It was the hour of sunrise. Not the gorgeous sunrise of Spain or
Italy, when the horizon's ruddy blaze suddenly revives all that
breathes, when golden rays mingle with the deep azure of a southern
sky, and nature bursts into vitality and vigour, as if light gave
life. The sun rose upon the chilly shores of Holland. The clouds
opened to give exit to a pale light, without heat or brilliancy.
Nature passed insensibly from sleep to waking, but continued torpid
when ceasing to slumber. No cry or joyous song, no flight of birds, or
bleating of flocks, hail the advent of a new day. On the summit of the
dykes, the reed-hedges bend before the breeze, and the sea-sand,
whirled over the slight obstacle, falls upon the meadows, covering
their verdure with a moving veil. A river, yellow with the slime of
its banks, flows peaceably and patiently towards the expectant ocean.
Seen from afar, its waters and its shore appear of one colour,
resembling a sandy plain; save where a ray of light, breaking upon the
surface, reveals by silvery flashes the passage of the stream.
Ponderous boats descend it, drawn by teams of horses, whose large feet
sink into the sand as they advance leisurely and without distress to
the goal of their journey. Behind them strides a peasant, whip on
shoulder; he hurries not his cattle, he looks neither at the stream
that flows, nor the beasts that draw, nor the boat that follows; he
plods steadily onwards, trusting to perseverance to attain his end.
Such is a corner of the picture presented to the traveller in Holland,
the country charged, it would seem, more than any other, to enforce
God's command to the waters, _Thou shalt go no farther!_ This silent
repose of creatures and things, this mild light, these neutral tints
and vast motionless plains, are not without a certain poetry of their
own. Wherever space and silence are united, poetry finds place; she
loves all things more or less, whether smiling landscape or dreary
desert; light of wing, a trifle will detain and support her--a blade
of grass often suffices. And Holland, which Butler has called a large
ship always at anchor, has its beauties for the thoughtful observer.
Gradually one learns to admire this land at war with ocean and
struggling daily for existence; those cities which compel the waters
to flow at their ramparts' foot, to follow the given track, and abide
in the allotted bed; then those days of revolt, when the waves would
fain reconquer their independence, when they overflow and inundate,
and destroy, and at last, constrained by the hand of man, subside and
again obey.
As the sun rose, a small boat glided rapidly down the stream. It had a
single occupant, a tall young man, lithe, skilful, and strong, who,
although apparently in haste, kept near the shore, following the
windings of the bank, and avoiding the centre of the current, which
would have accelerated his progress. At that early hour the fields
were deserted; the birds alone had risen earlier than the boatman,
whose large hat of gray felt lay beside him, whilst his brown locks,
tossed backward by the wind, disclosed regular features, a broad open
forehead, and eyes somewhat thoughtful, like those of the men of the
north. His costume denoted a student from a German university. One
gathered from his extreme youth, that his life had hitherto passed on
academic benches, and that it was still a new and lively pleasure to
him to feel the freshness of morning bathe his brow, the breeze play
with his hair, the stream bear along his bark. He hastened, for there
are times when we count the hours ill; when we outstrip and tax them
with delay. Then, if we cannot hurry the pace of time, we prefer at
least to wait at the appointed spot. It calms impatience, and
resembles a commencement of happiness.
When the skiff had rounded a promontory of the bank, its speed
increased, as if the eye directing it had gained sight of the goal. At
a short distance the landscape changed its character. A meadow sloped
down to the stream, fringed by a thick hedge of willows, half uprooted
and inclined over the water. The boat reached the shadow of the trees,
and stopping there, rocked gently on the river, secured by a chain
cast round a branch. The young man stood up and looked anxiously
through the foliage; then he sang, in a low tone, the burthen of a
ballad, a love-plaint, the national poetry of all countries. His
voice, at first subdued, not to break too suddenly the surrounding
silence, gradually rose as the song drew to a close. The clear mellow
notes escaped from the bower of drooping leaves, and expired without
echo or reply upon the surface of the pasture. Then he sat down and
contemplated the peaceful picture presented to his view. The gray sky
had that melancholy look so depressing to the joyless and hopeless;
the cold dull water rolled noiselessly onward; to the left, the plain
extended afar without variety of surface. A few windmills reared their
gaunt arms, waiting for the wind; and the wind, too weak to stir them,
passed on and left them motionless. To the right, at the extremity of
the little meadow, stood a square house of red bricks and regular
construction, isolated, silent, and melancholy. The thick greenish
glass of the windows refused to reflect the sunbeams; the roof
supported gilded vanes of fantastical form; the garden was laid out in
formal parterres. A few tulips, drooping their heavy heads, and
dahlias, propped with white sticks, were the sole flowers growing
there, and these were hemmed in and stifled by hedges of box. Trees,
stunted and shabby, and with dust-covered leaves, were cut into walls
and into various eccentric shapes. At the corners of the formal
alleys, whose complicated windings were limited to a narrow space,
stood a few plaster figures. One of these alleys led to the
willow-hedge. There nature resumed her rights; the willows grew free
and unrestrained, stretching out from the land and drooping into the
water; their inclined trunks forming flying-bridges, supported but at
one end. The bank was high enough for a certain space to intervene
between the stream and the horizontal stems. A few branches, longer
than the rest, swept the surface of the river, and were kept in
constant motion by its current.
Beneath this dome of verdure the boat was moored, and there the young
man mused, gazing at the sky--melancholy as his heart--and at the
stream, in its course uncertain as his destiny. A few willow leaves
fluttered against his brow, one of his hands hung in the water, a
gentle breeze stirred his hair; nameless flowerets, blooming in the
shelter of the trees, gave out a faint perfume, detectible at
intervals, at the wind's caprice. A bird, hidden in the foliage, piped
an amorous note, and the student, cradled in his skiff, awaited his
love. Ungrateful that he was! he called time a laggard, and bid him
speed; he was insensible to the charm of the present hour. Ah! if he
grows old, how well will he understand that fortune then lavished on
him the richest treasures of life--hope and youth!
Suddenly the student started, stood up, and, with outstretched neck,
and eyes riveted on the trees, he listened, scarce daring to breathe.
The foliage opened, and the face of a young girl was revealed to his
gaze. "Christine!" he exclaimed.
Christine stepped upon the trunk of the lowest tree, and seated
herself with address on this pliant bench, which her weight, slight as
it was, caused to yield and rock. One of her arms, extended through
the branches that drooped towards the water, reached that of her
lover, who tenderly pressed her hand. Then she drew herself up again,
and the tree, less loaded, seemed to obey her will by imitating her
movement. The young man sat in his boat, with eyes uplifted towards
the willow on which she he loved reposed.
Christine Van Amberg had none of the distinguishing features of the
country of her birth. Hair black as the raven's wing formed a frame to
a face full of energy and expression. Her large eyes were dark and
penetrating; her eyebrows, strongly marked and almost straight, would
perhaps have imparted too decided a character to her young head, if a
charming expression of candour and naïveté had not given her the
countenance of a child, rather than of a woman. Christine was fifteen
years of age. A slender silver circlet bound her brow and jet-black
tresses--a holiday ornament, according to her country's custom: but
her greatest festival was the sight of her lover. She wore a simple
muslin dress of a pale blue colour; a black silk mantle, intended to
envelope her figure, was placed upon her hair, and fell back upon her
shoulders, as if the better to screen her from the gaze of the
curious. Seated on a tree trunk, surrounded by branches and beside the
water, like Shakspere's Ophelia, Christine was charming. But although
young, beautiful, and beloved, deep melancholy was the characteristic
of her features. Her companion, too, gazed mournfully at her, with
eyes to which the tears seemed about to start.
"Herbert," said the young girl, stooping towards her lover, "Herbert,
be not so sad! we are both too young to despair of life. Herbert!
better times will come."
"Christine! they have refused me your hand, expelled me your
dwelling,--they would separate us entirely: they will succeed,
to-morrow perhaps!..."
"Never!" exclaimed the young girl, with a glance like the lightning's
flash. But, like that flash, the expression of energy was momentary,
and gave way to one of calm melancholy.
"If you would, Christine, if you would!.... how easy were it to fly
together, to unite our destinies on a foreign shore, and to live for
each other, happy and forgotten!... I will lead you to those glorious
lands where the sun shines as you see it in your dreams,--to the
summit of lofty mountains whence the eye discovers a boundless
horizon,--to noble forests with their thousand tints of green, where
the fresh breeze shall quicken your cheek, and sweep from your memory
these fogs, this humid clime, these monotonous plains. Our days shall
pass happily in a country worthy of our loves."
As Herbert spoke, the young girl grew animated; she seemed to see what
he described, her eager eye sought the horizon as though she would
overleap it, her lips parted as to inhale the mountain breeze. Then
she passed her hand hastily across her eyes, and sighed deeply. "No!"
she exclaimed, "no, I must remain here!... Herbert, it is my country:
why does it make me suffer? I remember another sky, another land,--but
no, it is a dream! I was born here, and have scarcely passed the
boundary of this meadow. My mother sang too often beside my cradle the
ballads and boleros of her native Seville; she told me too much of
Spain, and I love that unknown land as one pines after an absent
friend!"
The young girl glanced at the river, over which a dense fog was
spreading. A few rain-drops pattered amongst the leaves; she crossed
her mantle on her breast, and her whole frame shivered with sudden
chill.
"Leave me, Christine, you suffer! return home, and, since you reject
my roof and hearth, abide with those who can shelter and warm you."
A sweet smile played upon Christine's lips. "My beloved," she said,
"near you I prefer the chilling rain, this rough branch, and the
biting wind, to my seat in the house, far from you, beside the blazing
chimney. Ah! with what joy and confidence would I start on foot for
the farthest corner of the earth, your arm my sole support, your love
my only wealth. But ..."
"What retains you, Christine? your father's affection, your sisters'
tenderness, your happy home?"
The young girl grew pale. "Herbert, it is cruel to speak thus. Well
do I know that my father loves me not, that my sisters are often
unkind to me, that my home is unhappy; I know it, indeed I know it,
and I will follow you ... if my mother consents!"
Herbert looked at his mistress with astonishment. "Child!" he
exclaimed, "such consent will never leave your mother's lips. There
are cases where strength and resolution must be found in one's own
heart. Your mother will never say yes."
"Perhaps!" replied Christine, slowly and gravely. "My mother loves me;
I resemble her in most things, and her heart understands mine. She
knows that Scripture says a woman shall leave her father and mother to
follow her husband; she is aware of our attachment, and, since our
door has been closed against you, I have not shed a tear that she has
not detected and replied to by another. You misjudge my mother,
Herbert! Something tells me she has suffered, and knows that a little
happiness is essential to life as the air we breathe. Nor would it
surprise me, if one day, when embracing me, as she does each night
when we are alone, she were to whisper: Begone, my poor child!"
"I cannot think it, Christine. She will bid you obey, be comforted,
forget!"
"Forget! Herbert, my mother forgets nothing. To forget is the resource
of cowardly hearts. No,--none will bid me forget."
And once more a gloomy fire flashed in Christine's eyes, like the
rapid passage of a flame which illumines and instantly expires. It was
a revelation of the future rather than the expression of the present.
An ardent soul dwelt within her, but had not yet cast off all the
encumbrances of childhood. It struggled to make its way, and at times,
succeeding for a moment, a word or cry revealed its presence.
"No--I shall not forget," added Christine; "I love you, and you love
me, who am so little loved! You find me neither foolish, nor
fantastical, nor capricious; you understand my reveries and the
thousand strange thoughts that invade my heart. I am very young,
Herbert; and yet, here, with my hand in yours, I answer for the
future. I shall always love you!... and see, I do not weep. I have
faith in the happiness of our love; how? when? I know not,--it is the
secret of my Creator, who would not have sent me upon earth only to
suffer. Happiness will come when He deems right, but come it will!
Yes,--I am young, full of life, I have need of air and space; I shall
not live enclosed and smothered here. The world is large, and I will
know it; my heart is full of love, and will love for ever. No tears,
dearest! obstacles shall be overcome, they must give way, for I will
be happy!"
"But why delay, Christine? My love! my wife! an opportunity lost may
never be regained. A minute often decides the fate of a lifetime.
Perhaps, at this very moment, happiness is near us! A leap into my
boat, a few strokes of the oar, and we are united for ever!...
Perhaps, if you again return to land, we are for ever separated.
Christine, come! The wind rises: beneath my feet is a sail that will
quickly swell and bear us away rapidly as the wings of yon bird."
Tears flowed fast over Christine's burning cheeks. She shuddered,
looked at her lover, at the horizon, thought of liberty; she
hesitated, and a violent struggle agitated her soul. At last, hiding
her face amongst the leafage of the willow, she clasped her arms round
its stem, as if to withhold herself from entering the boat, and in a
stifled voice muttered the words,--"My mother!" A few seconds
afterwards, she, raised her pallid countenance.
"If I fled," said she gently, "to whom would my mother speak of her
dear country? Who would weep with her when she weeps, if I were gone?
She has other children, but they are gay and happy, and do not
resemble her. Only my mother and myself are sad in our house. My
mother would die of my absence. I must receive her farewell blessing
or remain by her side, chilled like her by this inclement climate,
imprisoned in yonder walls, ill-treated by those who love me not.
Herbert, I will not fly, I will wait!" And she made a movement to
regain the strand.
"One instant,--yet one second,--Christine! I know not what chilling
presentiment oppresses my heart. Dearest,--if we were to meet no more!
If this little corner of earth were our last trysting-place--these
melancholy willows the witnesses of of our eternal separation! Is
it--can it be--the last happy hour of my life that has just slipped
by?"
He covered his face with his hands, to conceal his tears. Christine's
heart beat violently--but she had courage.
Letting herself drop from the tree, she stood upon the bank, separated
from the boat, which could not come nearer to shore.
"Adieu, Herbert!" said she, "one day I will be your wife, faithful and
loving. It shall be, for I will have it so. Let us both pray God to
hasten that happy day. Adieu, I love you! Adieu, and till our next
meeting, for I love you!"
The barrier of reeds and willows opened before the young girl. A few
small branches crackled beneath her tread; there was a slight noise in
the grass and bushes, as when a bird takes flight; then all was
silence.
Herbert wept.
__________
The clock in the red brick house struck eight, and the family of Van
Amberg the merchant were mustered in the breakfast-room. Christine was
the only absentee. Near the fire stood the head of the family--Karl
Van Amberg--and beside him his brother, who, older than himself,
yielded the prerogative of seniority, and left him master of the
community. Madame Van Amberg was working near a window, and her two
elder daughters, fair-haired, white-skinned Dutchwomen, prepared the
breakfast.
Karl Van Amberg, the dreaded chief of this family, was of lofty
stature; his gait was stiff; his physiognomy passionless. His face,
whose features at first appeared insignificant, denoted a domineering
temper. His manners were cold. He spoke little; never to praise, but
often in terms of dry and imperious censure. His glance preceded his
words and rendered them nearly superfluous, so energetically could
that small sunken gray eye make itself understood. With the sole aid
of his own patience and ambition, Karl Van Amberg had made a large
fortune. His ships covered the seas. Never loved, always respected,
his credit was every where excellent. Absolute monarch in his own
house, none dreamed of opposing his will. All were mute and awed in
his presence. At this moment, he was leaning against the
chimney-piece. His black garments were very plain, but not devoid of a
certain austere elegance.
William Van Amberg, Karl's brother, was quite of an opposite
character. He would have passed his life in poverty, subsisting on the
scanty income left him by his parents, had not Karl desired wealth. He
placed his modest fortune in his brother's hands, saying, "Act as for
yourself!" Attached to his native nook of land, he lived in peace,
smoking and smiling, and learning from time to time that he was a
richer man by a few hundred thousand francs. One day, he was told that
he possessed a million; in reply, he merely wrote, "Thanks, Karl; it
will be for your children." Then he forgot his riches, and changed
nothing in his manner of life, even adhering in his dress to the
coarse materials and graceless fashion of a peasant dreading the
vicinity of cities. His youthful studies had consisted of a course of
theology. His father, a fervent Catholic, destined him for the church,
but it came to pass, as a consequence of his indecision of character,
that William neither took orders nor married, but lived quietly in his
brother's family. The habitual perusal of religious books sometimes
gave his language a mystical tone, contrasting with the rustic
simplicity of his exterior. This was his only peculiarity; otherwise
he had nothing remarkable but his warm heart and strong good sense. He
was the primitive type of his family: his brother was an example of
the change caused by newly acquired wealth.
Madame Van Amberg, seated at the window, sewed in silence. Her
countenance had the remains of great beauty, but she was weak and
suffering. A single glance sufficed to fix her birth-place far from
Holland. Her black hair and olive tint betrayed a southern origin.
Silently submissive to her husband, his iron character had pressed
heavily upon this delicate creature. She had never murmured; now she
was dying, but without complaint. Her look was one of deep melancholy.
Christine, her third daughter, resembled her. Of dark complexion, like
her mother, she contrasted strongly with her rosy-cheeked sisters. M.
Van Amberg did not love Christine. Rough and cold, even to those he
secretly cherished, he was severe and cruel to those he disliked. He
had never been known to kiss Christine. Her mother's were the only
caresses she knew, and even those were stealthily and tearfully
bestowed. The two poor women hid themselves to love each other.
At intervals, Madame Van Amberg coughed painfully. The damp climate of
Holland was slowly conducting to her grave the daughter of Spain's
ardent land. Her large melancholy eyes mechanically sought the
monotonous horizon, which had bounded her view for twenty years. Fog
and rain surrounded the house. She gazed, shivered as if seized with
deadly cold, then resumed her work.
Eight o'clock had just struck, and the two young Dutchwomen, who,
although rich heiresses, waited upon their father, had just placed the
tea and smoked beef upon the table, when Karl Van Amberg turned
abruptly to his wife.
"Where is your daughter, Madam?"
He spoke of Christine, whom the restless gaze of Madame Van Amberg
vainly sought through the fog veiling the garden. At her husband's
question, the lady rose, opened the door, and, leaning on the
banister, twice uttered her daughter's name. There was no reply; she
grew pale and again looked out anxiously through the fog.
"Go in, Madame," was the surly injunction of Gothon, the old servant
woman, who knelt on the hall flags, which she had flooded with soap and
water, and was now vigorously scrubbing; "Go in, madame; the damp
increases your cough, and Mademoiselle Christine is far enough away!
The bird flew before daybreak."
Madame Van Amberg cast a mournful glance across the meadow, where
nothing moved, and into the parlour, where her stern husband awaited
her; then she went in and sat down at the table, around which the
remainder of the family had already placed themselves. No one spoke.
All could read displeasure upon M. Van Amberg's countenance, and none
dared attempt to change the course of his ideas. His wife kept her
eyes fixed upon the window, hoping her daughter's return. Her lips
scarcely tasted the milk that filled her cup; visible anguish
increased the paleness of her sweet, sad countenance.
"Annunciata, my dear, take some tea," said her brother-in-law. "The
day is chill and damp, and you seem to suffer."
Annunciata smiled sadly at William. For sole answer she raised to her
lips the tea he offered her, but the effort was too painful, and she
replaced the cup upon the table. M. Van Amberg looked at nobody; he
ate, his eyes fixed upon his plate.
"Sister," resumed William, "it is a duty to care for one's health, and
you, who fulfil all your duties, should not neglect that one."
A slight flush tinged the brow of Annunciata. Her eyes encountered
those of her husband, which he slowly turned towards her. Trembling,
almost weeping, she ceased her attempts to eat. And the silence was
again unbroken, as at the commencement of the meal. At last steps were
heard in the passage, the old servant grumbled something which did not
reach the parlour, then the door opened, and Christine entered; her
muslin dress damp with fog, her graceful curls disordered by the wind,
her black mantle glittering with a thousand little rain-drops. She was
crimson with embarrassment and fear. Her empty chair was beside her
mother; she sat down, and hung her head; none offered aught to the
truant child, and the silence continued. Yielding to maternal anxiety,
Madame Van Amberg took a handkerchief and wiped the moisture from
Christine's forehead and hair; then she took her hands to warm them in
her own. For the second time M. Van Amberg looked at his wife. She let
Christine's hands fall, and remained downcast and motionless as her
daughter. M. Van Amberg rose from table. A tear glistened on the
mother's eyes on seeing that her daughter had not eaten. But she said
nothing, and returning to the window, resumed her sewing. Christine
remained at table, preserving her frightened and abashed attitude. The
two eldest girls hastened to remove the breakfast things.
"Do you not see what Wilhelmina and Maria are about? Can you not help
them?"
At her father's voice, Christine hastily rose, seized the cups and
teapot, and hurried to and fro from parlour to pantry.
"Gently! You will break something!" cried M. Van Amberg. "Begin in
time, to finish without hurry."
Christine stood still in the middle of the room. Her two sisters
smiled as they passed her, and one of them muttered--for nobody spoke
loud in M. Van Amberg's presence,--"Christine will hardly learn
housekeeping by looking at the stars and watching the river flow!"
"Now then, Mademoiselle, you are spoiling every thing here!" said the
old servant, who had just come in; "go and change that wet gown, which
ruins all my furniture."
Christine remained where she was, not daring to stir without the
master's order.
"Go," said M. Van Amberg.
The young girl darted from the room and up the stairs, reached her
chamber, threw herself upon the bed and burst into tears. Below,
Madame Van Amberg continued to sew, her head bent over her work. When
the cloth was removed, Wilhelmina and Maria placed a large jug of
beer, glasses, long pipes, and a store of tobacco upon the mahogany
table, and pushed forward two arm-chairs, in which Karl and William
installed themselves.
"Retire to your apartment, Madam," said M. Van Amberg, in the
imperious tone habitual to him when he addressed his wife; "I have to
discuss matters which do not concern you. Do not leave the house; will
call you bye and bye; I wish to speak with you."
Annunciata bowed in token of obedience, and left the room. Wilhelmina
and Maria approached their father, who silently kissed their pretty
cheeks. The two brothers lit their pipes, and remained alone. William
was the first to speak.
"Brother Karl!" said he, resting his arms upon the table, and looking
M. Van Amberg in the face, "before proceeding to business, and at risk
of offending you, I must relieve my heart. Here, all fear you, and
counsel, the salutary support of man, is denied you."
"Speak, William," coldly replied M. Van Amberg.
"Karl, you treat Annunciata very harshly. God commands you to protect
her, and you allow her to suffer, perhaps to die before your eyes,
without caring for her fate. The strong should sustain the weak. In
our native land, we owe kindness to the stranger who cometh from afar.
The husband owes protection to her he has chosen for his wife. For all
these reasons, brother, I say you treat Annunciata ill."
"Does she complain?" said M. Van Amberg, filling his glass.
"No, brother; only the strong resist and complain. A tree falls with a
crash, the reed bends noiselessly to the ground. No, she does not
complain, save by silence and suffering, by constant and passive
obedience, like that of a soul-less automaton. You have deprived her
of life, the poor woman! One day she will cease to move and breathe;
she has long ceased to live!"
"Brother, there are words that should not be inconsiderately spoken,
judgments that should not be hastily passed, for fear of injustice."
"Do I not know your whole life, Karl, as well as my own, and can I not
therefore speak confidently, as one well informed?"
M. Van Amberg inhaled the smoke of his pipe, threw himself back in his
arm-chair, and made no reply.
"I know you as I know myself," resumed William gently, "although our
hearts were made to love and not to resemble each other. When you
found our father's humble dwelling too small, I said nothing; you were
ambitious; when a man is born with that misfortune or blessing, he
must do like the birds, who have wings to soar; he must strive to
rise. You departed; I pressed your hand, and reproached you not; it is
right that each man should be happy his own way. You gained much gold,
and gave me more than I needed. You returned married, and I did not
approve your marriage. It is wiser to seek a companion in the land
where one's days are to end; it is something to love the same places
and things, and then it is only generous to leave one's wife a family,
friends, well-known objects to gaze upon. It is counting greatly on
one's self to take sole charge of her happiness. Happiness sometimes
consists of so many things! Often an imperceptible atom serves as base
to its vast structure: for my part, I do not like presumptuous
experiments on the hearts of others. In short, you married a
foreigner, who perishes with cold in this country, and sighs, amidst
our fogs, for the sun of Spain. You committed a still greater
fault--Forgive me, brother; I speak plainly, in order not to return to
this subject.
"I am attending to you, William; you are my elder brother."
"Thanks for your patience, Karl. No longer young, you married a very
young woman. Your affairs took you to Spain. There you met a needy
Spanish noble, to whom you rendered a weighty service. You were always
generous, and increasing wealth did not close your hand. This noble
had a daughter, a child of fifteen. In spite of your apparent
coldness, you were smitten by her beauty, and you asked her of her
father. Only one thing struck you; that she was poor and would be
enriched by the marriage. A refusal of your offer would have been
ingratitude to a benefactor. They gave you Annunciata, and you took
her, brother, without looking whether joy was in her eyes, without
asking the child whether she willingly followed you, without
interrogating her heart. In that country the heart is precocious in
its awakening ... perhaps she left behind her some youthful dream ...
some early love.... Forgive me, Karl; the subject is difficult to
discuss."
"Change it, William," said M. Van Amberg coldly.
"Be it so. You returned hither, and when your business again took you
forth upon the ocean, you left Annunciata to my care. She lived many
years with me in this house. Karl, her youth was joyless and sad.
Isolated and silent, she wore out her days without pleasure or
variety. Your two eldest daughters, now the life of our dwelling, were
then in the cradle. They were no society to their mother; I was a very
grave companion for that young and beautiful creature. I have little
reading and knowledge, no imagination; I like my quiet arm-chair, my
old books, and my pipe. I at first allowed myself to believe--because
I loved to believe it--that Annunciata resembled me,--that
tranquillity and a comfortable dwelling would suffice for her
happiness, as they sufficed for mine. But at last I understood--what
you, brother, I fear have never comprehended--that she was never
intended for a Dutch housewife. In the first place, the climate
tortured her. She constantly asked me if finer summers would not
come,--if the winters were always so rigorous,--the fogs so frequent.
I told her no, that the year was a bad one; but I told her a
falsehood, for the winters were always the same. At first she tried to
sing her Sevillian romances and boleros, but soon her song died away
and she wept, for it reminded her too much of her own native land.
Silent and motionless she sat, desiring, as I have read in the
Bible,--'The wings of the dove to fly away and be at rest.' Brother,
it was a melancholy sight. You know not how slowly the winter evenings
passed in this parlour. It was dark at four, and she worked by
lamp-light till bed-time. I endeavoured to converse, but she knew
nothing of the things I knew, and I was ignorant of those that
interested her. I saw at last that the greatest kindness was to leave
her to herself. She worked or was idle, wept or was calm, and I
averted my eyes to give her the only consolation in my power,--a
little liberty. But it was very sad, brother!"
There was a moment's silence, broken by M. Van Amberg. "Madame Van
Amberg was in her own dwelling," said he, severely, "with her
children, and under the protection of a devoted friend. Her husband
toiled in foreign parts to increase the fortune of the family; she
remained at home to keep house and educate her daughters; all that is
very natural." And he filled his pipe.
"True," replied William; "but still she was unhappy. Was it a crime?
God will decide. Leave her to his justice, Karl, and let us be
merciful! During your long absence, chance conducted hither some
Spaniards whom Annunciata had known in her childhood, and amongst them
the son of an old friend of her father's. Oh! with what mingled joy
and agitation did the dear child welcome her countrymen! What tears
she shed in the midst of her joy ... for she had forgotten how to be
happy, and every emotion made her weep. How eagerly she heard and
spoke her native tongue! She fancied herself again in Spain; for a
while she was almost happy. You returned, brother, and you were cruel;
one day, without explaining your motives, you shut your door upon the
strangers. Tell me, why would you not allow fellow-countrymen,
friends, a companion of her childhood, to speak to your wife of her
family and native land? Why require complete isolation, and a total
rupture with old friends? She obeyed without a murmur, but she
suffered more than you thought. I watched her closely; I, her old
friend. Since that fresh proof of your rigour, she is sadder than
before. A third time she became a mother; it was in vain; her
unhappiness continued. Brother, your hand has been too heavy on this
feeble creature."
M. Van Amberg rose, and slowly paced the room. "Have you finished,
William?" said he; "this conversation is painful, let it end here; do
not abuse the license I give you."
"No; I have yet more to say. You are a cold and severe husband, but
that is not all; you are also an unjust father. Christine, your third
daughter, is denied her share of your affection, and by this
partiality you further wound the heart of Annunciata. Christine
resembles her; she is what I can fancy her mother at fifteen--a lively
and charming Spaniard; she has all her mother's tastes; like her she
lives with difficulty in our climate, and although born in it, by a
caprice of nature she suffers from it as Annunciata suffered. Brother,
the child is not easy to manage; independent, impassioned, violent in
all her impressions, she has a love of movement and liberty which ill
agrees with our regular habits, but she has also a good heart, and by
appealing to it you might perhaps have tamed her wild spirit. For
Christine you are neither more nor less than a pitiless judge. Her
childhood was one long grief. And thus, far from losing her wild
restlessness, she loves more than ever to be abroad and at liberty;
she goes out at daybreak; she looks upon the house as a cage whose
bars hurt her, and you vainly endeavour to restrain her. Brother, if
you would have obedience, show affection. It is a power that succeeds
when all others fail. Why prevent her marrying the man she loves?
Herbert the student is not rich, nor is his alliance brilliant; but
they love each other!"
M. Van Amberg, who had continued his walk, now stopped short, and
coldly replied to his brother's accusations; "Christine is only
fifteen, and I do my duty by curbing the foolish passion that
prematurely disturbs her reason. As to what you call my partiality,
you have explained it yourself by the defects of her character. You,
who reproach others as pitiless judges, beware yourself of judging too
severely. Every man acts according to his internal perceptions, and
all things are not good to be spoken. Empty your glass, William, and
if you have finished your pipe, do not begin another. The business I
had to discuss with you will keep till another day; it is late, and I
am tired. It is not always wise to rake up the memories of the past. I
wish to be alone a while. Leave me, and tell Madame Van Amberg to come
to me in a quarter of an hour."
"Why not say, 'Tell Annunciata?' Why, for so long a time, has that
strange sweet name never passed your lips?"
"Tell Madame Van Amberg I would speak with her, and leave me,
brother," replied Karl sternly.
William felt he had pushed Karl Van Amberg's patience to its utmost
limit; he got up and left the room. At the foot of the stairs he
hesitated a moment, then ascended, and sought Annunciata in
Christine's chamber. It was a narrow cell, shining with cleanliness,
and containing a few flowers in glasses, a wooden crucifix, with
chaplets of beads hanging on it, and a snow-white bed; a guitar (it
was her mother's) was suspended on the wall. From the window was seen
the meadow, the river, and the willows. Christine sat on the foot of
the bed, still weeping; her mother was beside her, offering her bread
and milk, with which Christine's tears mingled. Annunciata kissed her
daughter's eyes, and then furtively wiped her own. On entering,
William stood for a few moments at the door, mournfully contemplating
this touching picture.
"My brother, my good brother," cried Annunciata, "speak to my child!
She has forgotten prayer and obedience; her heart is no longer
submissive, and her tears avail nothing, for she murmurs and menaces.
Ask her, brother, by whom it was told her that life is joy? that we
live only to be happy? Talk to her of duty, and give her strength to
accomplish it!"
"Your husband inquires for you, sister. Go, I will remain with
Christine."
"I go, my brother," replied Annunciata. Approaching the little mirror
above the chimney-piece, she washed the tear-stains from her eyes,
pressed her hand upon her heart to check its throbbings, and when her
countenance had resumed its expression of calm composure, she
descended the stairs. Gothon was seated on the lower steps.
"You spoil her, madame," said she roughly to her mistress; "foolish
ears need sharp words. You spoil her."
Gothon had been in the house before Annunciata, and had been greatly
displeased by the arrival of her master's foreign lady, whose
authority she never acknowledged. But she had served the Van Ambergs'
mother, and therefore it was without fear of dismissal that she
oppressed, after her own fashion, her timid and gentle mistress.
Annunciata entered the parlour and remained standing near the door as
if waiting an order. Her husband's countenance was graver and more
gloomy than ever.
"Can no one hear us, madam? Are you sure we are alone?"
"Quite alone, sir," replied the astonished Annunciata.
M. Van Amberg recommenced his walk. For some moments he said nothing.
His wife, her hand resting on the back of an arm-chair, silently
awaited his pleasure. At last he again spoke.
"You bring up your daughter Christine badly; I left her to your care
and guidance, and you do not watch over her. Do you know where she
goes and what she does?"
"From her childhood, sir," replied Annunciata gently, pausing between
each phrase, "Christine has loved to live in the open air. She is
delicate, and requires sun and liberty to strengthen her. Till now you
have allowed her to live thus; I saw no harm in letting her follow her
natural bent. If you disapprove, sir, she will obey your orders."
"You bring up your daughter badly," coldly repeated M. Van Amberg.
"She will dishonour the name she bears."
"Sir!!" exclaimed Annunciata, her cheeks suffused with the deepest
crimson; her eyes emitting a momentary but vivid flash.
"Look to it, madam, I will have my name respected, that you know! You
also know I am informed of whatever passes in my house. Your daughter
secretly meets a man to whom I refused her hand; this morning, at six
o'clock, they were together on the river bank!"
"My daughter! my daughter!"--cried Annunciata in disconsolate tones.
"Oh! it is impossible! She is innocent! she shall remain so! I will
place myself between her and evil, I will save my child! I will take
her in my arms, and close her ears to dangerous words. My daughter, I
will say, remain innocent, remain honoured, if you would not see me
die!"
With unmoved eye M. Van Amberg beheld the mother's emotion. Beneath
his frozen gaze, Annunciata felt embarrassed by her own agitation;
she made an effort to calm herself; then, with clasped hands, and eyes
filled with tears, which she would not allow to flow, she resumed, in
a constrained voice:
"Is this beyond doubt, sir?"
"It is," replied M. Van Amberg: "I never accuse without certainty."
There was a moment's silence. M. Van Amberg again spoke.
"You will lock Christine in her room, and bring me the key. She will
have time to reflect, and I trust reflexion will be of service to her;
in a prolonged seclusion she will lose that love of motion and liberty
which leads her into harm; the silence of complete solitude will allay
the tumult of her thoughts. None shall enter her room, save Gothon,
who shall take her her meals, and return me the key. This is what I
have decided upon as proper."
Madame Van Amberg's lips opened several times to speak, but her
courage failed her. At last she advanced a pace or two.
"But I, sir, I," said she in a stifled voice, "_I_ am to see my
child!"
"I said no one," replied M. Van Amberg.
"But she will despair, if none sustain her. I will be severe with her;
you may be assured I will! Let me see her, if only once a-day. She may
fall ill of grief, and who will know it? Gothon dislikes her. For
pity's sake, let me see Christine! For a minute only, a single
minute."
M. Van Amberg once more stood still, and fixed upon his wife a look
that made her stagger. "Not another word!" he said. "I allow no
discussion, madam. No one shall see Christine; do you hear?"
"I will obey," replied Annunciata.
"Convey my orders to your daughter. At dinner bring me the key of her
room. Go."
Madame Van Amberg found Christine alone, seated on her bed, and
exhausted by long weeping. Her beautiful face, at times so energetic,
wore an expression of profound and touching dejection. Her long hair
fell in disorder on her shoulders, her figure was bent, as if weighed
down by grief; her rosary had fallen from her half-open hand; she had
tried to obey her mother and to pray, but had been able only to weep.
Her black mantle, still damp with rain, lay upon a table, a few willow
sprays peeping from its silken folds. Christine eyed them with mingled
love and melancholy. She thought it a century since she saw the sun
rise on the river, on the old trees, and on Herbert's skiff. Her
mother slowly approached her.
"My child," said she, "where were you at daybreak this morning?"
Christine raised her eyes to her mother's face, looked at her, but did
not answer. Annunciata repeated her question without change of word or
tone. Then Christine let herself slide from the bed to the ground, and
kneeled before her mother.
"I was seated," said she, "upon the trunk of a willow that overhangs
the stream. I was near Herbert's boat."
"Christine!" exclaimed Madame Van Amberg, "can it be true? Oh, my
child, could you so infringe the commands laid upon you! Could you
thus forget my lessons and advice! Christine, you thought not of me
when you committed that fault!"
"Herbert said to me, 'Come, you shall be my wife, I will love you
eternally, you shall be free and happy; all is ready for our marriage
and our flight; come!' I replied, 'I will not leave my mother!'
Mother, you have been my safeguard; if it be a crime to follow
Herbert, it is the thought of you alone that prevented my committing
it. I would not leave my mother!"
A beam of joy illumined Annunciata's countenance. Murmuring a
thanksgiving to God, she raised her kneeling child and seated her by
her side.
"Speak to me, Christine," she said, "open your heart, and tell me all
your thoughts. Together we will regret your faults, and seek hope for
the future. Speak, my daughter; conceal nothing."
Christine laid her head upon her mother's shoulder, put one of her
little hands in hers, sighed deeply, as though her heart were too
oppressed for words, and spoke at last with effort and fatigue.
"Mother," she said, "I have nothing to confess that you do not
already know. I love Herbert. He is but a poor student, intrusted to
my father's care, but he has a noble heart--like mine, somewhat sad.
He knows much, and he is gentle to those who know nothing. Poor, he is
proud as a king: he loves, and he tells it only to her who knows it.
My mother, I love Herbert! He asked my hand of my father, whose reply
was a smile of scorn. Then he was kept from me, and I tried to exist
without seeing him. I could not do it. I made many _neuvaines_ on the
rosary you gave me. I had seen you weep and pray, mother, and I said
to myself--Now that I weep as she does, I must also pray like her. But
it happened once, as day broke, that I saw a small boat descend the
stream, then go up again, and again descend; from time to time a white
sail fluttered in the air as one flutters a kerchief to a departing
friend. My thoughts, then as now, were on Herbert; I ran across the
meadow--I reached the stream.--Mother, it was he! hoping and waiting
my coming. Long and mournfully we bewailed our separation; fervently
we vowed to love each other till death. This morning Herbert,
discouraged and weary of waiting a change in our position, urged me to
fly with him. I might have fled, mother, but I thought of you and
remained. I have told you all; if I have done wrong, forgive me,
dearest mother!"
With deep emotion Madame Van Amberg listened to her daughter, and
remained buried in reflection, when Christina paused. She felt that
the young girl's suffering heart needed gentle lessons, affectionate
advice; and, instead of these, she was the bearer of a sentence whose
severity must aggravate the evil--she was compelled to deny her sick
child the remedies that might have saved her.
"You love him very dearly then," said she at last, fixing a long
melancholy look on her daughter's countenance.
"Oh, mother!" exclaimed Christine, "I love him with all my soul! My
life is passed in expecting, seeing, remembering him! I could never
make you comprehend how entirely my heart is his. Often I dream of
dying for him, not to save his life, that were too easy and natural,
but uselessly, at his command."
"Hush! Christine, hush! you frighten me," cried Annunciata, placing
both hands upon her daughter's mouth. By a quick movement Christine
disengaged herself from her mother's arms.
"Ah!" she exclaimed, "you know not what it is to love as I do! My
father could never let himself be loved thus!"
"Be silent, my child! be silent!" repeated Annunciata energetically.
"Oh, my daughter! how to instil into your heart thoughts of peace and
duty! Almighty Father! bless my weak words, that they may touch her
soul! Christine, hear me!"
Annunciata took her daughter's hands, and compelled her to stand
before her. "My child," she said, "you know nothing of life; you walk
at random, and are about to wander from the right path. All young
hearts have been troubled as yours is now. The noble ones have
struggled and triumphed; the others have fallen! Life is no easy and
pleasant passage; its trials are many and painful--its struggles
severe; believe me, for us women there is no true happiness without
the bounds of duty. And when happiness is not our destiny, many great
things still remain to us. Honour, the esteem of others, are not mere
empty words. Hear me, beloved child! That God, whom from your infancy
I have taught you to love, do you not fear offending him? Seek Him,
and you will find better consolation than I can offer. Christine, we
love in God those from whom we are severed on earth. He, who in his
infinite wisdom imposed so many fetters on the heart of woman, foresaw
the sacrifices they would entail, and surely he has kept treasures of
love for hearts that break in obedience to duty."
Annunciata rapidly wiped the tears inundating her fine countenance;
then clasping, Christine's arm--
"On your knees, my child! on our knees both of us before the Christ I
gave you! 'Tis nearly dark, and yet we still discern Him--his arms
seeming to open for us. Bless and save and console my child, oh
merciful God! Appease her heart; make it humble and obedient!"
Her prayer at an end, she rose, and throwing her arms round Christine,
who had passively allowed herself to be placed on her knees and lifted
up again, she embraced her tenderly, pressed her to her heart, and
bathed her hair with tears. "My daughter," she murmured between her
kisses, "my daughter, speak to me! Utter one word that I may take with
me as a hope! My child, will you not speak to your mother?"
"Mother, I love Herbert!" was Christine's reply.
Annunciata looked despairingly at her child, at the crucifix upon the
wall, at the darkening sky seen through the open window. The
dinner-bell rang. Madame Van Amberg made a strong effort to collect
and express her ideas.
"M. Van Amberg," said she in broken voice, "orders you to remain in
your room. I am to take him the key. You are to see no one. The hour
is come, and he expects me."
"A prisoner!" cried Christine; "A prisoner,--alone, all day! Death
rather than that!"
"He will have it so," repeated Annunciata, mournfully; "I must obey.
He will have it so." And she approached the door, casting upon
Christine a look of such ineffable love and grief, that the young
girl, fascinated by the gaze, let her depart without opposition. The
key turned in the lock, and Annunciata, supporting herself by the
banister, slowly descended. She found M. Van Amberg alone in the
parlour.
"You have been a long time up stairs," said he. "Have you convinced
yourself that your daughter saw the student Herbert this morning?"
"She did," murmured Annunciata.
"You have told her my orders?"
"I have done so."
"Where is the key?" She gave it him.
"Now to dinner," said M. Van Amberg, walking into the dining-room.
Annunciata endeavoured to follow him, but her strength failed her, and
she sank upon a chair.