The next morning while Ulrich was packing his luggage, assisted by his
servant, the sound of drums and fifes, bursts of military music and loud
cheers were heard in the street, and going to the window, he saw the
whole body of mutineers drawn up in the best order.
The companies stood in close ranks before his house, impetuous shouts
and bursts of music made the windows rattle, and now the officers
pressed into his room, holding out their swords, vowing fealty unto
death, and entreating him to remain their commander.
He now perceived, that power cannot be thrown aside like a worthless
thing. His tortured heart was stirred with deep emotion, and the
drooping wings of ambition unfolded with fresh energy. He reproached,
raged, but yielded; and when Ortis on his knees, offered him the
commander’s baton, he accepted it.
Ulrich was again Eletto, but this need not prevent his seeing his father
and Ruth once more, so he declared that he would retain his office,
but should be obliged to ride to Antwerp that day, secretly inform
the officers of the conspiracy against the city, and the necessity of
negotiating with the commandant, that their share of the rich prize
might not be lost.
What many had suspected and hoped was now to become reality. Their
Eletto was no idle man! When Navarrete appeared at noon in front of the
troops with his own work, the standard, in his hand, he was received
with shouts of joy, and no one murmured, though many recognized in the
Madonna’s countenance the features of the murdered sibyl.
Two days later Ulrich, full of eager expectation, rode into Antwerp,
carrying in his portmanteau the mementos he had taken from his mother’s
chest, while in imagination he beheld his father’s face, the smithy
at Richtberg, the green forest, the mountains of his home, the Costas’
house, and his little playfellow. Would he really be permitted to lean
on his father’s broad breast once more?
And Ruth, Ruth! Did she still care for him, had Philipp described her
correctly?
He went to the count without delay, and found him at home. Philipp
received him cordially, yet with evident timidity and embarrassment.
Ulrich too was grave, for he had to inform his companion of his mother’s
death.
“So that is settled,” said the count. “Your father is a gnarled old
tree, a real obstinate Swabian. It’s not his way to forgive and forget.”
“And did he know that my mother was so near to him, that she was in
Aalst.”
“All, all!”
“He will forgive the dead. Surely, surely he will, if I beseech him,
when we are united, if I tell him....”
“Poor fellow! You think all this is so easy.--It is long since I have
had so hard a task, yet I must speak plainly. He will have nothing to do
with you, either.”
“Nothing to do with me?” cried Ulrich.
“Is he out of his senses? What sin have I committed, what does he....”
“He knows that you are Navarrete, the Eletto of Herenthals, the
conqueror of Aalst, and therefore....”
“Therefore?”
“Why of course. You see, Ulrich, when a man becomes famous like you, he
is known for a long distance, everything he does makes a great hue and
cry, and echo repeats it in every alley.”
“To my honor before God and man.”
“Before God? Perhaps so; certainly before the Spaniards. As for me--I
was with the squadron myself, I call you a brave soldier; but--no
offence--you have behaved ill in this country. The Netherlanders are
human beings too.”
“They are rebels, recreant heretics.”
“Take care, or you will revile your own father. His faith has been
shaken. A preacher, whom he met on his flight here, in some tavern, led
him astray by inducing him to read the bible. Many things the Church
condemns are sacred to him. He thinks the Netherlanders a free, noble
nation. Your King Philip he considers a tyrant, oppressor, and ruthless
destroyer. You who have served him and Alba--are in his eyes; but I will
not wound you....”
“What are we, I will hear.”
“No, no, it would do no good. In short, to Adam the Spanish army is a
bloody pest, nothing more.”
“There never were braver soldiers.”
“Very true; but every defeat, all the blood you have shed, has angered
him and this nation, and wrath, which daily receives fresh food and to
which men become accustomed, at last turns to hate. All great crimes
committed in this war are associated with Alba’s name, many smaller ones
with yours, and so your father....”
“Then we will teach him a better opinion! I return to him an honest
soldier, the commander of thousands of men! To see him once more, only
to see him! A son remains a son! I learned that from my mother. We were
rivals and enemies, when I met her! And then, then--alas, that is all
over! Now I wish to find in my father what I have lost; will you go to
the smithy with me?”
“No, Ulrich, no. I have said everything to your father that can be urged
in your defence, but he is so devoured with rage....”
“Santiago!” exclaimed the Eletto, bursting into sudden fury, “I need no
advocate! If the old man knows what share I have taken in this war, so
much the better. I’ll fill up the gaps myself. I have been wherever the
fight raged hottest! ‘Sdeath! that is my pride! I am no longer a boy and
have fought my way through life without father or mother. What I am,
I have made myself, and can defend with honor, even to the old man.
He carries heavy guns, I know; but I am not accustomed to shoot with
feather balls!”
“Ulrich, Ulrich! He is an old man, and your father!”
“I will remember that, as soon as he calls me his son.”
One of the count’s servants showed Ulrich the way to the smith’s house.
Adam had entirely given up the business of horseshoeing, for nothing
was to be seen in the ground floor of the high, narrow house, except
the large door, and a window on each side. Behind the closed one at
the right were several pieces of armor, beautifully embossed, and some
artistically-wrought iron articles. The left-hand one was partly open,
granting entrance to the autumn sunshine. Ulrich dismissed the servant,
took the mementos of his mother in his hand, and listened to the
hammer-strokes, that echoed from within.
The familiar sound recalled pleasant memories of his childhood and
cooled his hot blood. Count Philipp was right. His father was an old
man, and entitled to demand respect from his son. He must endure from
him what he would tolerate from no one else. Nay, he again felt that it
was a great happiness to be near the beloved one, from whom he had
so long been parted; whatever separated him from his old father, must
surely vanish into nothing, as soon as they looked into each other’s
eyes.
What a master in his trade, his father still was! No one else would have
found it so easy to forge the steel coat of mail with the Medusa head
in the centre. He was not working alone here as he did at Richtberg; for
Ulrich heard more than one hammer striking iron in the workshop.
Before touching the knocker, he looked into the open window.
A woman’s tall figure was standing at the desk. Her back was turned, and
he saw only the round outline of the head, the long black braids, the
plain dress, bordered with velvet, and the lace in the neck. An elderly
man in the costume of a merchant was just holding out his hand in
farewell, and he heard him say: “You’ve bought too cheap again, far too
cheap, Jungfer Ruth.”
“Just a fair price,” she answered quietly. “You will have a good
profit, and we can afford to pay it. I shall expect the iron day after
to-morrow.”
“It will be delivered before noon. Master Adam has a treasure in you,
dear Jungfer. If my son were alive, I know where he would seek a wife.
Wilhelm Ykens has told me of his troubles; he is a skilful goldsmith.
Why do you give the poor fellow no hope? Consider! You are past twenty,
and every year it grows harder to say yes to a lover.”
“Nothing suits me better, than to stay with father,” she answered gaily.
“He can’t do without me, you know, nor I without him. I have no dislike
to Wilhelm, but it seems very easy to live without him. Farewell, Father
Keulitz.”
Ulrich withdrew from the window, until the merchant had vanished down
a side street; then he again glanced into the narrow room. Ruth was now
seated at the desk, but instead of looking over the open account book,
her eyes were gazing dreamily into vacancy, and the Eletto now saw her
beautiful, calm, noble face. He did not disturb her, for it seemed as if
he could never weary of comparing her features with the fadeless image
his memory had treasured during all the vicissitudes of life.
Never, not even in Italy, had he beheld a nobler countenance. Philipp
was right. There was something royal in her bearing. This was the wife
of his dreams, the proud woman, with whom the Eletto desired to share
power and grandeur. And he had already held her once in his arms! It
seemed as if it were only yesterday. His heart throbbed higher and
higher. As she now rose and thoughtfully approached the window, he could
no longer contain himself, and exclaimed in a low tone: “Ruth, Ruth! Do
you know me, girl? It is I--Ulrich!”
She shrank back, putting out her hands with a repellent gesture; but
only for a moment. Then, struggling to maintain her composure, she
joyously uttered his name, and as he rushed into the room, cried
“Ulrich!” “Ulrich!” and no longer able to control her feelings, suffered
him to clasp her to his heart.
She had daily expected him with ardent longing, yet secret dread: for he
was the fierce Eletto, the commander of the insurgents, the bloody foe
of the brave nation she loved. But at sight of his face all, all was
forgotten, and she felt nothing but the bliss of being reunited to him
whom she had never, never forgotten, the joy of seeing, feeling that he
loved her.
His heart too was overflowing with passionate delight. Faltering tender
words, he drew her head to his breast, then raised it to press his mouth
to her pure lips. But her intoxication of joy passed away--and before
he could prevent it, she had escaped from his arms, saying sternly: “Not
that, not that.... Many a crime lies between us and you.”
“No, no!” he eagerly exclaimed. “Are you not near me? Your heart and
mine have belonged to each other since that day in the snow. If my
father is angry because I serve other masters than his, you, yes you,
must reconcile us again. I could stay in Aalst no longer.”
“With the mutineers?” she asked sadly. “Ulrich, Ulrich, that you should
return to us thus!”
He again seized her hand, and when she tried to withdraw it, only
smiled, saying with the confidence of a man, who is sure of his cause:
“Cast aside this foolish reserve. To-morrow you will freely give me, not
only one hand, but both. I am not so bad as you think. The fortune of
war flung me under the Spanish flag, and ‘whose bread I eat, his song I
sing,’ says the soldier. What would you have? I served with honor, and
have done some doughty deeds; let that content you.”
This angered Ruth, who resolutely exclaimed:
“No, a thousand times no! You are the Eletto of Aalst, the pillager of
cities, and this cannot be swept aside as easily as the dust from the
floor. I... I am only a feeble girl;--but father, he will never give his
hand to the blood-stained man in Spanish garb! I know him, I know it.”
Ulrich’s breath came quicker; but he repressed the angry emotion and
replied, first reproachfully, then beseechingly:
“You are the old man’s echo. What does he know of military honor and
warlike fame; but you, Ruth, must understand me. Do you still remember
our sport with the ‘word,’ the great word that accomplished everything?
I have found it; and you shall enjoy with me what it procures. First
help me appease my father; I shall succeed, if you aid me. It will
doubtless be a hard task. He could not bring himself to forgive his poor
wife--Count Philipp says so;--but now! You see, Ruth, my mother died
a few days ago; she was a dear, loving woman and might have deserved a
better fate.
“I am alone again now, and long for love--so ardently, so sincerely,
more than I can tell you. Where shall I find it, if not with you and my
own father? You have always cared for me; you betray it, and after all
you know I am not a bad man, do you not? Be content with my love and
take me to my father, yourself. Help me persuade him to listen to me. I
have something here which you can give him from me; you will see that it
will soften his heart!”
“Then give it to me,” replied Ruth, “but whatever it may be--believe
me, Ulrich, so long as you command the Spanish mutineers, he will remain
hard, hard as his own iron!”
“Spaniards! Mutineers! Nonsense! Whoever wishes to love, can love; the
rest may be settled afterwards. You don’t know how high my heart throbs,
now that I am near you, now that I see and hear you. You are my good
angel and must remain so, now look here. This is my mother’s legacy.
This little shirt I once wore, when I was a tiny thing, the gay doll was
my plaything, and this gold hoop is the wedding-ring my father gave his
bride at the altar--she kept all these things to the last, and carried
them like holy relics from land to land, from camp to camp. Will you
take these mementos to him?”
She nodded silently.
“Now comes the best thing. Have you ever seen more beautiful
workmanship? You must wear this necklace, Ruth, as my first gift.”
He held up the costly ornament, but she shrank back, asking bitterly
“Captured booty?”
“In honorable war,” he answered, proudly, approaching to fasten the
jewels round her neck with his own hands; but she pushed him back,
snatched the ornament, and hurled it on the floor, exclaiming angrily:
“I loathe the stolen thing. Pick it up. It may suit the camp-followers.”
This destroyed his self-control, and seizing both her arms in an iron
grasp, he muttered through his clenched teeth:
“That is an insult to my mother; take it back.” But Ruth heard and saw
nothing; full of indignation she only felt that violence was being done
her, and vainly struggled against the irresistible strength, which held
her fast.
Meantime the door had opened wide, but neither noticed it until a man’s
deep voice loudly and wrathfully exclaimed:
“Back, you scoundrel! Come here, Ruth. This is the way the assassin
greets his family; begone, begone! you disgrace of my house!”
Adam had uttered the words, and now drew the hammer from the belt of his
leather apron.
Ulrich gazed mutely into his face. There stood his father, strong,
gigantic, as he had looked thirteen years before. His head was a little
bowed, his beard longer and whiter, his eyebrows were more bushy and his
expression had grown more gloomy; otherwise he was wholly unchanged in
every feature.
The son’s eyes rested on the smith as if spellbound. It seemed as if
some malicious fate had drawn him into a snare.
He could say nothing except, “father, father,” and the smith found no
other answer than the harsh “begone!”
Ruth approached the armorer, clung to his side, and pleaded:
“Hear him, don’t send him away so; he is your child, and if anger just
now overpowered him....”
“Spanish custom--to abuse women!” cried Adam. “I have no son Navarrete,
or whatever the murderous monster calls himself. I am a burgher, and
have no son, who struts about in the stolen clothes of noblemen; as
to this man and his assassins, I hate them, hate them all. Your foot
defiles my house. Out with you, knave, or I will use my hammer.”
Ulrich again exclaimed, “father, father!” Then, regaining his
self-control by a violent effort, he gasped:
“Father, I came to you in good will, in love. I am an honest soldier
and if any one but you--‘Sdeath--if any other had dared to offer me
this....”
“Murder the dog, you would have said,” interrupted the smith. “We know
the Spanish blessing: a sandre, a carne!--[Blood, murder.]--Thanks for
your forbearance. There is the door. Another word, and I can restrain
myself no longer.”
Ruth had clung firmly to the smith, and motioned Ulrich to go. The
Eletto groaned aloud, struck his forehead with his clenched fist, and
rushed into the open air.
As soon as Adam was alone with Ruth she caught his hand, exclaiming
beseechingly:
“Father, father, he is your own son! Love your enemies, the Saviour
commanded; and you....”
“And I hate him,” said the smith, curtly and resolutely. “Did he hurt
you?”
“Your hate hurts me ten times as much! You judge without examining; yes,
father, you do! When he assaulted me, he was in the right. He thought I
had insulted his mother.”
Adam shrugged his shoulders, and she continued “The poor woman is dead.
Ulrich brought you yonder ring; she never parted with it.”
The armorer started, seized the golden hoop, looked for the date inside,
and when he had found it, clasped the ring in his hands and pressed them
silently to his temples. He stood in this attitude a short time, then
let his arms fall, and said softly:
“The dead must be forgiven....”
“And the living, father? You have punished him terribly, and he is not a
wicked man, no, indeed he is not! If he comes back again, father?”
“My apprentices shall show the Spanish mutineer the door,” cried the
old man in a harsh, stern tone; “to the burgher’s repentant son my house
will be always open.”
Meantime the Eletto wandered from one street to another. He felt
bewildered, disgraced.
It was not grief--no quiet heartache that disturbed--but a confused
blending of wrath and sorrow. He did not wish to appear before the
friend of his youth, and even avoided Hans Eitelfritz, who came towards
him. He was blind to the gay, joyous bustle of the capital; life seemed
grey and hollow. His intention of communicating with the commandant
of the citadel remained unexecuted; for he thought of nothing but his
father’s anger, of Ruth, his own shame and misery.
He could not leave so.
His father must, yes, he must hear him, and when it grew dusk, he again
sought the house to which he belonged, and from which he had been so
cruelly expelled.
The door was locked. In reply to his knock, a man’s unfamiliar voice
asked who he was, and what he wanted.
He asked to speak with Adam, and called himself Ulrich.
After waiting a long time he heard a door torn open, and the smith
angrily exclaim:
“To your spinning-wheel! Whoever clings to him so long as he wears the
Spanish dress, means evil to him as well as to me.”
“But hear him! You must hear him, father!” cried Ruth.
The door closed, heavy steps approached the door of the house; it
opened, and again Adam confronted his son.
“What do you want?” he asked harshly.
“To speak to you, to tell you that you did wrong to insult me unheard.”
“Are you still the Eletto? Answer!”
“I am!”
“And intend to remain so?”
“Que como--puede ser--” faltered Ulrich, who confused by the question,
had strayed into the language in which he had been long accustomed to
think. But scarcely had the smith distinguished the foreign words, when
fresh anger seized him.
“Then go to perdition with your Spaniards!” was the furious answer.
The door slammed so that the house shook, and by degrees the smith’s
heavy tread died away in the vestibule.
“All over, all over!” murmured the rejected son. Then calming himself,
he clenched his fist and muttered through his set teeth: “There shall be
no lack of ruin; whoever it befalls, can bear it.”
While walking through the streets and across the squares, he devised
plan after plan, imagining what must come. Sword in hand he would burst
the old man’s door, and the only booty he asked for himself should be
Ruth, for whom he longed, who in spite of everything loved him, who had
belonged to him from her childhood.
The next morning he negotiated cleverly and boldly with the commandant
of the Spanish forces in the citadel. The fate of the city was sealed!
and when he again crossed the great square and saw the city-hall with
its proud, gable-crowned central building, and the shops in the lower
floor crammed with wares, he laughed savagely.
Hans Eitelfritz had seen him in the distance, and shouted:
“A pretty little house, three stories high. And how the broad windows,
between the pillars in the side wings, glitter!”
Then he lowered his voice, for the square was swarming with men, carts
and horses, and continued:
“Look closer and choose your quarters. Come with me! I’ll show you where
the best things we need can be found. Haven’t we bled often enough for
the pepper-sacks? Now it will be our turn to fleece them. The castles
here, with the gingerbread work on the gables, are the guildhalls. There
is gold enough in each one, to make the company rich. Now this way!
Directly behind the city-hall lies the Zucker Canal. There live
stiff-necked people, who dine off of silver every day. Notice the
street!”
Then he led him back to the square, and continued “The streets here all
lead to the quay. Do you know it? Have you seen the warehouses? Filled
to the very roof! The malmsey, dry canary and Indian allspice, might
transform the Scheldt and Baltic Sea into a huge vat of hippocras.”
Ulrich followed his guide from street to street. Wherever he looked, he
saw vast wealth in barns and magazines; in houses, palaces and churches.
Hans Eitelfritz stopped before a jeweller’s shop, saying:
“Look here! I particularly admire these things, these toys: the little
dog, the sled, the lady with the hoopskirt, all these things are pure
silver. When the pillage begins, I shall grasp these and take them to
my sister’s little children in Colln; they will be delighted, and if it
should ever be necessary, their mother can sell them.”
What a throng crowded the most aristocratic streets! English, Spanish,
Italian and Hanseatic merchants tried to outdo the Netherland traders in
magnificent clothes and golden ornaments. Ulrich saw them all assembled
in the Gothic exchange on the Mere, the handsomest square in the city.
There they stood in the vast open hall, on the checkered marble floor,
not by hundreds, but by thousands, dealing in goods which came from all
quarters of the globe--from the most distant lands. Their offers and
bids mingled in a noise audible at a long distance, which was borne
across the square like the echo of ocean surges.
Sums were discussed, which even the winged imagination of the
lansquenet could scarcely grasp. This city was a remarkable treasure,
a thousand-fold richer booty than had been garnered from the Ottoman
treasure-ship on the sea at Lepanto.
Here was the fortune the Eletto needed, to build the palace in which he
intended to place Ruth. To whom else would fall the lion’s share of the
enormous prize!
His future happiness was to arise from the destruction of this proud
city, stifling in its gold.
These were ambitious brilliant plans, but he devised them with gloomy
eyes, in a darkened mind. He intended to win by force what was denied
him, so long as the power belonged to him.
There could be no lack of flames and carnage; but that was part of his
trade, as shavings belong to flames, hammer-strokes to smiths.
Count Philipp had no suspicion of the assault, was not permitted
to suspect anything. He attributed Ulrich’s agitated manner to the
rejection he had encountered in his father’s house, and when he took
leave of him on his departure to Swabia, talked kindly with his former
schoolmate and advised him to leave the Spanish flag and try once more
to be reconciled to the old man.
Before the Eletto quitted the city, he gave Hans Eitelfritz, whose
regiment had secretly joined the mutiny, letters of safeguard for his
family and the artist, Moor.
He had not forgotten the latter, but well-founded timidity withheld
him from appearing before the honored man, while cherishing the gloomy
thoughts that now filled his soul.
In Aalst the mutineers received him with eager joy, harsh and repellent
as he appeared, they cheerfully obeyed him; for he could hold out to
them a prospect, which lured a bright smile to the bearded lips of the
grimmest warrior.
If power was the word, he scarcely understood how to use it aright,
for wholly absorbed in himself, he led a joyless life of dissatisfied
longing and gloomy reverie.
It seemed to him as if he had lost one half of himself, and needed Ruth
to become the whole man. Hours grew to days, days to weeks, and not
until Roda’s messenger appeared from the citadel in Antwerp to summon
him to action, did he revive and regain his old vivacity.