Produced by David Widger
THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE, Complete
By Georg Ebers
Translated from the German by Mary J. Safford
BARONESS SOPHIE VON BRANDENSTEIN, nee EBERS.
My reason for dedicating a book, and particularly this book, to you, the
only sister of my dead father, needs no word of explanation between us.
From early childhood you have been a dear and faithful friend to me,
and certainly have not forgotten how industriously I labored, while your
guest seventeen years ago, in arranging the material which constitutes
the foundation of the “Burgomaster’s Wife.” You then took a friendly
interest in many a note of facts, that had seemed to me extraordinary,
admirable, or amusing, and when the claims of an arduous profession
prevented me from pursuing my favorite occupation of studying the
history of Holland, my mother’s home, in the old way, never wearied of
reminding me of the fallow material, that had previously awakened your
sympathy.
At last I have been permitted to give the matter so long laid aside its
just dues. A beautiful portion of Holland’s glorious history affords the
espalier, around which the tendrils of my narrative entwine. You have
watched them grow, and therefore will view them kindly and indulgently.
In love and friendship,
Ever the same,
GEORG EBERS
Leipsic, Oct. 30th, 1881.
THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE.
CHAPTER I.
In the year 1574 A. D. spring made its joyous entry into the Netherlands
at an unusually early date.
The sky was blue, gnats sported in the sunshine, white butterflies
alighted on the newly-opened yellow flowers, and beside one of the
numerous ditches intersecting the wide plain stood a stork, snapping at
a fine frog; the poor fellow soon writhed in its enemy’s red beak. One
gulp--the merry jumper vanished, and its murderer, flapping its wings,
soared high into the air. On flew the bird over gardens filled with
blossoming fruit-trees, trimly laid-out flower-beds, and gaily-painted
arbors, across the frowning circlet of walls and towers that girdled
the city, over narrow houses with high, pointed gables, and neat streets
bordered with elm, poplar, linden and willow-trees, decked with the
first green leaves of spring. At last it alighted on a lofty gable-roof,
on whose ridge was its firmly-fastened nest. After generously giving up
its prey to the little wife brooding over the eggs, it stood on one
leg and gazed thoughtfully down upon the city, whose shining red tiles
gleamed spick and span from the green velvet carpet of the meadows. The
bird had known beautiful Leyden, the gem of Holland, for many a year,
and was familiar with all the branches of the Rhine that divided the
stately city into numerous islands, and over which arched as many stone
bridges as there are days in five months of the year; but surely many
changes had occurred here since the stork’s last departure for the
south.
Where were the citizens’ gay summer-houses and orchards, where the
wooden frames on which the weavers used to stretch their dark and
colored cloths?
Whatever plant or work of human hands had risen, outside the city
walls and towers to the height of a man’s breast, thus interrupting the
uniformity of the plain, had vanished from the earth, and beyond, on
the bird’s best hunting-grounds, brownish spots sown with black circles
appeared among the green of the meadows.
Late in October of the preceding year, just after the storks left the
country, a Spanish army had encamped here, and a few hours before the
return of the winged wanderers in the first opening days of spring, the
besiegers retired without having accomplished their purpose.
Barren spots amid the luxuriant growth of vegetation marked the places
where they had pitched their tents, the black cinders of the burnt coals
their camp-fires.
The sorely-threatened inhabitants of the rescued city, with thankful
hearts, uttered sighs of relief. The industrious, volatile populace
had speedily forgotten the sufferings endured, for early spring is so
beautiful, and never does a rescued life seem so delicious as when we
are surrounded by the joys of spring.
A new and happier time appeared to have dawned, not only for Nature but
for human beings. The troops quartered in the besieged city, which had
the day before committed many an annoyance, had been dismissed with song
and music. The carpenter’s axe flashed in the spring sunlight before the
red walls, towers and gates, and cut sharply into the beams from
which new scaffolds and frames were to be erected; noble cattle grazed
peacefully undisturbed around the city, whose desolated gardens were
being dug, sowed and planted afresh. In the streets and houses a
thousand hands, which but a short time before had guided spears and
arquebuses on the walls and towers, were busy at useful work, and old
people sat quietly before their doors to let the warm spring sun shine
on their backs.
Few discontented faces were to be seen in Leyden on this eighteenth of
April. True, there was no lack of impatient ones, and whoever wanted
to seek them need only go to the principal school, where noon was
approaching and many boys gazed far more eagerly through the open
windows of the school-room, than at the teacher’s lips.
But in that part of the spacious hall where the older lads received
instruction, no restlessness prevailed. True, the spring sun shone on
their books and exercises too, the spring called them into the open
air, but even more powerful than its alluring voice seemed the influence
exerted on their young minds by what they were now hearing.
Forty sparkling eyes were turned towards the bearded man, who addressed
them in his deep voice. Even wild Jan Mulder had dropped the knife with
which he had begun to cut on his desk a well-executed figure of a ham,
and was listening attentively.
The noon bell now rang from the neighboring church, and soon after was
heard from the tower of the town-hall, the little boys noisily left the
room, but--strange-=the patience of the older ones still held out; they
were surely hearing things that did not exactly belong to their lessons.
The man who stood before them was no teacher in the school, but the
city clerk, Van Hout, who, to-day filled the place of his sick friend,
Verstroot, master of arts and preacher. During the ringing of the bells
he had closed the book, and now said:
“‘Suspendo lectionem.’ Jan Mulder, how would you translate my
‘suspendere’?”
“Hang,” replied the boy.
“Hang!” laughed Van Hout. “You might be hung from a hook perhaps, but
where should we hang a lesson? Adrian Van der Werff.”
The lad called rose quickly, saying:
“‘Suspendere lectionen’ means to break off the lesson.”
“Very well; and if we wanted to hang up Jan Mulder, what should we say?”
“Patibulare--ad patibulum!” cried the scholars. Van Hout, who had just
been smiling, grew very grave. Drawing a long breath, he said:
“Patibulo is a bad Latin word, and your fathers, who formerly sat here,
understood its meaning far less thoroughly than you. Now, every child in
the Netherlands knows it, Alva has impressed it on our minds. More than
eighteen thousand worthy citizens have come to the gallows through his
‘ad patibulum.’”
With these words he pulled his short black doublet through his girdle,
advanced nearer the first desk, and bending his muscular body forward,
said with constantly increasing emotion:
“‘This shall be enough for to-day, boys. It will do no great harm, if
you afterwards forget the names earned here. But always remember
one thing: your country first of all. Leonidas and his three hundred
Spartans did not die in vain, so long as there are men ready to follow
their example. Your turn will come too. It is not my business to boast,
but truth is truth. We Hollanders have furnished fifty times three
hundred men for the freedom of our native soil. In such stormy times
there are steadfast men; even boys have shown themselves great. Ulrich
yonder, at your head, can bear his nickname of Lowing with honor.
‘Hither Persians--hither Greeks!’ was said in ancient times, but we cry:
‘Hither Netherlands, hither Spain!’ And indeed, the proud Darius never
ravaged Greece as King Philip has devastated Holland. Ay, my lads,
many flowers bloom in the breasts of men. Among them is hatred of the
poisonous hemlock. Spain has sowed it in our gardens. I feel it
growing within me, and you too feel and ought to feel it. But don’t
misunderstand me! ‘Hither Spain--hither Netherlands!’ is the cry, and
not: ‘Hither Catholics and hither Protestants.’ Every faith may be
right in the Lord’s eyes, if only the man strives earnestly to walk in
Christ’s ways. At the throne of Heaven, it will not be asked: Are you
Papist, Calvinist, or Lutheran? but: What were your intentions and acts?
Respect every man’s belief; but despise him who makes common cause with
the tyrant against the liberty of our native land. Now pray silently,
then you may go home.”
The scholars rose; Van Hout wiped the perspiration from his high
forehead, and while the boys were collecting books, pencils, and pens,
said slowly, as if apologizing to himself for the words already uttered:
“What I have told you perhaps does not belong to the school-room; but,
my lads, this battle is still far from being ended, and though you must
occupy the school-benches for a while, you are the future soldiers.
Lowing, remain behind, I have something to say to you.”
He slowly turned his back to the boys, who rushed out of doors. In a
corner of the yard of St. Peter’s church, which was behind the building
and entered by few of the passers-by, they stood still, and from amid
the wild confusion of exclamations arose a sort of consultation,
to which the organ-notes echoing from the church formed a strange
accompaniment.
They were trying to decide upon the game to be played in the afternoon.
It was a matter of course, after what Van Hout had said, that there
should be a battle; it had not even been proposed by anybody, but the
discussion that now arose proceeded from the supposition.
It was soon decided that patriots and Spaniards, not Greeks and
Persians, were to appear in the lists against each other; but when the
burgomaster’s son, Adrian Van der Werff, a lad of fourteen, proposed to
form the two parties, and in the imperious way peculiar to him attempted
to make Paul Van Swieten and Claus Dirkson Spaniards, he encountered
violent opposition, and the troublesome circumstance was discovered that
no one was willing to represent a foreign soldier.
Each boy wanted to make somebody else a Castilian, and fight himself
under the banner of the Netherlands. But friends and foes are necessary
for a war, and Holland’s heroic courage required Spaniards to prove
it. The youngsters grew excited, the cheeks of the disputants began
to flush, here and there clenched fists were raised, and everything
indicated that a horrible civil war would precede the battle to be given
the foes of the country.
In truth, these lively boys were ill-suited to play the part of King
Philip’s gloomy, stiff-necked soldiers. Amid the many fair heads, few
lads were seen with brown locks, and only one with black hair and dark
eyes. This was Adam Baersdorp, whose father, like Van der Werff’s,
was one of the leaders of the citizens. When he too refused to act a
Spaniard, one of the boys exclaimed:
“You won’t? Yet my father says your father is half a Glipper,--[The
name given in Holland to those who sympathized with Spain]--and a whole
Papist to boot.”
At these words young Baersdorp threw his books on the ground, and was
rushing with upraised fist upon his enemy--but Adrian Van der Werff
hastily interposed, crying:
“For shame, Cornelius.--I’ll stop the mouth of anybody who utters such
an insult again. Catholics are Christians, as well as we. You heard it
from Van Hout, and my father says so too. Will you be a Spaniard, Adam,
yes or no?”
“No!” cried the latter firmly. “And if anybody else--”
“You can quarrel afterward,” said Adrian Van der Werff, interrupting his
excited companions, then good-naturedly picking up the books Baersdorp
had flung down, and handing them to him, continued resolutely, “I’ll be
a Spaniard to-day. Who else?”
“I, I, I too, for aught I care,” shouted several of the scholars, and
the forming of the two parties would have been carried on in the best
order to the end, if the boys’ attention had not been diverted by a
fresh incident.
A young gentleman, followed by a black servant, came up the street
directly towards them. He too was a Netherlander, but had little in
common with the school-boys except his age, a red and white complexion,
fair hair, and clear blue eyes, eyes that looked arrogantly out upon
the world. Every step showed that he considered himself an important
personage, and the gaily-costumed negro, who carried a few recently
purchased articles behind him, imitated this bearing in a most comical
way. The negro’s head was held still farther back than the young
noble’s, whose stiff Spanish ruff prevented him from moving his handsome
head as freely as other mortals.
“That ape, Wibisma,” said one of the school-boys, pointing to the
approaching nobleman.
All eyes turned towards him, scornfully scanning his little velvet hat
decked with a long plume, the quilted red satin garment padded in the
breast and sleeves, the huge puffs of his short brown breeches, and the
brilliant scarlet silk stockings that closely fitted his well-formed
limbs.
“The ape,” repeated Paul Van Swieten. “He wants to be a cardinal, that’s
why he wears so much red.”
“And looks as Spanish as if he came straight from Madrid,” cried another
lad, while a third added:
“The Wibismas certainly were not to be found here, so long as bread was
short with us.”
The Wibismas are all Glippers.
“And he struts about on week-days, dressed in velvet and silk,” said
Adrian. “Just look at the black boy the red-legged stork has brought
with him to Leyden.”
The scholars burst into a loud laugh, and as soon as the youth had
reached them, Paul Van Swieten snarled in a nasal tone:
“How did deserting suit you? How are affairs in Spain, master Glipper?”
The young noble raised his head still higher, the negro did the same,
and both walked quietly on, even when Adrian shouted in his ear:
“Little Glipper, tell me, for how many pieces of silver did Judas sell
the Saviour?”
Young Matanesse Van Wibisma made an indignant gesture, but controlled
himself until Jan Mulder stepped in front of him, holding his little
cloth cap, into which he had thrust a hen’s feather, under his chin like
a beggar, and saying humbly:
“Give me a little shrove-money for our tom-cat, Sir Grandee; he stole a
leg of veal from the butcher yesterday.”
“Out of my way!” said the youth in a haughty, resolute tone, trying to
push Mulder aside with the back of his hand.
“Hands off, Glipper!” cried the school-boys, raising their clenched
hands threateningly.
“Then let me alone,” replied Wibisma, “I want no quarrel, least of all
with you.”
“Why not with us?” asked Adrian Van der Werff, irritated by the
supercilious, arrogant tone of the last words.
The youth shrugged his shoulders, but Adrian cried: “Because you like
your Spanish costume better than our doublets of Leyden cloth.”
Here he paused, for Jan Mulder stole behind Wibisma, struck his hat down
on his head with a book, and while Nicolas Van Wibisma was trying to
free his eyes from the covering that shaded them, exclaimed:
“There, Sir Grandee, now the little hat sits firm! You can keep it on,
even before the king.”
The negro could not go to his master’s assistance, for his arms were
filled with parcels, but the young noble did not call him, knowing
how cowardly his black servant was, and feeling strong enough to help
himself.
A costly clasp, which he had just received as a gift on his seventeenth
birthday, confined the plume in his hat; but without a thought he flung
it aside, stretched out his arms as if for a wrestling-match, and with
florid cheeks, asked in a loud, resolute tone: “Who did that?”
Jan Mulder had hastily retreated among his companions, and instead of
coming forward and giving his name, called:
“Look for the hat-fuller, Glipper! We’ll play blindman’s buff.”
The youth, frantic with rage, repeated his question. When, instead of
any other answer, the boys entered into Jan Mulder’s jest, shouting
gaily: “Yes, play blind-man’s buff! Look for the hat-fuller. Come,
little Glipper, begin.” Nicolas could contain himself no longer, but
shouted furiously to the laughing throng:
“Cowardly rabble!”
Scarcely had the words been uttered, when Paul Van Swieten raised his
grammar, bound in hog-skin, and hurled it at Wibisma’s breast.
Other books followed, amid loud outcries, striking him on the legs and
shoulders. Bewildered, he shielded his face with his hands and retreated
to the church-yard wall, where he stood still and prepared to rush upon
his foes.
The stiff, fashionable high Spanish ruff no longer confined his handsome
head with its floating golden locks. Freely and boldly he looked his
enemies in the face, stretched the young limbs hardened by many a
knightly exercise, and with a true Netherland oath sprang upon Adrian
Van der Werff, who stood nearest.
After a short struggle, the burgomaster’s son, inferior in strength and
age to his opponent, lay extended on the ground; but the other lads, who
had not ceased shouting, “Glipper, Glipper,” seized the young noble, who
was kneeling on his vanquished foe.
Nicolas struggled bravely, but his enemies’ superior power was too
great.
Frantic with fury, wild with rage and shame, he snatched the dagger from
his belt.
The boys now raised a frightful yell, and two of them rushed upon
Nicolas to wrest the weapon from him. This was quickly accomplished; the
dagger flew on the pavement, but Van Swieten sprang back with a low cry,
for the sharp blade had struck his arm, and the bright blood streamed on
the ground.
For several minutes the shouts of the lads and the piteous cries of the
black page drowned the beautiful melody of the organ, pouring from
the windows of the church. Suddenly the music ceased; instead of the
intricate harmony the slowly-dying note of a single pipe was heard, and
a young man rushed out of the door of the sacristy of the House of God.
He quickly perceived the cause of the wild uproar that had interrupted
his practising, and a smile flitted over the handsome face which, framed
by a closely-cut beard, had just looked startled enough, though the
reproving words and pushes with which he separated the enraged lads were
earnest enough, and by no means failed to produce their effect.
The boys knew the musician, Wilhelm Corneliussohn, and offered no
resistance, for they liked him, and his dozen years of seniority gave
him an undisputed authority among them. Not a hand was again raised
against Wibisma, but the boys, all shouting and talking together,
crowded around the organist to accuse Nicolas and defend themselves.
Paul Van Swieten’s wound was slight. He stood outside the circle of
his companions, supporting the injured left arm with his right hand. He
frequently blew upon the burning spot in his flesh, over which a bit
of cloth was wrapped, but curiosity concerning the result of this
entertaining brawl was stronger than the wish to have it bandaged and
healed.
As the peace-maker’s work was already drawing to a close, the wounded
lad, pointing with his sound hand in the direction of the school,
suddenly called warningly:
“There comes Herr von Nordwyk. Let the Glipper go, or there will be
trouble.”
Paul Van Swieten again clasped his wounded arm with his right hand and
ran swiftly around the church. Several other boys followed, but the
new-comer of whom they were afraid, a man scarcely thirty years old, had
legs of considerable length, and knew how to use them bravely.
“Stop, boys!” he shouted in an echoing voice of command. “Stop! What has
Happened here?”
Every one in Leyden respected the learned and brave young nobleman, so
all the lads who had not instantly obeyed Van Swieten’s warning shout,
stood still until Herr von Nordwyk reached them.
A strange, eager light sparkled in this man’s clever eyes, and a subtle
smile hovered around his moustached lip, as he called to the musician:
“What has happened here, Meister Wilhelm? Didn’t the clamor of Minerva’s
apprentices harmonize with your organ-playing, or did--but by all the
colors of Iris, that’s surely Nico Matanesse, young Wibisma! And how he
looks! Brawling in the shadow of the church--and you here too, Adrian,
and you, Meister Wilhelm?”
“I separated them,” replied the other quietly, smoothing his rumpled
cuffs.
“With perfect calmness, but impressively--like your organ-music,” said
the commander, laughing.
“Who began the fight? You, young sir? or the others?”
Nicolas, in his excitement, shame, and indignation, could find no
coherent words, but Adrian came forward saying: “We wrestled together.
Don’t be too much vexed with us, Herr Janus.”
Nicolas cast a friendly glance at his foe.
Herr von Nordwyk, Jan Van der Does, or as a learned man he preferred
to call himself, Janus Dousa, was by no means satisfied with this
information, but exclaimed:
“Patience, patience! You look suspicious enough, Meister Adrian; come
here and tell me, ‘atrekeos,’ according to the truth, what has been
going on.”
The boy obeyed the command and told his story honestly, without
concealing or palliating anything that had occurred.
“Hm,” said Dousa, after the lad had finished his report. “A difficult
case. No one is to be acquitted. Your cause would be the better one, had
it not been for the knife, my fine young nobleman, but you, Adrian,
and you, you chubby-cheeked rascals, who--There comes the rector--If
he catches you, you’ll certainly see nothing but four walls the rest of
this beautiful day. I should be sorry for that.”
The chubby-cheeked rascals, and Adrian also, understood this hint, and
without stopping to take leave scampered around the corner of the church
like a flock of doves pursued by a hawk.
As soon as they had vanished, the commander approached young Nicolas,
saying:
“Vexatious business! What was right to them is just to you. Go to your
home. Are you visiting your aunt?”
“Yes, my lord,” replied the young noble. “Is your father in the city
too?” Nicolas was silent.
“He doesn’t wish to be seen?”
Nicolas nodded assent, and Dousa continued:
“Leyden stands open to every Netherlander, even to you. To be sure, if
you go about like King Philip’s page, and show contempt to your equals,
you must endure the consequences yourself. There lies the dagger, my
young friend, and there is your hat. Pick them up, and remember that
such a weapon is no toy. Many a man has spoiled his whole life, by
thoughtlessly using one a single moment. The superior numbers that
pressed upon you may excuse you. But how will you get to your aunt’s
house in that tattered doublet?”
“My cloak is in the church,” said the musician, “I’ll give it to the
young gentleman.”
“Bravo, Meister Wilhelm!” replied Dousa. “Wait here, my little master,
and then go home. I wish the time, when your father would value my
greeting, might come again. Do you know why it is no longer pleasant to
him?”
“No, my lord.”
“Then I’ll tell you. Because he is fond of Spain, and I cling to the
Netherlands.”
“We are Netherlanders as well as you,” replied Nicolas with glowing
cheeks.
“Scarcely,” answered Dousa calmly, putting his hand up to his thin chin,
and intending to add a kinder word to the sharp one, when the youth
vehemently exclaimed:
“Take back that ‘scarcely,’ Herr von Nordwyk.” Dousa gazed at the bold
lad in surprise, and again an expression of amusement hovered about his
lips. Then he said kindly:
“I like you, Herr Nicolas; and shall rejoice if you wish to become a
true Hollander. There comes Meister Wilhelm with his cloak. Give me your
hand. No, not this one, the other.”
Nicolas hesitated, but Janus grasped the boy’s right hand in both of
his, bent his tall figure to the latter’s ear, and said in so low a tone
that the musician could not understand:
“Ere we part, take with you this word of counsel from one who means
kindly. Chains, even golden ones, drag us down, but liberty gives wings.
You shine in the glittering splendor, but we strike the Spanish chains
with the sword, and I devote myself to our work. Remember these words,
and if you choose repeat them to your father.”
Janus Dousa turned his back on the boy, waved a farewell to the
musician, and went away.