invitation! I knew it. I said so right away. Didn’t I say so? Let no one contradict me. My own boys!”
Cornelius turned round slowly to face us. His expression was utterly blank.
Since the day that van Drunen had invited me into his carriage but had refused to take Cornelius, my wrestling partner had been very quiet. I wanted to resume our sparring matches, but he demurred. When we happened to find ourselves alone together he would take off at once, or call out to someone to join us, as though I were an embarrassment.
“He’s afraid of you,” said Kwame, who didn’t think much of the older boy. Nonsense, I thought. Cornelius would always be stronger than me, always the leader. I thought he might be upset because the headmaster made it a little too obvious that Cornelius was a mediocre pupil and I a quick learner. So for a while I tried hard to dissemble my progress. When that did not help to bring us back together, I concluded that our friendship was lost forever. Now there was nothing to stop me from getting the best marks, and I devoted myself to the only sport that contains within it its own reward.
In keeping with the Russian custom, Anna Pavlovna gave her relatives their gifts on the eve of their birthday. And as Sophie’s father, Crown Prince Willem Frederik, was born on 6 December, the festivities for his forty-seventh birthday commenced on the eve of St. Nicholas. His wife seized every opportunity for gathering her family around her. While the children were young she would do everything in her power to turn the feast of St. Nicholas into a grand, double celebration.
Mrs. van Moock had provided us with long-tailed morning coats and shirts with scratchy starched fronts. We looked ridiculous, but it was the height of fashion. A small carriage drawn by two horses was hired for us at considerable expense. That afternoon, in blustery weather, we rode to the dunes at Scheveningen, where we alighted in front of a low building. The windows of the two wings, hardly more than large rooms, were brightly lit. Smoke rose from both the chimneys. Music could be heard. The columns at the front were decorated with garlands of dried flowers, twigs of fir tree and small dried oranges. The wind tore at them.
The Queen’s Pavilion had been a gift from the king to his wife, Wilhelmina. After her death the year before, it had passed to her son Frederik, who generously allowed his niece, Princess Sophie, to use it whenever she pleased. She loved the seashore.
It was the first time since our arrival in this country that we saw the sea again, but never had we seen it so turbulent. As soon as the door of the pavilion opened we rushed inside, and found ourselves in the mi
ddle of a family celebration. The chatter of the company drowned out the pounding surf.
The young princess greeted us like old friends. We were somewhat embarrassed by her effusiveness. She would not let go of our hands and drew us into the drawing-room, made us sit by the fire, called for hot chocolate and pattered to and fro with ladies and their offspring in tow, to whom she introduced us as if we were bestowing a favour on them. No fewer than seven times did she repeat what little she knew about us, our origin and the object of our stay in this country, after which she seemed to tire and simply abbreviated her introduction to “the African princes I told you about.” In this way we made the acquaintance of her governess, Mademoiselle Chapuis, and her aunt Marianne, a small thin woman with a flushed round-cheeked face, who had come all the way from Berlin accompanied by her young son Albert for the celebrations. Duke Bernhard of Saxe-Weimar-Eisenach was there with his daughter Amalia and sons Hermann and Gustav. The boys were our age, and they were good sportsmen. After I had wrestled Hermann down in the hall, Gustav invited Kwame to visit him at his home near The Hague for some fencing and riding.
That afternoon the children outnumbered the adults, and besides meeting the sons and daughters of several noble families we were introduced to Prince Alexander, who bore an uncanny resemblance to his mother Anna Pavlovna. He had her Slavonic eyes, her dark hair, and had even adopted some of her gestures. His sister told us we could call him Sasha. He agreed to this graciously, and before the evening was out he reminded us quite plainly that we should address each other informally, as friends.
Gingerbread dolls and marzipan were passed around, but the princess was brimming with excitement. She wanted us to meet her father and her other brothers, but couldn’t find them. However, Anna Pavlovna came forward, with a frail white-haired old lady.
“Brrr,” Anna Pavlovna shuddered, “the wind never stops blowing in this place!” She looked around the room accusingly. She was followed by Madame Kuchelev, another formidable Russian lady. Kwame asked Sophie if Russian men were even bigger than the women.
The crown princess took the little old lady by the hand—she was Mademoiselle de Sybourg, her former governess, now senile and in the princess’s care—and led her to a seat with high arms and back, into which the tiny figure sank. For the rest of the evening all she did was stare into the void and dip ginger biscuits into her cup of tea to make them soggy, after which she licked the sticky mess off her fingers.
At seven it was time for some singing. We were taught several ditties invoking St. Nicholas, which reminded us of the way we chanted for the spirits in our temple by the lake. After half an hour the lights were dimmed and the doors opened. We were showered with confectionery and everyone, the adults in the forefront, raised a great shout of expectation. Kwame gave me a look as if everyone had gone mad. There were more songs, this time not in the drawing-room but in the entrance hall, which was dark. Anna Pavlovna launched into a song, and everyone joined in. A long-robed figure stepped inside. On his head he wore the mitre of a Roman Catholic bishop. It was St. Nicholas. Everyone cheered, whereupon he scratched his white beard and enquired whether we had all been good children. There was a resounding cry—even from the adults—of “Yes!” But the saint was not satisfied with this answer, and asked the question again, adding that anyone not telling the truth would be sent to Spain forthwith.
I began to feel very uneasy. What if St. Nicholas actually put us on a boat all over again—to Spain this time! Imagine being at sea in this weather! I was so confused and frightened that I didn’t dare say yes when he asked us again whether we had been good boys in the past year. I was terrified that I had done something wrong, although I always tried to please everyone by being as obedient as I possibly could. This visit from St. Nicholas was turning into an ordeal.
Anna Pavlovna gave a sign for the lamps to be relit. St. Nicholas took a seat and opened the large book bound in red Morocco which lay on his knees. He called for his Black Peters, whereupon two fellows with blackened faces leaped out from behind the curtains, waving birch rods. There was a lot of shrieking while the Black Peters lunged at the children in search of those who had been up to mischief. Boys and girls fled in all directions. I stood rooted to the spot, until Kwame nudged me saying that they were all just having fun. I couldn’t see the fun of it, but started to calm down.
The next instant, the larger of the two Black Peters, who wore enormous bloomers, pounced on me. He seized me by my shoulders just as he had seized other children before, but when he set eyes on my face his jaw dropped, and he let go of me as if he had burnt his fingers. He bent over with a look of disbelief.
“Well I never!” he blurted. All attention was focused on the pair of us. The Black Peter switched his gaze from me to Kwame and back again, took a few steps back and rubbed his eyes, then looked around the room in wonder, unsure whether he should persist in his role of Black Peter in our presence. No one seemed to know what to do. The lull in the conversation roused Mademoiselle de Sybourg, who raised her hand from her teacup, pointed a soggy finger in our direction, and cried shrilly: “It is Willem! It is plain for all to see. Guillot! Can’t you tell? It’s our dear, dear little Guillot!”
Now the tension was broken, everyone started laughing and talking at the same time. But that was not the end of it. The Black Peter stood rooted to the same spot. It did not escape him that he had cut a risible figure and that his awkward behaviour was a source of amusement. Suddenly he whipped off his beret and curly wig and flung them to the floor. Under his mop of fair hair, there was a distinct line marking off a band of pink skin from the blackened features of his face. Kwame and I were horrified—it looked as if the man had been flayed alive. He swore under his breath, hitched up his bloomers and stalked off, so incensed that he knocked a side-table over on his way out, sending a crystal bowl crashing to the floor. He slammed the door behind him with such force that one of the panels came loose.
Madame Kuchelev distracted everyone’s attention by clamouring for a slice of the cinnamon cake that had been baked specially by the Russian pastry cook, whereupon Anna Pavlovna signalled for it to be cut and shared out. St. Nicholas cleared his throat with much ado, and turned to address us. He told Kwame and me to come and sit on his lap. Some of his front teeth were missing, and he smelled so strongly of tobacco that I had to stifle a cough. The saint said he knew all about us. I found that surprising, as I had never seen him before. I said so, at which he chuckled and claimed to have met my father, too. He knew everyone.
“How is my father?” I asked. St. Nicholas conveyed my father’s good wishes to us. Kwame thought he had misheard and asked him to repeat his words, but he had not been mistaken, and the message pierced my soul. This was the first news from Kumasi that had ever reached us, and we were hearing it from a stranger! St. Nicholas mumbled that he could look into people’s hearts all over the world, and had seen that my father missed us, thought of us every day and wished us well.
I could see him in my mind’s eye, standing on the ramp of our palace in Kumasi, his back to me, staring into the distance. For so many months I had succeeded in banishing him from my mind and now, in front of everyone, he actually turned to look at me. I don’t think he knew who I was.
I broke into a coughing fit. Turning the pages of the big red book, the saint had apparently come across mention of improper conduct on my part during school examinations, which was certainly not true, and also of Kwame’s reluctance to wash, which accusation was perhaps less far from the truth. However, our crimes were not so serious as to detract from the overall impression of good behaviour, he declared, and he gave us a heavy, colourfully wrapped box and a slice of cinnamon cake, and sent us away.
I could not make up my mind whether to hold on to the image of my father or to let it go, and was so preoccupied by this that much of the further festivities escaped my notice. The other children were given the same treatment we had received. Most of them were reprimanded for disobedience but each of them recei
ved a gift, which they unwrapped at once.
We had not dared to open ours. We were new to the custom of concealing gifts in paper wrappings. When the others tore open their parcels I felt embarrassed at not having done so too, but by now I felt it was too late.
Finally the saint himself was given a present by Anna Pavlovna, whereupon a Russian choir sang a mournful song. The chattering resumed, and Princess Sophie came running to show us her gift. It was a mechanical doll, which by pressing a button could be made to sit down at its desk, dip its pen in the inkwell and write “Sophie” on a sheet of paper. Sophie demonstrated her doll twice in succession, and gave each of us a sheet with her name on it. I thanked her, but was dejected and unable to hide my emotion.
“Is it because of my brother’s behaviour?” she asked. “You mustn’t take any notice. He’s just a show-off. He has a temperament. Mamma says there’s a lot of my grandpa Paul in him. Temperament, you know. My brother Willem Alexander is a real Romanov . . . Like the Tsar.” She eyed me steadily, and added: “Of Russia.”
“Yes, yes of course,” I mumbled.
“When are your birthdays?”
“Our birthdays?” Kwame asked in surprise. “We don’t have any.”
“Not right now perhaps, but at some time in the year, surely?”
“No, we don’t have birthdays.”
“What nonsense, everyone has a birthday!” She waved her hand dismissively. “Everyone except Mademoiselle de Sybourg, that is. Every day’s the same to her and she’s so very old already, I can’t see how she can get any older.”
“We’ve never had a birthday,” Kwame insisted.
“No, never,” I echoed.
“Why ever not? Or do you celebrate your name-day? That’s just as good, I suppose. When are yours?”
“On Saturday,” Kwame said. “Yes, my name-day is Saturday.”
“And mine is Sunday.”
