After the musician had left the burgomaster’s house, he went to young
Herr Matanesse Van Wibisma’s aunt to get his cloak, which had not been
returned to him. He did not usually give much heed to his dress, yet he
was glad that the rain kept people in the house, for the outgrown wrap
on his shoulders was by no means pleasing in appearance. Wilhelm must
certainly have looked anything but well-clad, for as he stood in old
Fraulein Van Hoogstraten’s spacious, stately hall, the steward Belotti
received him as patronizingly as if he were a beggar.
But the Neopolitan, in whose mouth the vigorous Dutch sounded like the
rattling in the throat of a chilled singer, speedily took a different
tone when Wilhelm, in excellent Italian, quietly explained the object of
his visit. Nay, at the sweet accents of his native tongue, the servant’s
repellent demeanor melted into friendly, eager welcome. He was beginning
to speak of his home to Wilhelm, but the musician made him curt replies
and asked him to get his cloak.
Belotti now led him courteously into a small room at the side of the
great hall, took off his cloak, and then went upstairs. As minute after
minute passed, until at last a whole quarter of an hour elapsed, and
neither servant nor cloak appeared, the young man lost his patience,
though it was not easily disturbed, and when the door at last opened
serious peril threatened the leaden panes on which he was drumming
loudly with his fingers. Wilhelm doubtless heard it, yet he drummed with
redoubled vehemence, to show the Italian that the time was growing long
to him. But he hastily withdrew his fingers from the glass, for a girl’s
musical voice said behind him in excellent Dutch:
“Have you finished your war-song, sir? Belotti is bringing your cloak.”
Wilhelm had turned and was gazing in silent bewilderment into the face
of the young noblewoman, who stood directly in front of him. These
features were not unfamiliar, and yet--years do not make even a goddess
younger, and mortals increase in height and don’t grow smaller; but the
lady whom he thought he saw before him, whom he had known well in the
eternal city and never forgotten, had been older and taller than the
young girl, who so strikingly resembled her and seemed to take little
pleasure in the young man’s surprised yet inquiring glance. With a
haughty gesture she beckoned to the steward, saying in Italian:
“Give the gentleman his cloak, Belotti, and tell him I came to beg him
to pardon your forgetfulness.”
With these words Henrica Van Hoogstraten turned towards the door, but
Wilhelm took two hasty strides after her, exclaiming:
“Not yet, not yet, Fraulein! I am the one to apologize. But if you have
ever been amazed by a resemblance--”
“Anything but looking like other people!” cried the girl with a
repellent gesture.
“Ah, Fraulein, yet--”
“Let that pass, let that pass,” interrupted Henrica in so irritated a
tone that the musician looked at her in surprise. “One sheep looks just
like another, and among a hundred peasants twenty have the same face.
All wares sold by the dozen are cheap.”
As soon as Wilhelm heard reasons given, the quiet manner peculiar to him
returned, and he answered modestly:
“But nature also forms the most beautiful things in pairs. Think of the
eyes in the Madonna’s face.”
“Are you a Catholic?”
“A Calvinist, Fraulein.”
“And devoted to the Prince’s cause?”
“Say rather, the cause of liberty.”
“That accounts for the drumming of the war-song.”
“It was first a gentle gavotte, but impatience quickened the time. I am
a musician, Fraulein.”
“But probably no drummer. The poor panes!”
“They are an instrument like any other, and in playing we seek to
express what we feel.”
“Then accept my thanks for not breaking them to pieces.”
“That wouldn’t have been beautiful, Fraulein, and art ceases when
ugliness begins.”
“Do you think the song in your cloak--it dropped on the ground and Nico
picked it up--beautiful or ugly?”
“This one or the other?”
“I mean the Beggar-song.”
“It is fierce, but no more ugly than the roaring of the storm.”
“It is repulsive, barbarous, revolting.”
“I call it strong, overmastering in its power.”
“And this other melody?”
“Spare me an answer; I composed it myself. Can you read notes,
Fraulein?”
“A little.”
“And did my attempt displease you?”
“Not at all, but I find dolorous passages in this choral, as in all the
Calvinist hymns.”
“It depends upon how they are sung.”
“They are certainly intended for the voices of the shopkeepers’ wives
and washerwomen in your churches.”
“Every hymn, if it is only sincerely felt, will lend wings to the souls
of the simple folk who sing it; and whatever ascends to Heaven from the
inmost depths of the heart, can hardly displease the dear God, to whom
it is addressed. And then--”
“Well?”
“If these notes are worth being preserved, it may happen that a
matchless choir--”
“Will sing them to you, you think?”
“No, Fraulein; they have fulfilled their destination if they are once
nobly rendered. I would fain not be absent, but that wish is far less
earnest than the other.”
“How modest!”
“I think the best enjoyment in creating is had in anticipation.”
Henrica gazed at the artist with a look of sympathy, and said with a
softer tone in her musical voice:
“I am sorry for you, Meister. Your music pleases me; why should I deny
it? In many passages it appeals to the heart, but how it will be spoiled
in your churches! Your heresy destroys every art. The works of the great
artists are a horror to you, and the noble music that has unfolded here
in the Netherlands will soon fare no better.”
“I think I may venture to believe the contrary.”
“Wrongly, Meister, wrongly, for if your cause triumphs, which may the
Virgin forbid, there will soon be nothing in Holland except piles
of goods, workshops, and bare churches, from which even singing and
organ-playing will soon be banished.”
“By no means, Fraulein. Little Athens first became the home of the arts,
after she had secured her liberty in the war against the Persians.”
“Athens and Leyden!” she answered scornfully. “True, there are owls on
the tower of Pancratius. But where shall we find the Minerva?”
While Henrica rather laughed than spoke these words, her name was called
for the third time by a shrill female voice. She now interrupted herself
in the middle of a sentence, saying:
“I must go. I will keep these notes.”
“You will honor me by accepting them; perhaps you will allow me to bring
you others.”
“Henrica!” the voice again called from the stairs, and the young lady
answered hastily:
“Give Belotti whatever you choose, but soon, for I shan’t stay here much
longer.”
Wilhelm gazed after her. She walked no less quickly and firmly through
the wide hall and up the stairs, than she had spoken, and again he was
vividly reminded of his friend in Rome.
The old Italian had also followed Henrica with his eyes. As she vanished
at the last bend of the broad steps, he shrugged his shoulders, turned
to the musician and said, with an expression of honest sympathy:
“The young lady isn’t well. Always in a tumult; always like a loaded
pistol, and these terrible headaches too! She was different when she
came here.”
“Is she ill?”
“My mistress won’t see it,” replied the servant. “But what the cameriera
and I see, we see. Now red--now pale, no rest at night, at table she
scarcely eats a chicken-wing and a leaf of salad.”
“Does the doctor share your anxiety?”
“The doctor? Doctor Fleuriel isn’t here. He moved to Ghent when the
Spaniards came, and since then my mistress will have nobody but the
barber who bleeds her. The doctors here are devoted to the Prince of
Orange and are all heretics. There, she is calling again. I’ll send the
cloak to your house, and if you ever feel inclined to speak my language,
just knock here. That calling--that everlasting calling! The young lady
suffers from it too.”
When Wilhelm entered the street, it was only raining very slightly. The
clouds were beginning to scatter, and from a patch of blue sky the
sun was shining brightly down on Nobelstrasse. A rainbow shimmered in
variegated hues above the roofs, but to-day the musician had no eyes
for the beautiful spectacle. The bright light in the wet street did not
charm him. The hot rays of the day-star were not lasting, for “they drew
rain.” All that surrounded him seemed confused and restless. Beside a
beautiful image which he treasured in the sanctuary of his memories,
only allowing his mind to dwell upon it in his happiest hours, sought to
intrude. His real diamond was in danger of being exchanged for a stone,
whose value he did not know. With the old, pure harmony blended another
similar one, but in a different key. How could he still think of
Isabella, without remembering Henrica! At least he had not heard the
young lady sing, so his recollection of Isabella’s songs remained
unclouded. He blamed himself because, obeying an emotion of vanity, he
had promised to send new songs to the proud young girl, the friend of
Spain. He had treated Herr Matanesse Van Wibisma rudely on account of
his opinions, but sought to approach her, who laughed at what he prized
most highly, because she was a woman, and it was sweet to hear his work
praised by beautiful lips. “Hercules throws the club aside and sits down
at the distaff, when Omphale beckons, and the beautiful Esther and the
daughter of Herodias--” murmured Wilhelm indignantly. He felt sorely
troubled, and longed for his quiet attic chamber beside the dove-cote.
“Something unpleasant has happened to him in Delft,” thought his father.
“Why doesn’t he relish his fried flounders to-day?” asked his mother,
when he had left them after dinner. Each felt that something oppressed
the pride and favorite of the household, but did not attempt to discover
the cause; they knew the moods to which he was sometimes subject for
half a day.
After Wilhelm had fed his doves, he went to his room, where he paced
restlessly to and fro. Then he seized his violin and wove all the
melodies be had heard from Isabella’s lips into one. His music had
rarely sounded so soft, and then so fierce and passionate, and his
mother, who heard it in the kitchen, turned the twirling-stick faster
and faster, then thrust it into the firmly-tied dough, and rubbing her
hands on her apron, murmured:
“How it wails and exults! If it relieves his heart, in God’s name let
him do it, but cat-gut is dear and it will cost at least two strings.”
Towards evening Wilhelm was obliged to go to the drill of the military
corps to which he belonged. His company was ordered to mount guard at
the Hoogewoort Gate. As he marched through Nobelstrasse with it, he
heard the low, clear melody of a woman’s voice issuing from an open
window of the Hoogstraten mansion. He listened, and noticing with a
shudder how much Henrica’s voice--for the singer must be the young
lady--resembled Isabella’s, ordered the drummer to beat the drum.
The next morning a servant came from the Hoogstraten house and
gave Wilhelm a note, in which he was briefly requested to come to
Nobelstrasse at two o’clock in the afternoon, neither earlier nor later.
He did not wish to say “yes”--he could not say “no,” and went to the
house at the appointed hour. Henrica was awaiting him in the little room
adjoining the hall. She looked graver than the day before, while heavier
shadows under her eyes and the deep flush on her cheeks reminded Wilhelm
of Belotti’s fears for her health. After returning his greeting, she
said without circumlocution, and very rapidly:
“I must speak to you. Sit down. To be brief, the way you greeted me
yesterday awakened strange thoughts. I must strongly resemble some other
woman, and you met her in Italy. Perhaps you are reminded of some one
very near to me, of whom I have lost all trace. Answer me honestly, for
I do not ask from idle curiosity. Where did you meet her?”
“In Lugano. We drove to Milan with the same vetturino, and afterwards I
found her again in Rome and saw her daily for months.”
“Then you know her intimately. Do you still think the resemblance
surprising, after having seen me for the second time?”
“Very surprising.”
“Then I must have a double. Is she a native of this country?”
“She called herself an Italian, but she understood Dutch, for she has
often turned the pages of my books and followed the conversation I had
with young artists from our home. I think she is a German lady of noble
family.”
“An adventuress then. And her name?”
“Isabella--but I think no one would be justified in calling her an
adventuress.”
“Was she married?”
“There was something matronly in her majestic appearance, yet she never
spoke of a husband. The old Italian woman, her duenna, always called her
Donna Isabella, but she possessed little more knowledge of her past than
I.”
“Is that good or evil?”
“Nothing at all, Fraulein.”
“And what led her to Rome?”
“She practised the art of singing, of which she was mistress; but did
not cease studying, and made great progress in Rome. I was permitted to
instruct her in counterpoint.”
“And did she appear in public as a singer?”
“Yes and no. A distinguished foreign prelate was her patron, and his
recommendation opened every door, even the Palestrina’s. So the church
music at aristocratic weddings was entrusted to her, and she did not
refuse to sing at noble houses, but never appeared for pay. I know that,
for she would not allow any one else to play her accompaniments.
She liked my music, and so through her I went into many aristocratic
houses.”
“Was she rich?”
“No, Fraulein. She had beautiful dresses and brilliant jewels, but was
compelled to economize. Remittances of money came to her at times from
Florence, but the gold pieces slipped quickly through her fingers, for
though she lived plainly and eat scarcely enough for a bird, while her
delicate strength required stronger food, she was lavish to imprudence
if she saw poor artists in want, and she knew most of them, for she did
not shrink from sitting with them over their wine in my company.”
“With artists and musicians?”
“Mere artists of noble sentiments. At times she surpassed them all in
her overflowing mirth.”
“At times?”
“Yes, only at times, for she had also sorrowful, pitiably sorrowful
hours and days, but as sunshine and shower alternate in an April day,
despair and extravagant gayety ruled her nature by turns.”
“A strange character. Do you know her end?”
“No, Fraulein. One evening she received a letter from Milan, which
must have contained bad news, and the next day vanished without any
farewell.”
“And you did not try to follow her?”
Wilhelm blushed, and answered in an embarrassed tone:
“I had no right to do so, and just after her departure I fell
sick--dangerously sick.”
“You loved her?”
“Fraulein, I must beg you--”
“You loved her! And did she return your affection?”
“We have known each other only since yesterday, Fraulein von
Hoogstraten.”
“Pardon me! But if you value my desire, we shall not have seen each
other for the last time, though my double is undoubtedly a different
person from the one I supposed. Farewell till we meet again. You hear,
that calling never ends. You have aroused an interest in your strange
friend, and some other time must tell me more about her. Only this one
question: Can a modest maiden talk of her with you without disgrace?”
“Certainly, if you do not shrink from speaking of a noble lady who had
no other protector than herself.”
“And you, don’t forget yourself!” cried Henrica, leaving the room.
The musician walked thoughtfully towards home. Was Isabella a relative
of this young girl? He had told Henrica almost all he knew of her
external circumstances, and this perhaps gave the former the same right
to call her an adventuress, that many in Rome had assumed. The word
wounded him, and Henrica’s inquiry whether he loved the stranger
disturbed him, and appeared intrusive and unseemly. Yes, he had felt an
ardent love for her; ay, he had suffered deeply because he was no more
to her than a pleasant companion and reliable friend. It had cost him
struggles enough to conceal his feelings, and he knew, that but for the
dread of repulse and scorn, he would have yielded and revealed them to
her. Old wounds in his heart opened afresh, as he recalled the time she
suddenly left Rome without a word of farewell. After barely recovering
from a severe illness, he had returned home pale and dispirited, and
months elapsed ere he could again find genuine pleasure in his art. At
first, the remembrance of her contained nothing save bitterness, but
now, by quiet, persistent effort, he had succeeded, not in attaining
forgetfulness, but in being able to separate painful emotions from
the pure and exquisite joy of remembering her. To-day the old struggle
sought to begin afresh, but he was not disposed to yield, and did not
cease to summon Isabella’s image, in all its beauty, before his soul.
Henrica returned to her aunt in a deeply-agitated mood. Was the
adventuress of whom Wilhelm had spoken, the only creature whom she loved
with all the ardor of her passionate soul? Was Isabella her lost sister?
Many incidents were opposed to it, yet it was possible. She tortured
herself with questions, and the less peace her aunt gave her, the more
unendurable her headache became, the more plainly she felt that the
fever, against whose relaxing power she had struggled for days, would
conquer her.