The Soul of Nicholas Snyders

etext of The Soul of Nicholas
Snyders

By Jerome K. Jerome Scanned and proofed by Ronald Burkey
([email protected]) and Amy Thomte.
Notes on the editing: Punctuation and hyphenation have been retained
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THE SOUL OF NICHOLAS SNYDERS, OR THE MISER OF
ZANDAM
By JEROME K. JEROME
Author of "Paul Kelver," "Three Men in a Boat," etc., etc.
NEW YORK DODD, MEAD & COMPANY 1909
COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY JEROME K. JEROME COPYRIGHT, 1908,
BY DODD, MEAD & COMPANY Published, September, 1908
THE SOUL OF NICHOLAS SNYDERS, OR THE MISER OF
ZANDAM
Once upon a time in Zandam, which is by the Zuider Zee, there lived a
wicked man named Nicholas Snyders. He was mean and hard and cruel,
and loved but one thing in the world, and that was gold. And even that
not for its own sake. He loved the power gold gave him--the power to
tyrannize and to oppress, the power to cause suffering at his will. They
said he had no soul, but there they were wrong. All men own--or, to
speak more correctly, are owned by--a soul; and the soul of Nicholas

Snyders was an evil soul. He lived in the old windmill which still is
standing on the quay, with only little Christina to wait upon him and
keep house for him. Christina was an orphan whose parents had died in
debt. Nicholas, to Christina's everlasting gratitude, had cleared their
memory--it cost but a few hundred florins--in consideration that
Christina should work for him without wages. Christina formed his
entire household, and only one willing visitor ever darkened his door,
the widow Toelast. Dame Toelast was rich and almost as great a miser
as Nicholas himself. "Why should not we two marry?" Nicholas had
once croaked to the widow Toelast. "Together we should be masters of
all Zandam." Dame Toelast had answered with a cackling laugh; but
Nicholas was never in haste.
One afternoon Nicholas Snyders sat alone at his desk in the centre of
the great semi-circular room that took up half the ground floor of the
windmill, and that served him for an office, and there came a knocking
at the outer door.
"Come in!" cried Nicholas Snyders. He spoke in a tone quite kind for
Nicholas Snyders. He felt so sure it was Jan knocking at the door--Jan
Van der Voort, the young sailor, now master of his own ship, come to
demand of him the hand of little Christina. In anticipation, Nicholas
Snyders tasted the joy of dashing Jan's hopes to the ground; of hearing
him plead, then rave; of watching the growing pallor that would
overspread Jan's handsome face as Nicholas would, point by point,
explain to him the consequences of defiance--how, firstly, Jan's old
mother should be turned out of her home, his old father put into prison
for debt; how, secondly, Jan himself should be pursued without
remorse, his ship be bought over his head before he could complete the
purchase. The interview would afford to Nicholas Snyders sport after
his own soul. Since Jan's return the day before, he had been looking
forward to it. Therefore, feeling sure it was Jan, he cried "Come in!"
quite cheerily.
But it was not Jan. It was somebody Nicholas Snyders had never set
eyes on before. And neither, after that one visit, did Nicholas Snyders
ever set eyes upon him again. The light was fading, and Nicholas

Snyders was not the man to light candles before they were needed, so
that he was never able to describe with any precision the stranger's
appearance. Nicholas thought he seemed an old man, but alert in all his
movements; while his eyes--the one thing about him Nicholas saw with
any clearness--were curiously bright and piercing.
"Who are you?" asked Nicholas Snyders, taking no pains to disguise
his disappointment.
"I am a pedlar," answered the stranger. His voice was clear and not
unmusical, with just the suspicion of roguishness behind.
"Not wanting anything," answered Nicholas Snyders drily. "Shut the
door and be careful of the step."
But instead the stranger took a chair and drew it nearer, and, himself in
shadow, looked straight into Nicholas Snyders' face and laughed.
"Are you quite sure, Nicholas Snyders? Are you quite sure there is
nothing you require?"
"Nothing," growled Nicholas Snyders--"except the sight of your back."
The stranger bent forward, and with his long, lean hand touched
Nicholas Snyders playfully upon the knee. "Wouldn't you like a soul,
Nicholas Snyders?" he asked.
"Think of it," continued the strange pedlar, before Nicholas could
recover power of speech. "For forty years you have drunk the joy of
being mean and cruel. Are you not