A second and third rainy day followed the first one. White mists and
grey fog hung over the meadows. The cold, damp north-west wind drove
heavy clouds together and darkened the sky. Rivulets dashed into the
streets from the gutters on the steep roofs of Leyden; the water in the
canals and ditches grew turbid and rose towards the edges of the banks.
Dripping, freezing men and women hurried past each other without any
form of greeting, while the pair of storks pressed closer to each other
in their nest, and thought of the warm south, lamenting their premature
return to the cold, damp, Netherland plain.
In thoughtful minds the dread of what must inevitably come was
increasing. The rain made anxiety grow as rapidly in the hearts of many
citizens, as the young blades of grain in the fields. Conversations,
that sounded anything but hopeful, took place in many tap-rooms--in
others men were even heard declaring resistance folly, or loudly
demanding the desertion of the cause of the Prince of Orange and
liberty.
Whoever in these days desired to see a happy face in Leyden might have
searched long in vain, and would probably have least expected to find it
in the house of Burgomaster Van der Werff.
Three days had now elapsed since Peter’s departure, nay the fourth
was drawing towards noon, yet the burgomaster had not returned, and no
message, no word of explanation, had reached his family.
Maria had put on her light-blue cloth dress with Mechlin lace in the
square neck, for her husband particularly liked to see her in this gown
and he must surely return to-day.
The spray of yellow wall-flowers on her breast had been cut from the
blooming plant in the window of her room, and Barbara had helped arrange
her thick hair.
It lacked only an hour of noon, when the young wife’s delicate, slender
figure, carrying a white duster in her hand, entered the burgomaster’s
study. Here she stationed herself at the window, from which the pouring
rain streamed in numerous crooked serpentine lines, pressed her forehead
against the panes, and gazed down into the quiet street.
The water was standing between the smooth red tiles of the pavement. A
porter clattered by in heavy wooden shoes, a maid-servant, with a shawl
wrapped around her head, hurried swiftly past, a shoemaker’s boy, with
a pair of boots hanging on his back, jumped from puddle to puddle,
carefully avoiding the dry places;--no horseman appeared.
It was almost unnaturally quiet in the house and street; she heard
nothing except the plashing of the rain. Maria could not expect her
husband until the beat of horses’ hoofs was audible; she was not even
gazing into the distance--only dreamily watching the street and the
ceaseless rain.
The room had been thoughtfully heated for the drenched man, whose return
was expected, but Maria felt the cold air through the chinks in the
windows. She shivered, and as she turned back into the dusky room, it
seemed as if this twilight atmosphere must always remain, as if no more
bright days could ever come.
Minutes passed before she remembered for what purpose she had entered
the room and began to pass the dusting-cloth over the writing-table, the
piles of papers, and the rest of the contents of the apartment. At last
she approached the pistols, which Peter had not taken with him on his
journey.
The portrait of her husband’s first wife hung above the weapons and
sadly needed dusting, for until now Maria had always shrunk from
touching it.
To-day she summoned up her courage, stood opposite to it, and gazed
steadily at the youthful features of the woman, with whom Peter had been
happy. She felt spellbound by the brown eyes that gazed at her from the
pleasant face.
Yes, the woman up there looked happy, almost insolently happy. How much
more had Peter probably given to his first wife than to her?
This thought cut her to the heart, and without moving her lips she
addressed a series of questions to the silent portrait, which still
gazed steadily and serenely at her from its plain frame.
Once it seemed as if the full lips of the pictured face quivered, once
that the eyes moved. A chill ran through her veins, she began to be
afraid, yet could not leave the portrait, and stood gazing upward with
dilated eyes.
She did not stir, but her breath came quicker and quicker, and her eyes
seemed to grow keener.
A shadow rested on the dead Eva’s high forehead. Had the artist intended
to depict some oppressive anxiety, or was what she saw only dust, that
had settled on the colors?
She pushed a chair towards the portrait and put her foot on the seat,
pushing her dress away in doing so. Blushing, as if other eyes than
the painted ones were gazing down upon her, she drew it over the white
stocking, then with a rapid movement mounted the seat. She could now
look directly into the eyes of the portrait. The cloth in Maria’s
trembling hand passed over Eva’s brow, and wiped the shadow from
the rosy flesh. She now blew the dust from the frame and canvas, and
perceived the signature of the artist to whom the picture owed its
origin. “Artjen of Leyden,” he called himself, and his careful hand had
finished even the unimportant parts of the work with minute accuracy.
She well knew the silver chain with the blue turquoises, that rested on
the plump neck. Peter had given it to her as a wedding present, and she
had worn it to the altar; but the little diamond cross suspended
from the middle she had never seen. The gold buckle at Eva’s belt had
belonged to her since her last birthday--it was very badly bent, and the
dull points would scarcely pierce the thick ribbon.
“She had everything when it was new,” she said to herself. “Jewels? What
do I care for them! But the heart, the heart--how much love has she left
in Peter’s heart?”
She did not wish to do so, but constantly heard these words ringing in
her ears, and was obliged to summon up all her self-control, to save
herself from weeping.
“If he would only come, if he would only come!” cried a voice in her
tortured soul.
The door opened, but she did not notice it.
Barbara crossed the threshold, and called her by her name in a tone of
kindly reproach.
Maria started and blushing deeply, said,
“Please give me your hand; I should like to get down. I have finished.
The dust was a disgrace.” When she again stood on the floor, the widow
said, “What red cheeks you have! Listen, my dear sister-in-law, listen
to me, child--!”
Barbara was interrupted in the midst of her admonition, for the knocker
fell heavily on the door, and Maria hurried to the window.
The widow followed, and after a hasty glance into the street, exclaimed:
“That’s Wilhelm Cornieliussohn, the musician. He has been to Delft. I
heard it from his mother. Perhaps he brings news of Peter. I’ll send him
up to you, but he must first tell me below what his tidings are. If you
want me, you’ll find me with Bessie. She is feverish and her eyes ache;
she will have some eruption or a fever.”
Barbara left the room. Maria pressed her hands upon her burning cheeks,
and paced slowly to and fro till the musician knocked and entered.
After the first greeting, the young wife asked eagerly:
“Did you see my husband in Delft?”
“Yes indeed,” replied Wilhelm, “the evening of the day before
yesterday.”
“Then tell me--”
“At once, at once. I bring you a whole pouch full of messages. First
from your mother.”
“Is she well?”
“Well and bright. Worthy Doctor Groot too is hale and hearty.”
“And my husband?”
“I found him with the doctor. Herr Groot sends the kindest remembrances
to you. We had musical entertainments at his home yesterday and the day
be fore. He always has the latest novelties from Italy, and when we try
this motet here--”
“Afterwards, Herr Wilhelm! You must first tell me what my husband--”
“The burgomaster came to the doctor on a message from the Prince. He was
in haste, and could not wait for the singing. It went off admirably. If
you, with your magnificent voice, will only--”
“Pray, Meister Wilhelm?”
“No, dear lady, you ought not to refuse. Doctor Groot says, that when a
girl in Delft, no one could support the tenor like you, and if you, Frau
von Nordwyk, and Herr Van Aken’s oldest daughter--”
“But, my dear Meister!” exclaimed the burgomaster’s wife with increasing
impatience, “I’m not asking about your motets and tabulatures, but my
husband.”
Wilhelm gazed at the young wife’s face with a half-startled,
half-astonished look. Then, smiling at his own awkwardness, he shook his
head, saying in a tone of good-natured repentance:
“Pray forgive me, little things seem unduly important to us when they
completely fill our own souls. One word about your absent husband must
surely sound sweeter to your ears, than all my music. I ought to have
thought of that sooner. So--the burgomaster is well and has transacted
a great deal of business with the Prince. Before he went to Dortrecht
yesterday morning, he gave me this letter and charged me to place it in
your hands with the most loving greetings.”
With these words the musician gave Maria a letter. She hastily took it
from his hand, saying:
“No offence, Herr Wilhelm, but we’ll discuss your motet to-morrow, or
whenever you choose; to-day--”
“To-day your time belongs to this letter,” interrupted Wilhelm. “That
is only natural. The messenger has performed his commission, and the
music-master will try his fortune with you another time.”
As soon as the young man had gone, Maria went to her room, sat down at
the window, hurriedly opened her husband’s letter and read:
“MY DEAR AND FAITHFUL WIFE!
“Meister Wilhelm Corneliussohn, of Leyden, will bring you this
letter. I am well, but it was hard for me to leave you on the
anniversary of our wedding-clay. The weather is very bad. I found
the Prince in sore affliction, but we don’t give up hope, and if God
helps us and every man does his duty, all may yet be well. I am
obliged to ride to Dortrecht to-day. I have an important object to
accomplish there. Have patience, for several days must pass before
my return.
“If the messenger from the council inquires, give him the papers
lying on the right-hand side of the writing-table under the smaller
leaden weight. Remember me to Barbara and the children. If money
is needed, ask Van Hout in my name for the rest of the sum due me;
he knows about it. If you feel lonely, visit his wife or Frail von
Nordwyk; they would be glad to see you. Buy as much meal, butter,
cheese, and smoked meat, as is possible. We don’t know what may
happen. Take Barbara’s advice! Relying upon your obedience,
“Your faithful husband,
“PETER ADRIANSSOHN VAN DER WERFF.”
Maria read this letter at first hastily, then slowly, sentence by
sentence, to the end. Disappointed, troubled, wounded, she folded it,
drew the wall-flowers from the bosom of her dress--she knew not why--and
flung them into the peat-box by the chimney-piece. Then she opened her
chest, took out a prettily-carved box, placed it on the table, and laid
her husband’s letter inside.
Long after it had found a place with other papers, Maria still stood
before the casket, gazing thoughtfully at its contents.
At last she laid her hand on the lid to close it; but hesitated and took
up a packet of letters that had lain amid several gold and silver coins,
given by godmothers and godfathers, modest trinkets, and a withered
rose.
Drawing a chair up to the table, the young wife seated herself and began
to read. She knew these letters well enough. A noble, promising youth
had addressed them to her sister, his betrothed bride. They were dated
from Jena, whither he had gone to complete his studies in jurisprudence.
Every word expressed the lover’s ardent longing, every line was pervaded
by the passion that had filled the writer’s heart. Often the prose of
the young scholar, who as a pupil of Doctor Groot had won his bride in
Delft, rose to a lofty flight.
While reading, Maria saw in imagination Jacoba’s pretty face, and the
handsome, enthusiastic countenance of her bridegroom. She remembered
their gay wedding, her brother-in-law’s impetuous friend, so lavishly
endowed with every gift of nature, who had accompanied him to Holland to
be his groomsman, and at parting had given her the rose which lay before
her in the little casket. No voice had ever suited hers so well; she
had never heard language so poetical from any other lips, never had eyes
that sparkled like the young Thuringian noble’s looked into hers.
After the wedding Georg von Dornberg returned home and the young couple
went to Haarlem. She had heard nothing from the young foreigner, and
her sister and her husband were soon silenced forever. Like most of the
inhabitants of Haarlem, they were put to death by the Spanish destroyers
at the capture of the noble, hapless city. Nothing was left of her
beloved sister except a faithful memory of her, and her betrothed
bridegroom’s letters, which she now held in her hand.
They expressed love, the true, lofty love, that can speak with the
tongues of angels and move mountains. There lay her husband’s letter.
Miserable scrawl! She shrank from opening it again, as she laid the
beloved mementoes back into the box, yet her breast heaved as she
thought of Peter. She knew too that she loved him, and that his faithful
heart belonged to her. But she was not satisfied, she was not happy, for
he showed her only tender affection or paternal kindness, and she wished
to be loved differently. The pupil, nay the friend of the learned Groot,
the young wife who had grown up in the society of highly educated men,
the enthusiastic patriot, felt that she was capable of being more,
far more to her husband, than he asked. She had never expected gushing
emotions or high-strung phrases from the grave man engaged in vigorous
action, but believed he would understand all the lofty, noble sentiments
stirring in her soul, permit her to share his struggles and become the
partner of his thoughts and feelings. The meagre letter received to-day
again taught her that her anticipations were not realized.
He had been a faithful friend of her father, now numbered with the dead.
Her brother-in-law too had attached himself, with all the enthusiasm of
youth, to the older, fully-matured champion of liberty, Van der Werff.
When he had spoken of Peter to Maria, it was always with expressions of
the warmest admiration and love. Peter had come to Delft soon after her
father’s death and the violent end of the young wedded pair, and when
he expressed his sympathy and strove to comfort her, did so in strong,
tender words, to which she could cling, as if to an anchor, in the
misery of her heart. The valiant citizen of Leyden came to Delft more
and more frequently, and was always a guest at Doctor Groot’s house.
When the men were engaged in consultation, Maria was permitted to fill
their glasses and be present at their conferences. Words flew to and fro
and often seemed to her neither clear nor wise; but what Van der Werff
said was always sensible, and a child could understand his plain,
vigorous speech. He appeared to the young girl like an oak-tree among
swaying willows. She knew of many of his journeys, undertaken at the
peril of his life, in the service of the Prince and his native land, and
awaited their result with a throbbing heart.
More than once in those days, the thought had entered her mind that it
would be delightful to be borne through life in the strong arms of this
steadfast man. Then he extended these arms, and she yielded to his wish
as proudly and happily as a squire summoned by the king to be made a
knight. She now remembered this by-gone time, and every hope with which
she had accompanied him to Leyden rose vividly before her soul.
Her newly-wedded husband had promised her no spring, but a pleasant
summer and autumn by his side. She could not help thinking of this
comparison, and what entirely different things from those she had
anticipated, the union with him had offered to this day. Tumult,
anxiety, conflict, a perpetual alternation of hard work and excessive
fatigue, this was his life, the life he had summoned her to share at his
side, without even showing any desire to afford her a part in his cares
and labors. Matters ought not, should not go on so. Everything that had
seemed to her beautiful and pleasant in her parents’ home--was being
destroyed here. Music and poetry, that had elevated her soul, clever
conversation, that had developed her mind, were not to be found here.
Barbara’s kind feelings could never supply the place of these lost
possessions; for her husband’s love she would have resigned them
all--but what had become of this love?
With bitter emotions, she replaced the casket in the chest and obeyed
the summons to dinner, but found no one at the great table except Adrian
and the servants. Barbara was watching Bessie.
Never had she seemed to herself so desolate, so lonely, so useless as
to-day. What could she do here? Barbara ruled in kitchen and cellar, and
she--she only stood in the way of her husband’s fulfilling his duties to
the city and state.
Such were her thoughts, when the knocker again struck the door. She
approached the window. It was the doctor. Bessie had grown worse and
she, her mother, had not even inquired for the little one.
“The children, the children!” she murmured; her sorrowful features
brightened, and her heart grew lighter as she said to herself:
“I promised Peter to treat them as if they were my own, and I will
fulfil the duties I have undertaken.” Full of joyous excitement, she
entered the sick-room, hastily closing the door behind her. Doctor
Bontius looked at her with a reproving glance, and Barbara said:
“Gently, gently! Bessie is just sleeping a little.” Maria approached the
bed, but the physician waved her back, saying:
“Have you had the purple-fever?”
“No.”
“Then you ought not to enter this room again. No other help is needed
where Frau Barbara nurses.”
The burgomaster’s wife made no reply, and returned to the entry. Her
heart was so heavy, so unutterably heavy. She felt like a stranger in
her husband’s house. Some impulse urged her to go out of doors, and
as she wrapped her mantle around her and went downstairs, the smell of
leather rising from the bales piled in layers on the lower story, which
she had scarcely noticed before, seemed unendurable. She longed for
her mother, her friends in Delft, and her quiet, cheerful home. For
the first time she ventured to call herself unhappy and, while walking
through the streets with downcast eyes against the wind, struggled
vainly to resist some mysterious, gloomy power, that compelled her
to minutely recall everything that had resulted differently from her
expectations.