Frau Elizabeth von Nordwyk and Frau Van Bout had each asked the
burgomaster’s wife to go into the country with them to enjoy the
beautiful spring day, but in spite of Barbara’s persuasions, Maria could
not be induced to accept their invitation.
A week had elapsed since her husband’s departure, a week whose days had
run their course from morning to evening as slowly as the brackish
water in one of the canals, intersecting the meadows of Holland, flowed
towards the river.
Sleep loves the couches of youth, and had again found hers, but with the
rising of the sun the dissatisfaction, anxiety and secret grief, that
slumber had kindly interrupted, once more returned. She felt that it was
not right, and her father would have blamed her if he had seen her thus.
There are women who are ashamed of rosy cheeks, unrestrained joy in
life, to whom the emotion of sorrow affords a mournful pleasure. To this
class Maria certainly did not belong. She would fain have been happy,
and left untried no means of regaining the lost joy of her heart.
Honestly striving to do her duty, she returned to little Bessie; but
the child was rapidly recovering and called for Barbara, Adrian or
Trautchen, as soon as she was left alone with her.
She tried to read, but the few books she had brought from Delft were
all familiar, and her thoughts, ere becoming fixed on the old volumes,
pursued their own course.
Wilhelm brought her the new motet, and she endeavored to sing it; but
music demands whole hearts from those who desire to enjoy her gifts, and
therefore melody and song refused comfort as well as pleasure to her,
whose mind was engrossed by wholly different things. If she helped
Adrian in his work, her patience failed much sooner than usual. On the
first market-day, she went out with Trautchen to obey her husband’s
directions and make purchases and, while shopping at the various
places where different wares were offered--here fish, yonder meat or
vegetables, amid the motley crowd, hailed on every side by cries
of: “Here, Frau Burgermeisterin! I have what you want, Frau
Burgermeisterin!” forgot the sorrow that oppressed her.
With newly-animated self-reliance, she examined flour, pulse and dried
fish, making it a point of honor to bargain carefully; Barbara should
see that she knew how to buy. The crowd was very great everywhere, for
the city magistrates had issued a proclamation bidding every household,
in view of the threatened danger, to supply itself abundantly with
provisions on all the market-days; but the purchasers made way for the
burgomaster’s pretty young wife, and this too pleased her.
She returned home with a bright face, happy in having done her best, and
instantly went into the kitchen to see Barbara.
Peter’s good-natured sister had plainly perceived how sorely her young
sister-in-law’s heart was troubled, and therefore gladly saw her go out
to make her purchases. Choosing and bargaining would surely dispel her
sorrows and bring other thoughts. True, the cautious house-keeper,
who expected everything good from Maria except the capacity of showing
herself an able, clever mistress of the house, had charged Trautchen to
warn her mistress against being cheated. But when in market the demand
is two or three times greater than the supply, prices rise, and so it
happened that when Maria told the widow how much she had paid for this
or that article, Barbara’s “My child, that’s perfectly unheard--of!”
or, “It’s enough to drive us to beggary,” followed each other in quick
succession.
These exclamations, which under the circumstances were usually entirely
unjustifiable, vexed Maria; but she wished to be at peace with her
sister-in-law, and though it was hard to bear injustice, it was contrary
to her nature and would have caused her pain to express her indignation
in violent words. So she merely said with a little excitement:
“Please ask what other ladies are paying, and then Scold, if you think
it right.”
With these words she left the kitchen.
“My child, I’m not scolding at all,” Barbara called after her, but Maria
would not hear, hastily ascended the stairs and locked herself into her
room. Her joyousness had again vanished.
On Sunday she went to church. After dinner she filled a canvas-bag with
provisions for Adrian, who was going on a boating excursion with several
friends, and then sat at the window in her chamber.
Stately men, among them many members of the council, passed by with
their gaily-dressed wives and children; young girls with flowers in
their bosoms moved arm in arm, by twos and threes, along the footpath
beside the canal, to dance in the village outside the Zyl-Gate. They
walked quietly forward with eyes discreetly downcast, but many a cheek
flushed and many an ill-suppressed smile hovered around rosy lips, when
the youths, who followed the girls moving so decorously along, as gaily
and swiftly as sea-gulls flutter around a ship, uttered teasing jests,
or whispered into their ears words that no third party need hear.
All who were going towards the Zyl-Gate seemed gay and careless, every
face showed what joyous hours in the open air and sunny meadows were
anticipated. The object that attracted them appeared beautiful and
desirable to Maria also, but what should she do among the happy, how
could she be alone amid strangers with her troubled heart? The shadows
of the houses seemed especially dark to-day, the air of the city heavier
than usual, as if the spring had come to every human being, great and
small, old and young, except herself.
The buildings and the trees that bordered the Achtergracht were already
casting longer shadows, and the golden mists hovering over the roofs
began to be mingled with a faint rosy light, when Maria heard a horseman
trotting up the street. She drew herself up rigidly and her heart
throbbed violently. She would not receive Peter any differently from
usual, she must be frank to him and show him how she felt, and that
matters could not go on so, nay she was already trying to find fitting
words for what she had to say to him. Just at that moment, the horse
stopped before the door. She went to the window; saw her husband swing
himself from the saddle and look joyously up to the window of her room
and, though she made no sign of greeting, her heart drew her towards
him. Every thought, every fancy was forgotten, and with winged steps she
flew down the corridor to the stairs. Meantime he had entered, and she
called his name. “Maria, child, are you there!” he shouted, rushed up
the steps as nimbly as a youth, met her on one of the upper stairs and
drew her with overflowing tenderness to his heart.
“At last, at last, I have you again!” he cried joyously, pressing
his lips to her eyes and her fragrant hair. She had clasped her hands
closely around his neck, but he released himself, held them in his, and
asked: “Are Barbara and Adrian at home?”
She shook her head.
The burgomaster laughed, stooped, lifted her up like a child, and
carried her into his room. As a beautiful tree beside a burning house
is seized by the neighboring flames, although immediately protected with
cold water, Maria, in spite of her long-cherished resolve to receive
him coolly, was overwhelmed by the warmth of her husband’s feelings. She
cordially rejoiced in having him once more, and willingly believed
him, as he told her in loving words how painfully he had felt their
separation, how sorely he had missed her, and how distinctly he, who
usually lacked the ability to remember an absent person, had had her
image before his eyes.
How warmly, with what convincing tones he understood how to give
expression to his love to-day! She was still a happy wife, and showed
him that she was without reserve.
Barbara and Adrian returned home, and there was now much to tell at the
evening meal. Peter had had many a strange experience on the journey,
and gained fresh hope, the boy had distinguished himself at school, and
Bessie’s sickness might already be called a danger happily overcome.
Barbara was radiant with joy, for all seemed well between Maria and her
brother.
The beautiful April night passed pleasantly away. When Maria was
braiding black velvet into her hair the next morning, she was full
of grateful emotion, for she had found courage to tell Peter that
she desired to have a larger share in his anxieties than before, and
received a kind assent. A worthier, richer life, she hoped, would
now begin. He was to tell her this very day what he had discussed and
accomplished with the Prince and at Dortrecht, for hitherto no word of
all this had escaped his lips.
Barbara, who was moving about in the kitchen and just on the point of
catching three chickens to kill them, let them live a little longer, and
even tossed half a handful of barley into their coop, as she heard her
sister-in-law come singing down-stairs. The broken bars of Wilhelm’s
last madrigal sounded as sweet and full of promise as the first notes of
the nightingale, which the gardener hears at the end of a long winter.
It was spring again in the house, and her pleasant round face, in its
large cap, looked as bright and unclouded as a sunflower amid its green
leaves, as she called to Maria:
“This is a good day for you, child; we’ll melt down the butter and salt
the hams.”
The words sounded as joyous as if she had offered her an invitation to
Paradise, and Maria willingly helped in the work, which began at once.
When the widow moved her hands, tongues could not remain silent, and the
conversation that had probably taken place between Peter and his wife
excited her curiosity not a little.
She turned the conversation upon him cleverly enough, and, as if
accidentally, asked the question:
“Did he apologize for his departure on the anniversary of your
wedding-day?”
“I know the reason; he could not stay.”
“Of course not, of course not; but whoever is green the goats eat. We
mustn’t allow the men to go too far. Give, but take also. An injustice
endured is a florin, for which in marriage a calf can be bought.”
“I will not bargain with Peter, and if anything weighed heavily on my
mind, I have willingly forgotten it after so long a separation.”
“Wet hay may destroy a barn, and any one to whom the hare runs can catch
him! People ought not to keep their troubles to themselves, but tell
them; that’s why they have tongues, and yesterday was the right time to
make a clean breast of everything that grieves you.”
“He was in such a joyous mood when he came home, and then: Why do you
think I feel unhappy?”
“Unhappy. Who said so?”
Maria blushed, but the widow seized the knife and opened the hen-coop.
Trautchen was helping the two ladies in the kitchen, but she was
frequently interrupted in her work, for this morning the knocker on
the door had no rest, and those who entered must have brought the
burgomaster no pleasant news, for his deep, angry voice was often
audible.
His longest discussion was with Herr Van Hout, who had come to him,
not only to ask questions and tell what occurred, but also to make
complaints.
It was no ordinary spectacle, when these two men, who, towering far
above their fellow-citizens, not only in stature, but moral earnestness
and enthusiastic devotion to the cause of liberty, declared their
opinions and expressed their wrath. The inflammable, restless Van Hout
took the first part, the slow, steadfast Van der Werff, with mighty
impressiveness, the second.
A bad disposition ruled among the fathers of the city, the rich men of
old families, the great weavers and brewers, for to them property, life
and consideration were more than religion and liberty, while the poor
men, who laboriously supported their families by the sweat of their
brows, were joyously determined to sacrifice money and blood for the
good cause.
There was obstacle after obstacle to conquer. The scaffolds and barns,
frames and all other wood-work that could serve to conceal a man,
were to be levelled to the earth, as all the country-houses and other
buildings near the city had formerly been. Much newly-erected woodwork
was already removed, but the rich longest resisted having the axe put
to theirs. New earthworks had been commenced at the important fort of
Valkenburg; but part of the land, where the workmen were obliged to dig,
belonged to a brewer, who demanded a large sum in compensation for his
damaged meadow. When the siege was raised in March, paper-money was
restored, round pieces of pasteboard, one side of which bore the
Netherland lion, with the inscription, “Haec libertatis ergo,” while the
other had the coat-of-arms of the city and the motto “God guard Leyden.”
These were intended to be exchanged for coin or provisions, but rich
speculators had obtained possession of many pieces, and were trying to
raise their value. Demands of every kind pressed upon him, and amid
all these claims the burgomaster was also compelled to think of his own
affairs, for all intercourse with the outside world would soon be cut
off, and it was necessary to settle many things with the representative
of his business in Hamburg. Great losses were threatening, but he left
no means untried to secure for his family what might yet be saved.
He rarely saw wife or children; yet thought he was fulfilling the
promise Maria had obtained from him the evening after his return, when
he briefly answered her questions or voluntarily gave her such sentences
as “There was warm work at the town-hall to-day!” or, “It is more
difficult to circulate the paper-money than we expected!” He did not
feel the kindly necessity of having a confidante and expressing his
feelings, and his first wife had been perfectly contented and happy, if
he sat silently beside her during quiet hours, called her his treasure,
petted the children, or even praised her cracknels and Sunday roast.
Business and public affairs had been his concern, the kitchen and
nursery hers. What they had shared, was the consciousness of the love
one felt for the other, their children, the distinction, honors and
possessions of the household.
Maria asked more and he was ready to grant it, but when in the evening
she pressed the wearied man with questions he was accustomed to hear
only from the lips of men, he put her off for the answers till less busy
times, or fell asleep in the midst of her inquiries.
She saw how many burdens oppressed him, how unweariedly he toiled--but
why did he not move a portion of the load to other shoulders?
Once, during the beautiful spring weather, he went out with her into the
country. She seized upon the opportunity to represent that it was his
duty to himself and her to gain more rest.
He listened patiently, and when she had finished her entreaty and
warnings, took her hand in his, saying:
“You have met Herr Marnix von St. Aldegonde and know what the cause of
liberty owes him. Do you know his motto?”
She nodded and answered softly: “Repos ailleurs.”
“Where else can we rest,” he repeated firmly.
A slight shiver ran through her limbs, and as she withdrew her hands,
she could not help thinking: “Where else;-so not here. Rest and
happiness have no home here.” She did not utter the words, but could not
drive them from her mind.