A week had elapsed since Henrica's flight, and with it a series of days
of severe privation. Maria knew from the musician, that young Matanesse
had accompanied Georg, and that the latter was on his way to the Beggars.
This was the right plan. The bubbling brook belonged to the wild,
rushing, mighty river. She wished him happiness, life and pleasure; but
--strange--since the hour that she tore his verses, the remembrance of
him had receded as far as in the day: before the approach of the
Spaniards. Nay, after her hard-won conquest of herself and his
departure, a rare sense of happiness, amid all her cares and troubles,
had taken possession of the young wife's heart. She had been cruel to
herself, and the inner light of the clear diamond first gleams forth with
the right brilliancy, after it has endured the torture of polishing. She
now felt with joyous gratitude, that she could look Peter frankly in the
eye, grant him love, and ask love in return. He scarcely seemed to
notice her and her management under the burden of his cares, but she
felt, that many things she said and could do for him pleased him. The
young wife did not suffer specially from the long famine, while it caused
Barbara pain and unstrung her vigorous frame. Amid so much suffering,
she often sunk into despair before the cold hearth and empty pots, and no
longer thought it worth while to plait her large cap and ruffs. It was
now Maria's turn to speak words of comfort, and remind her of her son,
the Beggar captain, who would soon enter Leyden.
On the sixth of September the burgomaster's wife was returning home from
an early walk. Autumn mists darkened the air, and the sea-breeze drove a
fine, drizzling spray through the streets. The dripping trees had long
since been robbed of their leaves, not by wind and storm, but by children
and adults, who had carried the caterpillars' food to their kitchens as
precious vegetables.
At the Schagensteg Maria saw Adrian, and overtook him. The boy was
sauntering idly along, counting aloud. The burgomaster's wife called to
him, and asked why he was not at school and what he was doing there.
"I'm counting," was the reply. "Now there are nine."
"Nine?"
"I've met nine dead bodies so far; the rector sent us home. Master Dirks
is dead, and there were only thirteen of us to-day. There are some
people bringing another one."
Maria drew her kerchief tighter and walked on. At her left hand stood a
tall, narrow house, in which lived a cobbler, a jovial man, over whose
door were two inscriptions. One ran as follows:
"Here are shoes for sale,
Round above and flat below;
If David's foot they will not fit,
Goliath's sure they'll suit, I know."
The other was:
"When through the desert roved the Jews,
Their shoes for forty years they wore,
Were the same custom now in use,
'Prentice would ne'er seek cobbler's door."
On the ridge of the lofty house was the stork's nest, now empty. The
red-billed guests did not usually set out on their journey to the south
so early, and some were still in Leyden, standing on the roofs as if lost
in thought. What could have become of the cobbler's beloved lodgers? At
noon the day before, their host, who in March usually fastened the luck-
bringing nest firmly with his own hands, had stolen up to the roof, and
with his cross-bow shot first the little wife and then the husband. It
was a hard task, and his wife sat weeping in the kitchen while the evil
deed was done, but whoever is tormented by the fierce pangs of hunger and
sees his clear ones dying of want, doesn't think of old affection and
future good fortune, but seeks deliverance at the present time.
The storks had been sacrificed too late, for the cobbler's son, his
growing apprentice, had closed his eyes the night before for his eternal
sleep. Loud lamentations reached Maria's ear from the open door of the
shop, and Adrian said: "Jacob is dead, and Mabel is very sick. This
morning their father cursed me on father's account, saying it was his
fault that everything was going to destruction. Will there be no bread
again to-day, mother? Barbara has some biscuit, and I feel so sick. I
can't swallow the everlasting meal any longer."
"Perhaps there will be a slice. We must save the baked food, child."
In the entry of her house Maria found a man-servant, clad in black. He
had come to announce the death of Commissioner Dietrich Van Bronkhorst.
The plague had ended the strong man's life on the evening of the day
before, Sunday.
Maria already knew of this heavy loss, which threw the whole
responsibility of everything, that now happened, upon her husband's
shoulders. She had also learned that a letter had been received from
Valdez, in which he had pledged his word of honor as a nobleman, to
spare the city, if it would surrender itself to the king's "mercy," and
especially to grant Burgomaster Van der Werff, Herr Van der Does, and the
other supporters of the rebellion, free passage through the Spanish
lines. The Castilians would retire and Leyden should be garrisoned only
by a few German troops. He invited Van der Werff and Herr von Nordwyk to
come to Leyderdorp as ambassadors, and in any case, even if the
negotiations failed, agreed to send them home uninjured under a safe
escort. Maria knew that her husband had appointed that day for a great
assembly of the council, the magistrates, and all the principal men in
the city, as well as the captains of the city-guard--but not a word of
all this had reached her ears from Peter. She had heard the news from
Frail Van Hout and the wives of other citizens.
During the last few days a great change had taken place in her husband.
He went out and returned with a pallid, gloomy face. Taciturn and
wasting away with anxiety, he withdrew from the members of his family
even when at home, repelling his wife curtly and impatiently when,
yielding to the impulse of her heart, she approached him with encouraging
words. Night brought him no sleep, and he left his couch before morning
dawned, to pace restlessly to and fro, or gaze at Bessie, who to him
alone still tried to show recognition by a faint smile.
When Maria returned home, she instantly went to the child and found
Doctor Bontius with her. The physician shook his head at her appearance,
and said the delicate little creature's life would soon be over. Her
stomach had been injured during the first months of want; now it refused
to do its office, and to hope for recovery would be folly.
"She must live, she must not die!" cried Maria, frantic with grief and
yet fall of hope, like a true mother, who cannot grasp the thought that
she is condemned to lose her child, even when the little heart is already
ceasing to beat and the bright eyes are growing dim and closing.
"Bessie, Bessie, look at me! Bessie, take this nice milk. Only a few
drops! Bessie, Bessie, you must not die."
Peter had entered the room unobserved and heard the last words. Holding
his breath, he gazed down at his darling, his broad shoulders shook, and
in a stifled, faltering voice he asked the physician: "Must she die?"
"Yes, old friend; I think so! Hold up your head! You have much still
left you. All five of Van Loo's children have died of the plague."
Peter shuddered, and without taking any notice of Maria, passed from the
room with drooping head. Bontius followed him into his study, laid his
hand on his arm, and said:
"Our little remnant of life is made bitter to us, Peter. Barbara says a
corpse was laid before your door early this morning."
"Yes. When I went out, the livid face offered me a morning greeting.
It was a young person. All whom death mows down, the people lay to my
charge. Wherever one looks--corpses! Whatever one hears--curses! Have
I authority over so many lives? Day and night nothing but sorrow and
death before my eyes;--and yet, yet, yet--oh God! save me from madness!"
Peter clasped both hands over his brow; but Bontius found no word of
comfort, and merely exclaimed: "And I, and I? My wife and child ill with
a fever, day and night on my feet, not to cure, but to see people die.
What has been learned by hard study becomes childish folly in these days,
and yet the poor creatures utter a sigh of hope when I feel their pulses.
But this can't go on, this can't go on. Day before yesterday seventy,
yesterday eighty-six deaths, and among them two of my colleagues."
"And no prospect of improvement?"
"To-morrow the ninety will become a hundred--the one hundred will become
two, three, four, five, until at last one individual will be left, for
whom there will be no grave-digger."
"The pest-houses are closed, and we still have cattle and horses."
"But the pestilence creeps through the joints, and since the last loaf of
bread and the last malt-cake have been divided, and there is nothing for
the people to eat except meat, meat, and nothing else--one tiny piece
for the whole day--disease is piled on disease in forms utterly
unprecedented, of which no book speaks, for which no remedy has yet been
discovered. This drawing water with a bottomless pitcher is beginning to
be too much for me. My brain is no stronger than yours. Farewell until
to-morrow."
"To-day, to-day! You are coming to the meeting at the town-hall?"
"Certainly not! Do what you can justify; I shall practise my profession,
which now means the same thing as saying: 'I shall continue to close eyes
and hold coroner's inquests.' If things go on so, there will soon be an
end to practice."
"Once for all: if you were in my place, you would treat with Valdez?"
"In your place? I am not you; I am a physician, one who has nothing to
do except to take the field against suffering and death. You, since
Bronkhorst's death, are the providence of the city. Supply a bit of
bread, if only as large as my hand, in addition to the meat, or--I love
my native land and liberty as well as any one--or--"
"Or?"
"Or--leave Death to reap his harvest, you are no physician."
Bontius bade his friend farewell and left him, but Peter thrust his hand
through his hair and stood gazing out of the window, until Barbara
entered, laid his official costume on a chair and asked with feigned
carelessness:
"May I give Adrian some of the last biscuit? Meat is repulsive to him.
He's lying on the bed, writhing in pain."
Peter turned pale, and said in a hollow tone: "Give it to him and call
the doctor. Maria and Bontius are already with him." The burgomaster
changed his clothing, feeling a thrill of fierce indignation against
every article he put on. To-day the superb costume was as hateful to him
as the office, which gave him the right to wear it, and which, until a
few weeks ago, he had occupied with a joyous sense of confidence in
himself.
Before leaving the house, he sought Adrian. The boy was lying in
Barbara's room, complaining of violent pains, and asking if he must
die too.
Peter shook his head, but Maria kissed him, exclaiming:
"No, certainly not."
The burgomaster's time was limited. His wife stopped him in the entry,
but he hurried down-stairs without hearing what she called after him.
The young wife returned to Adrian's bedside, thinking anxiously of the
speedy death of many comrades of the dear boy, whose damp hand rested in
hers. She thought of Bessie, followed Peter in imagination to the town-
hall, and heard his powerful voice contending for resistance to the last
man and the last pound of meat; nay, she could place herself by his side,
for she knew what was to come: To stand fast, stand fast for liberty, and
if God so willed, die a martyr's death for it like Jacoba, Leonhard, and
Peter's noble father.
One anxious hour followed another.
When Adrian began to feel better, she went to Bessie, who pale and
inanimate, seemed to be gently fading away, and only now and then raised
her little finger to play with her dry lips.
Oh, the pretty, withering human flower! How closely the little girl had
grown into her heart, how impossible it seemed to give her up! With
tearful eyes, she pressed her forehead on her clasped hands, which rested
on the head-board of the little bed, and fervently implored God to spare
and save this child. Again and again she repeated the prayer, but when
Bessie's dim eyes no longer met hers and her hands fell into her lap, she
could not help thinking of Peter, the assembly, the fate of the city, and
the words: "Leyden saved, Holland saved! Leyden lost, all is lost!"
So the hours passed until the gloomy day were away into twilight, and
twilight was followed by evening. Trautchen brought in the lamp, and at
last Peter's step was heard on the stairs.
It must be he, and yet it was not, for he never came up with such slow
and dragging feet.
Then the study door opened.
It was he!
What could have happened, what had the citizens determined?
With an anxious heart, she told Trautchen to stay with the child, and
then went to her husband.
Peter sat at the writing-table in full official uniform, with his hat
still on his head. His face lay buried on his folded arms, beside the
sconce.
He saw nothing, heard nothing, and when she at last called him, started,
sprang up and flung his hat violently on the table. His hair was
dishevelled, his glance restless, and in the faint light of the
glimmering candles his cheeks looked deadly pale.
"What do you want?" he asked curtly, in a harsh voice; but for a time
Maria made no reply, fear paralyzed her tongue.
At last she found words, and deep anxiety was apparent in her question:
"What has happened?"
"The beginning of the end," he answered in a hollow tone.
"They have out-voted you?" cried the young wife. "Baersdorp and the
other cowards want to negotiate?"
Peter drew himself up to his full height, and exclaimed in a loud,
threatening tone:
"Guard your tongue! He who remains steadfast until his children die
and corpses bar the way in front of his own house, he who bears the
responsibility of a thousand deaths, endures curses and imprecations
through long weeks, and has vainly hoped for deliverance during more
than a third of a year--he who, wherever he looks, sees nothing save
unprecedented, constantly increasing misery and then no longer repels the
saving hand of the foe--"
"Is a coward, a traitor, who breaks the sacred oath he has sworn."
"Maria," cried Peter angrily, approaching with a threatening gesture.
She drew her slender figure up to its full height and with quickened
breath awaited him, pointing her finger at him, as she exclaimed with a
sharp tone perceptible through the slight tremor in her voice:
"You, you have voted with the Baersdorps, you, Peter Van der Werff!
You have done this thing, you, the friend of the Prince, the shield and
providence of this brave city, you, the man who received the oaths of the
citizens, the martyr's son, the servant of liberty--"
"No more!" he interrupted, trembling with shame and rage. "Do you know
what it is to bear the guilt of this most terrible suffering before God
and men?"
"Yes, yes, thrice yes; it is laying one's heart on the rack, to save
Holland and liberty. That is what it means! Oh, God, my God! You are
lost! You intend to negotiate with Valdez!"
"And suppose I do?" asked the burgomaster, with an angry gesture.
Maria looked him sternly in the eye, and exclaimed in a loud, resolute
tone:
"Then it will be my turn to say: Go to Delft; we need different men
here."
The burgomaster turned pale and bent his eyes on the floor, while she
fearlessly confronted him with a steady glance.
The light fell full upon her glowing face, and when Peter again raised
his eyes, it seemed as if the same Maria stood before him, who as a bride
had vowed to share trouble and peril with him, remain steadfast in the
struggle for liberty to the end; he felt that his "child" Maria had grown
to his own height and above him, recognized for the first time in the
proud woman before him his companion in conflict, his high-hearted helper
in distress and danger. An overmastering yearning, mightier than any
emotion ever experienced before, surged through his soul, impelled him
towards her, and found utterance in the words:
"Maria, Maria, my wife, my guardian angel! We have written to Valdez,
but there is still time,--nothing binds me yet, and with you, with you
I will stand firm to the end."
Then, in the midst of these days of woe, she threw herself on his breast,
crying aloud in the abundance of this new, unexpected, unutterable
happiness:
"With you, one with you--forever, unto death, in conflict and in love!"