CHAPTER VIII.
After the musician had left the burgomaster’s house, he went to young Herr Matanesse Van Wibisma’s aunt to get his cloak, which had not been returned to him. He did not usually give much heed to his dress, yet he was glad that the rain kept people in the house, for the outgrown wrap on his shoulders was by no means pleasing in appearance. Wilhelm must certainly have looked anything but well-clad, for as he stood in old Fraulein Van Hoogstraten’s spacious, stately hall, the steward Belotti received him as patronizingly as if he were a beggar.
But the Neopolitan, in whose mouth the vigorous Dutch sounded like the rattling in the throat of a chilled singer, speedily took a different tone when Wilhelm, in excellent Italian, quietly explained the object of his visit. Nay, at the sweet accents of his native tongue, the servant’s repellent demeanor melted into friendly, eager welcome. He was beginning to speak of his home to Wilhelm, but the musician made him curt replies and asked him to get his cloak.
Belotti now led him courteously into a small room at the side of the great hall, took off his cloak, and then went upstairs. As minute after minute passed, until at last a whole quarter of an hour elapsed, and neither servant nor cloak appeared, the young man lost his patience, though it was not easily disturbed, and when the door at last opened serious peril threatened the leaden panes on which he was drumming loudly with his fingers. Wilhelm doubtless heard it, yet he drummed with redoubled vehemence, to show the Italian that the time was growing long to him. But he hastily withdrew his fingers from the glass, for a girl’s musical voice said behind him in excellent Dutch:
“Have you finished your war-song, sir? Belotti is bringing your cloak.”
Wilhelm had turned and was gazing in silent bewilderment into the face of the young noblewoman, who stood directly in front of him. These features were not unfamiliar, and yet—years do not make even a goddess younger, and mortals increase in height and don’t grow smaller; but the lady whom he thought he saw before him, whom he had known well in the eternal city and never forgotten, had been older and taller than the young girl, who so strikingly resembled her and seemed to take little pleasure in the young man’s surprised yet inquiring glance. With a haughty gesture she beckoned to the steward, saying in Italian:
“Give the gentleman his cloak, Belotti, and tell him I came to beg him to pardon your forgetfulness.”
With these words Henrica Van Hoogstraten turned towards the door, but Wilhelm took two hasty strides after her, exclaiming:
“Not yet, not yet, Fraulein! I am the one to apologize. But if you have ever been amazed by a resemblance—”
“Anything but looking like other people!” cried the girl with a repellent gesture.
“Ah, Fraulein, yet—”
“Let that pass, let that pass,” interrupted Henrica in so irritated a tone that the musician looked at her in surprise. “One sheep looks just like another, and among a hundred peasants twenty have the same face. All wares sold by the dozen are cheap.”
As soon as Wilhelm heard reasons given, the quiet manner peculiar to him returned, and he answered modestly:
“But nature also forms the most beautiful things in pairs. Think of the eyes in the Madonna’s face.”
“Are you a Catholic?”
“A Calvinist, Fraulein.”
“And devoted to the Prince’s cause?”
“Say rather, the cause of liberty.”
“That accounts for the drumming of the war-song.”
“It was first a gentle gavotte, but impatience quickened the time. I am a musician, Fraulein.”
“But probably no drummer. The poor panes!”
“They are an instrument like any other, and in playing we seek to express what we feel.”
“Then accept my thanks for not breaking them to pieces.”
“That wouldn’t have been beautiful, Fraulein, and art ceases when ugliness begins.”
“Do you think the song in your cloak—it dropped on the ground and Nico picked it up—beautiful or ugly?”
“This one or the other?”
“I mean the Beggar-song.”
“It is fierce, but no more ugly than the roaring of the storm.”
“It is repulsive, barbarous, revolting.”
“I call it strong, overmastering in its power.”
“And this other melody?”
“Spare me an answer; I composed it myself. Can you read notes, Fraulein?”
“A little.”
“And did my attempt displease you?”
“Not at all, but I find dolorous passages in this choral, as in all the Calvinist hymns.”
“It depends upon how they are sung.”
“They are certainly intended for the voices of the shopkeepers’ wives and washerwomen in your churches.”
“Every hymn, if it is only sincerely felt, will lend wings to the souls of the simple folk who sing it; and whatever ascends to Heaven from the inmost depths of the heart, can hardly displease the dear God, to whom it is addressed. And then—”
“Well?”
“If these notes are worth being preserved, it may happen that a matchless choir—”
“Will sing them to you, you think?”
“No, Fraulein; they have fulfilled their destination if they are once nobly rendered. I would fain not be absent, but that wish is far less earnest than the other.”
“How modest!”
“I think the best enjoyment in creating is had in anticipation.”
Henrica gazed at the artist with a look of sympathy, and said with a softer tone in her musical voice:
“I am sorry for you, Meister. Your music pleases me; why should I deny it? In many passages it appeals to the heart, but how it will be spoiled in your churches! Your heresy destroys every art. The works of the great artists are a horror to you, and the noble music that has unfolded here in the Netherlands will soon fare no better.”
“I think I may venture to believe the contrary.”
“Wrongly, Meister, wrongly, for if your cause triumphs, which may the Virgin forbid, there will soon be nothing in Holland except piles of goods, workshops, and bare churches, from which even singing and organ-playing will soon be banished.”
“By no means, Fraulein. Little Athens first became the home of the arts, after she had secured her liberty in the war against the Persians.”
“Athens and Leyden!” she answered scornfully. “True, there are owls on the tower of Pancratius. But where shall we find the Minerva?”
While Henrica rather laughed than spoke these words, her name was called for the third time by a shrill female voice. She now interrupted herself in the middle of a sentence, saying:
“I must go. I will keep these notes.”
“You will honor me by accepting them; perhaps you will allow me to bring you others.”
“Henrica!” the voice again called from the stairs, and the young lady answered hastily:
“Give Belotti whatever you choose, but soon, for I shan’t stay here much longer.”
Wilhelm gazed after her. She walked no less quickly and firmly through the wide hall and up the stairs, than she had spoken, and again he was vividly reminded of his friend in Rome.
The old Italian had also followed Henrica with his eyes. As she vanished at the last bend of the broad steps, he shrugged his shoulders, turned to the musician and said, with an expression of honest sympathy:
“The young lady isn’t well. Always in a tumult; always like a loaded pistol, and these terrible headaches too! She was different when she came here.”
“Is she ill?”
“My mistress won’t see it,” replied the servant. “But what the cameriera and I see, we see. Now red—now pale, no rest at night, at table she scarcely eats a chicken-wing and a leaf of salad.”
“Does the doctor share your anxiety?”
“The doctor? Doctor Fleuriel isn’t here. He moved to Ghent when the Spaniards came, and since then my mistress will have nobody but the barber who bleeds her. The doctors here are devoted to the Prince of Orange and are all heretics. There, she is calling again. I’ll send the cloak to your house, and if you ever feel inclined to speak my language, just knock here. That calling—that everlasting calling! The young lady suffers from it too.”
When Wilhelm entered the street, it was only raining very slightly. The clouds were beginning to scatter, and from a patch of blue sky the sun was shining brightly down on Nobelstrasse. A rainbow shimmered in variegated hues above the roofs, but to-day the musician had no eyes for the beautiful spectacle. The bright light in the wet street did not charm him. The hot rays of the day-star were not lasting, for “they drew rain.” All that surrounded him seemed confused and restless. Beside a beautiful image which he treasured in the sanctuary of his memories, only allowing his mind to dwell upon it in his happiest hours, sought to intrude. His real diamond was in danger of being exchanged for a stone, whose value he did not know. With the old, pure harmony blended another similar one, but in a different key. How could he still think of Isabella, without remembering Henrica! At least he had not heard the young lady sing, so his recollection of Isabella’s songs remained unclouded. He blamed himself because, obeying an emotion of vanity, he had promised to send new songs to the proud young girl, the friend of Spain. He had treated Herr Matanesse Van Wibisma rudely on account of his opinions, but sought to approach her, who laughed at what he prized most highly, because she was a woman, and it was sweet to hear his work praised by beautiful lips. “Hercules throws the club aside and sits down at the distaff, when Omphale beckons, and the beautiful Esther and the daughter of Herodias—” murmured Wilhelm indignantly. He felt sorely troubled, and longed for his quiet attic chamber beside the dove-cote.
“Something unpleasant has happened to him in Delft,” thought his father.
“Why doesn’t he relish his fried flounders to-day?” asked his mother, when he had left them after dinner. Each felt that something oppressed the pride and favorite of the household, but did not attempt to discover the cause; they knew the moods to which he was sometimes subject for half a day.
After Wilhelm had fed his doves, he went to his room, where he paced restlessly to and fro. Then he seized his violin and wove all the melodies be had heard from Isabella’s lips into one. His music had rarely sounded so soft, and then so fierce and passionate, and his mother, who heard it in the kitchen, turned the twirling-stick faster and faster, then thrust it into the firmly-tied dough, and rubbing her hands on her apron, murmured:
“How it wails and exults! If it relieves his heart, in God’s name let him do it, but cat-gut is dear and it will cost at least two strings.”
Towards evening Wilhelm was obliged to go to the drill of the military corps to which he belonged. His company was ordered to mount guard at the Hoogewoort Gate. As he marched through Nobelstrasse with it, he heard the low, clear melody of a woman’s voice issuing from an open window of the Hoogstraten mansion. He listened, and noticing with a shudder how much Henrica’s voice—for the singer must be the young lady—resembled Isabella’s, ordered the drummer to beat the drum.
The next morning a servant came from the Hoogstraten house and gave Wilhelm a note, in which he was briefly requested to come to Nobelstrasse at two o’clock in the afternoon, neither earlier nor later.
He did not wish to say “yes”—he could not say “no,” and went to the house at the appointed hour. Henrica was awaiting him in the little room adjoining the hall. She looked graver than the day before, while heavier shadows under her eyes and the deep flush on her cheeks reminded Wilhelm of Belotti’s fears for her health. After returning his greeting, she said without circumlocution, and very rapidly:
“I must speak to you. Sit down. To be brief, the way you greeted me yesterday awakened strange thoughts. I must strongly resemble some other woman, and you met her in Italy. Perhaps you are reminded of some one very near to me, of whom I have lost all trace. Answer me honestly, for I do not ask from idle curiosity. Where did you meet her?”
“In Lugano. We drove to Milan with the same vetturino, and afterwards I found her again in Rome and saw her daily for months.”
“Then you know her intimately. Do you still think the resemblance surprising, after having seen me for the second time?”
“Very surprising.”
“Then I must have a double. Is she a native of this country?”
“She called herself an Italian, but she understood Dutch, for she has often turned the pages of my books and followed the conversation I had with young artists from our home. I think she is a German lady of noble family.”
“An adventuress then. And her name?”
“Isabella—but I think no one would be justified in calling her an adventuress.”
“Was she married?”
“There was something matronly in her majestic appearance, yet she never spoke of a husband. The old Italian woman, her duenna, always called her Donna Isabella, but she possessed little more knowledge of her past than I.”
“Is that good or evil?”
“Nothing at all, Fraulein.”
“And what led her to Rome?”
“She practised the art of singing, of which she was mistress; but did not cease studying, and made great progress in Rome. I was permitted to instruct her in counterpoint.”
“And did she appear in public as a singer?”
“Yes and no. A distinguished foreign prelate was her patron, and his recommendation opened every door, even the Palestrina’s. So the church music at aristocratic weddings was entrusted to her, and she did not refuse to sing at noble houses, but never appeared for pay. I know that, for she would not allow any one else to play her accompaniments. She liked my music, and so through her I went into many aristocratic houses.”
“Was she rich?”
“No, Fraulein. She had beautiful dresses and brilliant jewels, but was compelled to economize. Remittances of money came to her at times from Florence, but the gold pieces slipped quickly through her fingers, for though she lived plainly and eat scarcely enough for a bird, while her delicate strength required stronger food, she was lavish to imprudence if she saw poor artists in want, and she knew most of them, for she did not shrink from sitting with them over their wine in my company.”
“With artists and musicians?”
“Mere artists of noble sentiments. At times she surpassed them all in her overflowing mirth.”
“At times?”
“Yes, only at times, for she had also sorrowful, pitiably sorrowful hours and days, but as sunshine and shower alternate in an April day, despair and extravagant gayety ruled her nature by turns.”
“A strange character. Do you know her end?”
“No, Fraulein. One evening she received a letter from Milan, which must have contained bad news, and the next day vanished without any farewell.”
“And you did not try to follow her?”
Wilhelm blushed, and answered in an embarrassed tone:
“I had no right to do so, and just after her departure I fell sick—dangerously sick.”
“You loved her?”
“Fraulein, I must beg you—”
“You loved her! And did she return your affection?”
“We have known each other only since yesterday, Fraulein von Hoogstraten.”
“Pardon me! But if you value my desire, we shall not have seen each other for the last time, though my double is undoubtedly a different person from the one I supposed. Farewell till we meet again. You hear, that calling never ends. You have aroused an interest in your strange friend, and some other time must tell me more about her. Only this one question: Can a modest maiden talk of her with you without disgrace?”
“Certainly, if you do not shrink from speaking of a noble lady who had no other protector than herself.”
“And you, don’t forget yourself!” cried Henrica, leaving the room.
The musician walked thoughtfully towards home. Was Isabella a relative of this young girl? He had told Henrica almost all he knew of her external circumstances, and this perhaps gave the former the same right to call her an adventuress, that many in Rome had assumed. The word wounded him, and Henrica’s inquiry whether he loved the stranger disturbed him, and appeared intrusive and unseemly. Yes, he had felt an ardent love for her; ay, he had suffered deeply because he was no more to her than a pleasant companion and reliable friend. It had cost him struggles enough to conceal his feelings, and he knew, that but for the dread of repulse and scorn, he would have yielded and revealed them to her. Old wounds in his heart opened afresh, as he recalled the time she suddenly left Rome without a word of farewell. After barely recovering from a severe illness, he had returned home pale and dispirited, and months elapsed ere he could again find genuine pleasure in his art. At first, the remembrance of her contained nothing save bitterness, but now, by quiet, persistent effort, he had succeeded, not in attaining forgetfulness, but in being able to separate painful emotions from the pure and exquisite joy of remembering her. To-day the old struggle sought to begin afresh, but he was not disposed to yield, and did not cease to summon Isabella’s image, in all its beauty, before his soul.
Henrica returned to her aunt in a deeply-agitated mood. Was the adventuress of whom Wilhelm had spoken, the only creature whom she loved with all the ardor of her passionate soul? Was Isabella her lost sister? Many incidents were opposed to it, yet it was possible. She tortured herself with questions, and the less peace her aunt gave her, the more unendurable her headache became, the more plainly she felt that the fever, against whose relaxing power she had struggled for days, would conquer her.
CHAPTER IX.
On the evening of the third day after Wilhelm’s interview with Henrica, his way led him through Nobelstrasse past the Hoogstraten mansion.
Ere reaching it, he saw two gentlemen, preceded by a servant carrying a lantern, cross the causeway towards it.
Wilhelm’s attention was attracted. The servant now seized the knocker, and the light of his lantern fell on the men’s faces. Neither was unfamiliar to him.
The small, delicate old man, with the peaked hat and short black velvet cloak, was Abbe Picard, a gay Parisian, who had come to Leyden ten years before and gave French lessons in the wealthy families of the city. He had been Wilhelm’s teacher too, but the musician’s father, the Receiver-General, would have nothing to do with the witty abbe; for he was said to have left his beloved France on account of some questionable transactions, and Herr Cornelius scented in him a Spanish spy. The other gentleman, a grey-haired, unusually stout man, of middle height, who required a great deal of cloth for his fur-bordered cloak, was Signor Lamperi, the representative of the great Italian mercantile house of Bonvisi in Antwerp, who was in the habit of annually coming to Leyden on business for a few weeks with the storks and swallows, and was a welcome guest in every tap-room as the inexhaustible narrator of funny stories. Before these two men entered the house, they were joined by a third, preceded by two servants carrying lanterns. A wide cloak enveloped his tall figure; he too stood on the threshold of old age and was no stranger to Wilhelm, for the Catholic Monseigneur Gloria, who often came to Leyden from Haarlem, was a patron of the noble art of music, and when the young man set out on his journey to Italy had provided him, spite of his heretical faith, with valuable letters of introduction.
Wilhelm, as the door closed behind the three gentlemen, continued his way. Belotti had told him the day before that the young lady seemed very ill, but since her aunt was receiving guests, Henrica was doubtless better.
The first story in the Hoogstraten mansion was brightly lighted, but in the second a faint, steady glow streamed into Nobelstrasse from a single window, while she for whom the lamp burned sat beside a table, her eyes sparkling with a feverish glitter, as she pressed her forehead against the marble top. Henrica was entirely alone in the wide, lofty room her aunt had assigned her. Behind curtains of thick faded brocade was her bedstead, a heavy structure of enormous width. The other articles of furniture were large and shabby, but had once been splendid. Every chair, every table looked as if it had been taken from some deserted banqueting-hall. Nothing really necessary was lacking in the apartment, but it was anything but home-like and cosey, and no one would ever have supposed a young girl occupied it, had it not been for a large gilt harp that leaned against the long, hard couch beside the fireplace.
Henrica’s head was burning but, though she had wrapped a shawl around her lower limbs, her feet were freezing on the uncarpeted stone floor.
A short time after the three gentlemen had entered her aunt’s house, a woman’s figure ascended the stairs leading from the first to the second story. Henrica’s over-excited senses perceived the light tread of the satin shoes and the rustle of the silk train, long before the approaching form had reached the room, and with quickened breathing, she sat erect.
A thin hand, without any preliminary knock, now opened the door and old Fraulein Van Hoogstraten walked up to her niece.
The elderly dame had once been beautiful, now and at this hour she presented a strange, unpleasing appearance.
The thin, bent figure was attired in a long trailing robe of heavy pink silk. The little head almost disappeared in the ruff, a large structure of immense height and width. Long chains of pearls and glittering gems hung on the sallow skin displayed by the open neck of her dress, and on the false, reddish-yellow curls rested a roll of light-blue velvet decked with ostrich plumes. A strong odor of various fragrant essences preceded her. She herself probably found them somewhat overpowering, for her large glittering fan was in constant motion and fluttered violently, when in answer to her curt: “Quick, quick,” Henrica returned a resolute “no, ‘ma tante.’”
The old lady, however, was not at all disconcerted by the refusal, but merely repeated her “Quick, quick,” more positively, adding as an important reason:
“Monseigneur has come and wants to hear you.”
“He does me great honor,” replied the young girl, “great honor, but how often must I repeat: I will not come.”
“Is it allowable to ask why not, my fair one?” said the old lady.
“Because I am not fit for your society,” cried Henrica vehemently, “because my head aches and my eyes burn, because I can’t sing to-day, and because—because—because—I entreat you, leave me in peace.”
Old Fraulein Van Hoogstraten let her fan sink by her side, and said coolly:
“Were you singing two hours ago—yes or no?”
“Yes.”
“Then your headache can’t be so very bad, and Denise will dress you.”
“If she comes, I’ll send her away. When I just took the harp, I did so to sing the pain away. It was relieved for a few minutes, but now my temples are throbbing with twofold violence.”
“Excuses.”
“Believe what you choose. Besides—even if I felt better at this moment than a squirrel in the woods. I wouldn’t go down to see the gentlemen. I shall stay here. I have given my word, and I am a Hoogstraten as well as you.”
Henrica had risen, and her eyes flashed with a gloomy fire at her oppressor. The old lady waved her fan faster, and her projecting chin trembled. Then she said curtly:
“Your word of honor! So you won’t! You won’t!”
“Certainly not,” cried the young girl with undutiful positiveness.
“Everybody must have his way,” replied the old lady, turning towards the door. “What is too wilful is too wilful. Your father won’t thank you for this.” With these words Fraulein Van Hoogstraten raised her long train and approached the door. There she paused, and again glanced enquiringly at Henrica. The latter doubtless noticed her aunt’s hesitation, but without heeding the implied threat intentionally turned her back.
As soon as the door closed, the young girl sank back into her chair, pressed her forehead against the marble slab and let it remain there a long time. Then she rose as suddenly and hastily as if obeying some urgent summons, raised the lid of her trunk, tossed the stockings, bodices and shoes, that came into her way, out on the floor, and did not rise until she had found a few sheets of writing-paper which she had laid, before leaving her father’s castle, among the rest of her property.
As she rose from her kneeling posture, she was seized with giddiness, but still kept her feet, carried to the table first the white sheets and a portfolio, then the large inkstand that had already stood several days in her room, and seated herself beside it.
Leaning far back in her chair, she began to write. The book that served as a desk lay on her knee, the paper on the book. Creaking and pausing, the goosequill made large, stiff letters on the white surface. Henrica was not skilled in writing, but to-day it must have been unspeakably difficult for her; her high forehead became covered with perspiration, her mouth was distorted by pain, and whenever she had finished a few lines, she closed her eyes or drank greedily from the water-pitcher that stood beside her.
The large room was perfectly still, but the peace that surrounded her was often disturbed by strange noises and tones, that rose from the dining-hall directly under her chamber. The clinking of glasses, shrill tittering, loud, deep laughter, single bars of a dissolute love-song, cheers, and then the sharp rattle of a shattered wine glass reached her in mingled sounds. She did not wish to hear it, but could not escape and clenched her white teeth indignantly. Yet meantime the pen did not wholly stop.
She wrote in broken, or long, disconnected sentences, almost incoherently involved. Sometimes there were gaps, sometimes the same word was twice or thrice repeated. The whole resembled a letter written by a lunatic, yet every line, every stroke of the pen, expressed the same desire uttered with passionate longing: “Take me away from here! Take me away from this woman and this house!”
The epistle was addressed to her father. She implored him to rescue her from this place, come or send for her. “Her uncle, Matanesse Van Wibisma,” she said, “seemed to be a sluggish messenger; he had probably enjoyed the evenings at her aunt’s, which filled her, Henrica, with loathing. She would go out into the world after her sister, if her father compelled her to stay here.” Then she began a description of her aunt and her life. The picture of the days and nights she had now spent for weeks with the old lady, presented in vivid characters a mixture of great and petty troubles, external and mental humiliations.
Only too often the same drinking and carousing had gone on below as to-day-Henrica had always been compelled to join her aunt’s guests, elderly dissolute men of French or Italian origin and easy morals. While describing these conventicles, the blood crimsoned her flushed cheeks still more deeply, and the long strokes of the pen grew heavier and heavier. What the abbe related and her aunt laughed at, what the Italian screamed and Monseigneur smilingly condemned with a slight shake of the head, was so shamelessly bold that she would have been defiled by repeating the words. Was she a respectable girl or not? She would rather hunger and thirst, than be present at such a banquet again. If the dining-room was empty, other unprecedented demands were made upon Henrica, for then her aunt, who could not endure to be alone a moment, was sick and miserable, and she was obliged to nurse her. That she gladly and readily served the suffering, she wrote, she had sufficiently proved by her attendance on the village children when they had the smallpox, but if her aunt could not sleep she was compelled to watch beside her, hold her hand, and listen until morning as she moaned, whined and prayed, sometimes cursing herself and sometimes the treacherous world. She, Henrica, had come to the house strong and well, but so much disgust and anger, such constant struggling to control herself had robbed her of her health.
The young girl had written until midnight. The letters became more and more irregular and indistinct, the lines more crooked, and with the last words: “My head, my poor head! You will see that I am losing my senses. I beseech you, I beseech you, my dear, stern father, take me home. I have again heard something about Anna—” her eyes grew dim, her pen dropped from her hand, and she fell back in the chair unconscious.
There she lay, until the last laugh and sound of rattling glass had died away below, and her aunt’s guests had left the house.
Denise, the cameriera, noticed the light in the room, entered, and after vainly endeavoring to rouse Henrica, called her mistress.
The latter followed the maid, muttering as she ascended the stairs:
“Fallen asleep, found the time hang heavy—that’s all! She might have been lively and laughed with us! Stupid race! ‘Men of butter,’ King Philip says. That wild Lamperi was really impertinent to-night, and the abbe said things—things—”
The old lady’s large eyes were sparkling vinously, and her fan waved rapidly to and fro to cool the flush on her cheeks.
She now stood opposite to Henrica, called her, shook her and sprinkled her with perfumed water from the large shell, set in gold, which hung as an essence bottle from her belt. When her niece only muttered incoherent words, she ordered the maid to bring her medicine-chest.
Denise had gone and Fraulein Van Hoogstraten now perceived Henrica’s letter, raised it close to her eyes, read page after page with increasing indignation, and at last tossed it on the floor and tried to shake her niece awake; but in vain.
Meantime Belotti had been informed of Henrica’s serious illness and, as he liked the young girl, sent for a physician on his own responsibility, and instead of the family priest summoned Father Damianus. Then he went to the sick girl’s chamber.
Even before he crossed the threshold, the old lady in the utmost excitement, exclaimed:
“Belotti, what do you say now, Belotti? Sickness in the house, perhaps contagious sickness, perhaps the plague.”
“It seems to be only a fever,” replied the Italian soothingly. “Come, Denise, we will carry the young lady to the bed.
“The doctor will soon be here.”
“The doctor?” cried the old lady, striking her fan on the marble top of the table. “Who permitted you, Belotti—”
“We are Christians,” interrupted the servant, not without dignity.
“Very well, very well,” she cried. “Do what you please, call whom you choose, but Henrica can’t stay here. Contagion in the house, the plague, a black tablet.”
“Excellenza is disturbing herself unnecessarily. Let us first hear what the doctor says.”
“I won’t hear him; I can’t bear the plague and the small-pox. Go down at once, Belotti, and have the sedan-chair prepared. The old chevalier’s room in the rear building is empty.”
“But, Excellenza, it’s gloomy, and so damp that the north wall is covered with mould.”
“Then let it be aired and cleaned. What does this delay mean? You have only to obey. Do you understand?”
“The chevalier’s room isn’t fit for my mistress’s sick niece,” replied Belotti civilly, but resolutely.
“Isn’t it? And you know exactly?” asked his mistress scornfully. “Go down, Denise, and order the sedan-chair to be brought up. Have you anything more to say, Belotti?”
“Yes, Padrona,” replied the Italian, in a trembling voice. “I beg your excellenza to dismiss me.”
“Dismiss you from my service?”
“With your excellenza’s permission, yes—from your service.”
The old woman started, clasped her hands tightly upon her fan, and said:
“You are irritable, Belotti.”
“No, Padrona, but I am old and dread the misfortune of being ill in this house.”
Fraulein Van Hoogstraten shrugged her shoulders and turning to her maid, cried:
“The sedan-chair, Denise. You are dismissed, Belotti.”
CHAPTER X.
The night, on which sorrow and sickness had entered the Hoogstraten mansion, was followed by a beautiful morning. Holland again became pleasant to the storks, that with a loud, joyous clatter flew clown into the meadows on which the sun was shining. It was one of those days the end of April often bestows on men, as if to show them that they render her too little, her successor too much honor. April can boast that in her house is born the spring, whose vigor is only strengthened and beauty developed by her blooming heir.
It was Sunday, and whoever on such a day, while the bells are ringing, wanders in Holland over sunny paths, through flowery meadows where countless cattle, woolly cheep, and idle horses are grazing, meeting peasants in neat garments, peasant women with shining gold ornaments under snow-white lace caps, citizens in gay attire and children released from school, can easily fancy that even nature wears a holiday garb and glitters in brighter green, more brilliant blue, and more varied ornaments of flowers than on work-days.
A joyous Sunday mood doubtless filled the minds of the burghers, who to-day were out of doors on foot, in large over-crowded wooden wagons, or gaily-painted boats on the Rhine, to enjoy the leisure hours of the day of rest, eat country bread, yellow butter, and fresh cheese, or drink milk and cool beer, with their wives and children.
The organist, Wilhelm, had long since finished playing in the church, but did not wander out into the fields with companions of his own age, for he liked to use such days for longer excursions, in which walking was out of the question.
They bore him on the wings of the wind over his native plains, through the mountains and valleys of Germany, across the Alps to Italy. A spot propitious for such forgetfulness of the present and his daily surroundings, in favor of the past and a distant land, was ready. His brothers, Ulrich and Johannes, also musicians, but who recognized Wilhelm’s superior talent without envy and helped him develop it, had arranged for him, during his stay in Italy, a prettily-furnished room in the narrow side of the pointed roof of the house, from which a broad door led to a little balcony. Here stood a wooden bench on which Wilhelm liked to sit, watching the flight of his doves, gazing dreamily into the distance or, when inclined to artistic creation, listening to the melodies that echoed in his soul.
This highest part of the house afforded a beautiful prospect; the view was almost as extensive as the one from the top of the citadel, the old Roman tower situated in the midst of Leyden. Like a spider in its web, Wilhelm’s native city lay in the midst of countless streams and canals that intersected the meadows. The red brick masonry of the city wall, with its towers and bastions, washed by a dark strip of water, encircled the pretty place as a diadem surrounds a young girl’s head; and like a chaplet of loosely-bound thorns, forts and redoubts extended in wider, frequently broken circles around the walls. The citizens’ herds of cattle grazed between the defensive fortifications and the city wall, while beside and beyond them appeared villages and hamlets.
On this clear April day, looking towards the north, Haarlem lake was visible, and on the west, beyond the leafy coronals of the Hague woods, must be the downs which nature had reared for the protection of the country against the assaults of the waves. Their long chain of hillocks offered a firmer and more unconquerable resistance to the pressure of the sea, than the earthworks and redoubts of Alfen, Leyderdorp and Valkenburg, the three forts situated close to the banks of the Rhine, presented to hostile armies. The Rhine! Wilhelm gazed down at the shallow, sluggish river, and compared it to a king deposed from his throne, who has lost power and splendor and now kindly endeavors to dispense benefits in little circles with the property that remains. The musician was familiar with the noble, undivided German Rhine; and often followed it in imagination towards the south but more often still his dreams conveyed him with a mighty leap to Lake Lugano, the pearl of the Western Alps, and when he thought of it and the Mediterranean, beheld rising before his mental vision emerald green, azure blue, and golden light; and in such hours all his thoughts were transformed within his breast into harmonies and exquisite music.
And his journey from Lugano to Milan! The conveyance that bore him to Leonardo’s city was plain and overcrowded, but in it he had found Isabella. And Rome, Rome, eternal, never-to-be-forgotten Rome, where so long as we dwell there, we grow out of ourselves, increase in strength and intellectual power, and which makes us wretched with longing when it lies behind us.
By the Tiber Wilhelm had first thoroughly learned what art, his glorious art was; here, near Isabella, a new world had opened to him, but a sharp frost had passed over the blossoms of his heart that had unfolded in Rome, and he knew they were blighted and could bear no fruit—yet to-day he succeeded in recalling her in her youthful beauty, and instead of the lost love, thinking of the kind friend Isabella and dreaming of a sky blue as turquoise, of slender columns and bubbling fountains, olive groves and marble statues, cool churches and gleaming villas, sparkling eyes and fiery wine, magnificent choirs and Isabella’s singing.
The doves that cooed and clucked, flew away and returned to the cote beside him, could now do as they chose, their guardian neither saw nor heard them.
Allertssohn, the fencing-master, ascended the ladder to his watch-tower, but he did not notice him until he stood on the balcony by his side, greeting him with his deep voice.
“Where have we been, Herr Wilhelm?” asked the old man. “In this cloth-weaving Leyden? No! Probably with the goddess of music on Olympus, if she has her abode there.”
“Rightly guessed,” replied Wilhelm, pushing the hair back from his forehead with both hands. “I have been visiting her, and she sends you a friendly greeting.”
“Then offer one from me in return,” replied the other, “but she usually belongs to the least familiar of my acquaintances. My throat is better suited to drinking than singing. Will you allow me?”
The fencing-master raised the jug of beer which Wilhelm’s mother filled freshly every day and placed in her darling’s room, and took a long pull. Then wiping his moustache, he said:
“That did me good, and I needed it. The men wanted to go out pleasuring and omit their drill, but we forced them to go through it, Junker von Warmond, Duivenvoorde and I. Who knows how soon it may be necessary to show what we can do. Roland, my fore man, such imprudence is like a cudgel, against which one can do nothing with Florentine rapiers, clever tierce and quarto. My wheat is destroyed by the hail.”
“Then let it be, and see if the barley and clover don’t do better,” replied Wilhelm gaily, tossing vetches and grains of wheat to a large dove that had alighted on the parapet of his tower.
“It eats, and what use is it?” cried Allertssohn, looking at the dove. “Herr von Warmond, a young man after God’s own heart, has just brought me two falcons; do you want to see how I tame them?”
“No, Captain, I have enough to do with my music and my doves.”
“That is your affair. The long-necked one yonder is a queer-looking fellow.”
“And of what country is he probably a native? There he goes to join the others. Watch him a little while and then answer me.”
“Ask King Soloman that; he was on intimate terms with birds.”
“Only watch him, you’ll find out presently.”
“The fellow has a stiff neck, and holds his head unusually high.”
“And his beak?”
“Curved, almost like a hawk’s! Zounds, why does the creature strut about with its toes so far apart? Stop, bandit! He’ll peck that little dove to death. As true as I live, the saucy rascal must be a Spaniard!”
“Right, it is a Spanish dove. It flew to me, but I can’t endure it and drive it away; for I keep only a few pairs of the same breed and try to get the best birds possible. Whoever raises many different kinds in the same cote, will accomplish nothing.”
“That gives food for thought. But I believe you haven’t chosen the handsomest species.”
“No, sir. What you see are a cross between the carrier and tumblers, the Antwerp breed of carrier pigeons. Bluish, reddish, spotted birds. I don’t care for the colors, but they must have small bodies and large wings, with broad quills on their flag-feathers, and above all ample muscular strength. The one yonder stop, I’ll catch him—is one of my best flyers. Try to lift his pinions.”
“Heaven knows the little thing has marrow in its bones! How the tiny wing pinches; the falcons are not much stronger.”
“It’s a carrier-dove too, that finds its way alone.”
“Why do you keep no white tumblers? I should think they could be watched farthest in their flight.”
“Because doves fare like men. Whoever shines very brightly and is seen from a distance, is set upon by opponents and envious people, and birds of prey pounce upon the white doves first. I tell you, Captain, whoever has eyes in his head, can learn in a dove-cote how things come to pass among Adam and Eve’s posterity on earth.”
“There is quarrelling and kissing up here just as there is in Leyden.”
“Yes, exactly the same, Captain. If I mate an old dove with one much younger, it rarely turns out well. When the male dove is in love, he understands how to pay his fair one as many attentions, as the most elegant gallant shows the mistress of his heart. And do you know what the kissing means? The suitor feeds his darling, that is, seeks to win her affection by beautiful gifts. Then the wedding comes, and they build a nest. If there are young birds, they feed them together in perfect harmony. The aristocratic doves brood badly, and we put their eggs under birds of more ordinary breed.”
“Those are the noble ladies, who have nurses for their infants.”
“Unmated doves often make mischief among the mated ones.”
“Take warning, young man, and beware of being a bachelor. I’ll say nothing against the girls who remain unmarried, for I have found among them many sweet, helpful souls.”
“So have I, but unfortunately some bad ones too, as well as here in the dove-cote. On the whole my wards lead happy married lives, but if it comes to a separation—”
“Which of the two is to blame?”
“Nine times out of ten the little wife.”
“Roland, my fore man, exactly as it is among human beings,” cried the fencing-master, clapping his hands.
“What do you mean by your Roland, Herr Allerts? You promised me a short time ago—but who is coming up the ladder?”
“I hear your mother.”
“She is bringing me a visitor. I know that voice and yet. Wait. It’s old Fraulein Van Hoogstraten’s steward.”
“From Nobelstrasse? Let me go, Wilhelm, for this Glipper crew—”
“Wait a little while, there is only room for one on the ladder,” said the musician, holding out his hand to Belotti to guide him from the last rung into his room.
“Spaniards and the allies of Spain,” muttered the fencing-master, opened the door, and called while descending the ladder: “I’ll wait down below till the air is pure again.”
The steward’s handsome face, usually smoothly shaven with the most extreme care, was to-day covered with a stubbly beard, and the old man looked sad and worn, as he began to tell Wilhelm what had occurred in his mistress’s house since the evening of the day before.
“Years may make a hot-tempered person weaker, but not calmer,” said the Italian, continuing his story. “I can’t look on and see the poor angel, for she isn’t far from the Virgin’s throne, treated like a sick dog that is flung out into the court-yard, so I got my discharge.”
“That does you honor, but was rather out of place just now. And has the young lady really been carried to the damp room?”
“No, sir. Father Damianus came and made the old excellenza understand what the holy Virgin expected of a Christian, and when the padrona still tried to carry out her will, the holy man spoke to her in words so harsh and stern that she yielded. The signorina is now lying in bed with burning cheeks, raving in delirium.”
“And who is attending the patient?”
“I came to you about the physician, my dear sir, for Doctor de Bout, who instantly obeyed my summons, was treated so badly by the old excellenza, that he turned his back upon her and told me, at the door of the house, he wouldn’t come again.”
Wilhelm shook his head, and the Italian continued, “There are other doctors in Leyden, but Father Damianus says de Bont or Bontius, as they call him, is the most skilful and learned of them all, and as the old excellenza herself had an attack of illness about noon, and certainly won’t leave her bed very speedily, the way is open, and Father Damianus says he’ll go to Doctor Bontius himself if necessary. But as you are a native of the city and acquainted with the signorina, I wanted to spare him the rebuff he would probably meet from the foe of our holy Church. The poor man has enough to suffer from good-for-nothing boys and scoffers, when he goes through the city with the sacrament.”
“You know people are strictly forbidden to disturb him in the exercise of his calling.”
“Yet he can’t show himself in the street without being jeered. We two cannot change the world, sir. So long as the Church had the upper hand, she burned and quartered you, now you have the power here, our priests are persecuted and scorned.”
“Against the law and the orders of the magistrates.”
“You can’t control the people, and Father Damianus is a lamb, who bears everything patiently, as good a Christian as many saints before whom we burn candles. Do you know the doctor?”
“A little, by sight.”
“Oh, then go to him, sir, for the young lady’s sake,” cried the old man earnestly. “It is in your power to save a human life, a beautiful young life.”
The steward’s eyes glittered with tears. As Wilhelm laid his hand on his arm, saying kindly: “I will try,” the fencing-master called: “Your council is lasting too long for me. I’ll come another time.”
“No, Meister, come up a minute, This gentleman is here on account of a poor sick girl. The poor, helpless creature is now lying without any care, for her aunt, old Fraulein Van Hoogstraten, has driven Doctor de Bont from her bed because he is a Calvinist.”
“From the sick girl’s bed?”
“It’s abominable enough, but the old lady is now ill herself.”
“Bravo, bravo!” cried the fencing-master, clapping his hands. “If the devil himself isn’t afraid of her and wants to fetch her, I’ll pay for his post-horses. But the girl, the sick girl?”
“Herr Belotti begs me to persuade de Bont to visit her again. Are you on friendly terms with the doctor?”
“I was, Wilhelm, I was; but—last Friday we had some sharp words about the new morions, and now the learned demi-god demands an apology from me, but to sound a retreat isn’t written here—”
“Oh, my dear sir,” cried Belotti, with touching earnestness. “The poor child is lying helpless in a raging fever. If Heaven has blessed you with children—”
“Be calm, old man, be calm,” replied the fencing master, stroking Belotti’s grey hair kindly. “My children are nothing to you, but we’ll do what we can for the young girl. Farewell till we meet again, gentlemen. Roland, my fore man, what shall we live to see! Hemp is still cheap in Holland, and yet such a monster has lived amongst us to be as old as a raven.”
With these words he went down the ladder. On reaching the street, he pondered over the words in which he should apologize to Doctor Bontius, with a face as sour as if he had wormwood in his mouth; but his eyes and bearded lips smiled.
His learned friend made the apology easy for him, and when Belotti came home, he found the doctor by the sick girl’s bed.