During these May days the Hoogstraten mansion was the quietest of all
the houses in quiet Nobelstrasse. By the orders of Doctor Bontius
and the sick lady’s attorney, a mixture of straw and sand lay on the
cause-way before it. The windows were closely curtained, and a piece
of felt hung between the door and the knocker. The door was ajar, but a
servant sat close behind it to answer those who sought admission.
On a morning early in May the musician, Wilhelm Corneliussohn, and Janus
Dousa turned the corner of Nobelstrasse. Both men were engaged in eager
conversation, but as they approached the straw and sand, their voices
became lower and then ceased entirely.
“The carpet we spread under the feet of the conqueror Death,” said the
nobleman. “I hope he will lower the torch only once here and do honor to
age, little worthy of respect as it may be. Don’t stay too long in the
infected house, Herr Wilhelm.”
The musician gently opened the door. The servant silently greeted him
and turned towards the stairs to call Belotti; for the “player-man” had
already enquired more than once for the steward.
Wilhelm entered the little room where he usually waited, and for the
first time found another visitor there, but in a somewhat peculiar
attitude. Father Damianus sat bolt upright in an arm-chair, with his
head drooping on one side, sound asleep. The face of the priest, a man
approaching his fortieth year, was as pink and white as a child’s, and
framed by a thin light-brown beard. A narrow circle of thin light hair
surrounded his large tonsure, and a heavy dark rosary of olive-wood
beads hung from the sleeper’s hands. A gentle, kindly smile hovered
around his half-parted lips.
“This mild saint in long woman’s robes doesn’t look as if he could grasp
anything strongly” thought Wilhelm, “yet his hands are callous and have
toiled hard.”
When Belotti entered the room and saw the sleeping priest, he carefully
pushed a pillow under his head and beckoned to Wilhelm to follow him
into the entry.
“We won’t grudge him a little rest,” said the Italian. “He has sat
beside the padrona’s bed from yesterday noon until two hours ago.
Usually she doesn’t know what is going on around her, but as soon as
consciousness returns she wants religious consolation. She still refuses
to take the sacrament for the dying, for she won’t admit that she
is approaching her end. Yet often, when the disease attacks her more
sharply, she asks in mortal terror if everything is ready, for she is
afraid to die without extreme unction.”
“And how is Fraulein Henrica?”
“A very little better.”
The priest had now come out of the little room. Belotti reverently
kissed his hand and Wilhelm bowed respectfully.
“I had fallen asleep,” said Damianus simply and naturally, but in a
voice less deep and powerful than would have been expected from his
broad breast and tall figure. “I will read the mass, visit my sick, and
then return. Have you thought better of it, Belotti?”
“It won’t do sir, the Virgin knows it won’t do. My dismissal was given
for the first of May, this is the eighth, and yet I’m still here--I
haven’t left the house because I’m a Christian! Now the ladies have a
good physician, Sister Gonzaga is doing her duty, you yourself will
earn by your nursing a place among the martyrs in Paradise, so, without
making myself guilty of a sin, I can tie up my bundle.”
“You will not go, Belotti,” said the priest firmly. “If you still insist
on having your own way, at least do not call yourself a Christian.”
“You will stay,” cried Wilhelm, “if only for the sake of the young lady,
to whom you still feel kindly.” Belotti shook his head, and answered
quietly:
“You can add nothing, young sir, to what the holy Father represented
to me yesterday. But my mind is made up, I shall go; yet as I value the
holy Father’s good opinion and yours, I beg you to do me the favor to
listen to me. I have passed my sixty-second birthday, and an old horse
or an old servant stands a long time in the market-place before any
one will buy them. There might probably be a place in Brussels for a
Catholic steward, who understands his business, but this old heart longs
to return to Naples--ardently, ardently, unutterably. You have seen our
blue sea and our sky, young sir, and I yearn for them, but even more for
other, smaller things. It now seems a joy that I can speak in my native
language to you, Herr Wilhelm, and you, holy Father. But there is a
country where every one uses the same tongue that I do. There is a
little village at the foot of Vesuvius--merciful Heavens! Many a person
would be afraid to stay there, even half an hour, when the mountain
quakes, the ashes fall in showers, and the glowing lava pours out in
a stream. The houses there are by no means so well built, and the
window-panes are not so clean as in this country. I almost fear that
there are few glass windows in Resina, but the children don’t freeze,
any more than they do here. What would a Leyden house-keeper say to our
village streets? Poles with vines, boughs of fig-trees, and all sorts
of under-clothing on the roofs, at the windows, and the crooked, sloping
balconies; orange and lemon-trees with golden fruit grow in the little
gardens, which have neither straight paths nor symmetrical beds.
Everything there grows together topsy-turvy. The boys, who in rags that
no tailor has darned or mended, clamber over the white vineyard walls,
the little girls, whose mothers comb their hair before the doors of the
houses, are not so pink and white, nor so nicely washed as the Holland
children, but I should like to see again the brown-skinned, black-haired
little ones with the dark eyes, and end my days amid all the clatter in
the warm air, among my nephews, nieces and blood-relations.”
As he uttered these words, the old man’s features had flushed and
his black eyes sparkled with a fire, that but a short time before
the northern air and his long years of servitude seemed to have
extinguished. Since neither the priest nor the musician answered
immediately, he continued more quietly:
“Monseigneur Gloria is going to Italy now, and I can accompany him to
Rome as courier. From thence I can easily reach Naples, and live there
on the interest of my savings free from care. My future master will
leave on the 15th, and on the 12th I must be in Antwerp, where I am to
meet him.”
The eyes of the priest and the musician met. Wilhelm lacked courage to
seek to withhold the steward from carrying out his plan, but Damianus
summoned up his resolution, laid his hand on the old man’s shoulder, and
said:
“If you wait here a few weeks more, Belotti, you will find the true
rest, the peace of a good conscience. The crown of life is promised to
those, who are faithful, unto death. When these sad days are over, it
will be easy to smooth the way to your home. We shall meet again towards
noon, Belotti. If my assistance is necessary, send for me; old Ambrosius
knows where to find me. May God’s blessing rest upon you, and if you
will accept it from me, on you also, Meister Wilhelm.”
After the priest had left the house, Belotti said, sighing:
“He’ll yet force me to yield to his will. He abuses his power over
souls. I’m no saint, and what he asks of me--”
“Is right,” said Wilhelm firmly.
“But you don’t know what it is to throw away, like a pair of worn-out
shoes, the dearest hope of a long, sad life. And for whom, I ask you,
for whom? Do you know my padrona? Oh! sir, I have experienced in this
house things, which your youth does not dream could be possible. The
young lady has wounded you. Am I right or wrong?”
“You are mistaken, Belotti.”
“Really? I am glad for your sake, you are a modest artist, but the
signorina bears the Hoogstraten name, and that is saying everything. Do
you know her father?”
“No, Belotti.”
“That’s a race-a race! Have you never heard anything of the story of our
signorina’s older sister?”
“Has Henrica an older sister?”
“Yes, sir, and when I think of her.--Imagine the signorina, exactly like
our signorina, only taller, more stately, more beautiful.”
“Isabella!” exclaimed the musician. A conjecture, which had been aroused
since his conversation with Henrica, appeared to be confirmed; he seized
the steward’s arm so suddenly and unexpectedly, that the latter drew
back, and continued eagerly: “What do you know of her? I beseech you,
Belotti, tell me all.”
The servant looked up the stairs, then shaking his head, answered:
“You are probably mistaken. There has never been an Isabella in this
house to my knowledge, but I will gladly place myself at your service.
Come again after sunset, but you must expect to hear no pleasant tale.”
Twilight had scarcely yielded to darkness, when the musician again
entered the Hoogstraten mansion. The little room was empty, but Belotti
did not keep him waiting long.
The old man placed a dainty little waiter, bearing a jug of wine and a
goblet, on the table beside the lamp and, after informing Wilhelm of the
invalids’ condition, courteously offered him a chair. When the musician
asked him why he had not brought a cup for himself too, he replied:
“I drink nothing but water, but allow me to take the liberty to sit
down. The servant who attends to the chambers has left the house, and
I’ve done nothing but go up and down stairs all day. It tries my old
legs, and we can expect no quiet night.”
A single candle lighted the little room. Belotti, who had leaned far
back in his chair, opened his clenched hands and slowly began:
“I spoke this morning of the Hoogstraten race. Children of the same
parents, it is true, are often very unlike, but in your little
country, which speaks its own language and has many things peculiar to
itself--you won’t deny that--every old family has its special traits. I
know, for I have been in many a noble household in Holland. Every race
has its own peculiar blood and ways. Even where--by your leave--there is
a crack in the brain, it rarely happens to only one member of a family.
My mistress has more of her French mother’s nature. But I intended to
speak only of the signorina, and am wandering too far from my subject.”
“No, Belotti, certainly not, we have plenty of time, and I shall be glad
to listen to you, but first you must answer one question.”
“Why, sir, how your cheeks glow! Did you meet the signorina in Italy?”
“Perhaps so, Belotti.”
“Why, of course, of course! Whoever has once seen her, doesn’t easily
forget. What is it you wish to know?”
“First, the lady’s name.”
“Anna.”
“And not Isabella also?”
“No, sir, she was never called anything but Anna.”
“And when did she leave Holland?”
“Wait; it was--four years ago last Easter.”
“Has she dark, brown or fair hair?”
“I’ve said already that she looked just like Fraulein Henrica. But what
lady might not have fair, brown or dark hair? I think we shall reach
the goal sooner, if you will let me ask a question now. Had the lady
you mean a large semi-circular scar just under the hair, exactly in the
middle of her forehead?”
“Enough,” cried Wilhelm, rising hastily. “She fell on one of her
father’s weapons when a child.”
“On the contrary, sir, the handle of Junker Van Hoogstraten’s weapon
fell on the forehead of his own daughter. How horrified you look! Oh! I
have witnessed worse things in this house. Now it is your turn again: In
what city of my home did you meet the signorina?”
“In Rome, alone and under an assumed name. Isabella--a Holland girl!
Pray go on with your story, Belotti; I won’t interrupt you again. What
had the child done, that her own father--”
“He is the wildest of all the wild Hoogstratens. Perhaps you may have
seen men like him in Italy--in this country you might seek long for such
a hurricane. You must not think him an evil-disposed man, but a word
that goes against the grain, a look askance will rob him of his senses,
and things are done which he repents as soon as they are over. The
signorina received her scar in the same way. She was a mere child, and
of course ought not to have touched fire-arms, nevertheless she did
whenever she could, and once a pistol went off and the bullet struck one
of the best hunting-dogs. Her father heard the report and, when he saw
the animal lying on the ground and the pistol at the little girl’s feet,
he seized it and with the sharp-edged handle struck--”
“A child, his own daughter!” exclaimed Wilhelm indignantly.
“People are differently constituted,” Belotti continued. “Some, the
class to which you probably belong, cautiously consider before they
speak or act; the second reflect a long time and, when they are ready,
pour forth a great many words, but rarely act at all; while the third,
and at their head the Hoogstraten family, heap deeds on deeds, and if
they ever think, it is only after the act is accomplished. If they then
find that they have committed an injustice, pride comes in and forbids
them to confess, atone for, or recall it. So one misfortune follows
another; but the gentlemen pay no heed and find forgetfulness in
drinking and gambling, carousing and hunting. There are plenty of debts,
but all anxiety concerning them is left to the creditors, and boys who
receive no inheritance are supplied with a place at court or in the
army; for the girls, thank God, there is no lack of convents, if they
confess our holy religion, and both have expectations from rich aunts
and other blood relations, who die without children.”
“You paint in vivid colors.”
“But they are true, and they all suit the Junker; though to be sure he
need not keep his property for sons, since his wife gave him none. He
met her at court in Brussels, and she came from Parma.”
“Did you know her?”
“She died before I came to the padrona’s house. The two young ladies
grew up without a mother. You have heard that their father would even
attack them, yet he doubtless loved them and would never resolve
to place them in a convent. True, he often felt--at least he freely
admitted it in conversations with her excellenza--that there were more
suitable places for young girls than his castle, where matters went
badly enough, and so he at last sent his oldest daughter to us. My
mistress usually could not endure the society of young girls, but
Fraulein Anna was one of her nearest relatives, and I know she invited
her of her own accord. I can still see in memory the signorina at
sixteen; a sweeter creature, Herr Wilhelm, my eyes have never beheld
before or since, and yet she never remained the same. I have seen her
as soft as Flemish velvet, but at other times she could rage like a
November storm in your country. She was always beautiful as a rose and,
as her mother’s old cameriera--she was a native of Lugano--had
brought her up, and the priest who taught her came from Pisa and was
acknowledged to be an excellent musician, she spoke my language like
a child of Tuscany and was perfectly familiar with music. You have
doubtless heard her singing, her harp and lute-playing, but you should
know that all the ladies of the Hoogstraten family, with the exception
of my mistress, possess a special talent for your art. In summer we
lived in the beautiful country-house, that was torn down before the
siege by your friends--with little justice I think. Many a stately guest
rode out to visit us. We kept open house, and where there is a good
table and a beautiful young lady like our signorina, the gallants are
not far off. Among them was a very aristocratic gentleman of middle age,
the Marquis d’Avennes, whom her excellenza had expressly invited. We had
never received any prince with so much attention; but this was a matter
of course, for his mother was a relative of her excellenza. You must
know that my mistress; on her mother’s side, is descended from a family
in Normandy. The Marquis d’Avennes was certainly an elegant cavalier,
but rather dainty than manly. He was soon madly in love with Fraulein
Anna, and asked in due form for her hand. Her excellenza favored the
match, and the father said simply: ‘You will take him!’ He would listen
to no opposition. Other gentlemen don’t consult their daughters when a
suitable lover appears. So the signorina became the marquis’s betrothed
wife, but the padrona said firmly that her niece was too young to be
married. She induced Junker Van Hoogstraten, whom she held as firmly as
a farrier holds a filly, to defer the wedding until Easter. The outfit
was to be provided during the winter. The condition that he must wait
six months was imposed on the marquis, and he went back to France with
the ring on his finger. His betrothed bride did not shed a single tear
for him, and as soon as he had gone, flung the engagement ring into the
jewel-cup on her dressing-table, before the eyes of the camariera, from
whom I heard the story. She did not venture to oppose her father,
but did not hesitate to express her opinion of the marquis to her
excellenza, and her aunt, though she had favored the Frenchman’s suit,
allowed it. Yet there had often been fierce quarrels between the old and
young lady, and if the padrona had had reason to clip the wild falcon’s
wings and teach her what is fitting for noble ladies, the signorina
would have been justified in complaining of many an exaction, by which
the padrona had spoiled her pleasure in life. I am sorry to destroy the
confidence of your youth, but whoever grows grey, with his eyes open,
will meet persons who rejoice, nay to whom it is a necessity to injure
others. Yet it is a consolation, that no one is wicked simply for
the sake of wickedness, and I have often found--how shall I express
it?--that the worst impulses arise from the perversion, or even the
excess of the noblest virtues, whose reverse or caricature they become.
I have seen base envy proceed from beautiful ambition, contemptible
avarice from honest emulation, fierce hate from tender love. My
mistress, when she was young, knew how to love truly and faithfully, but
she was shamefully deceived, and now rancor, not against an individual,
but against life, has taken possession of her, and her noble loyalty has
become tenacious adherence to bad wishes. How this has happened you will
learn, if you will continue to listen.
“When winter came, I was ordered to go to Brussel, and establish the new
household in splendid style. The ladies were to follow me. It was four
years ago. The Duke of Alva then lived as viceroy in Brussels, and this
nobleman held my mistress in high esteem, nay had even twice paid us the
honor of a visit. His aristocratic officers also frequented our house,
among them Don Luis d’Avila, a nobleman of ancient family, who was one
of the duke’s favorites. Like the Marquis d’Avennes, he was no longer in
his early youth, but was a man of totally different stamp; tall, strong
as if hammered from steel, a soldier of invincible strength and skill,
a most dreaded seeker of quarrels, but a man whose glowing eyes and
wonderful gift of song must have exerted a mysterious, bewitching power
over women. Dozens of adventures, in which he was said to have taken
part, were told in the servant’s hall and half of them had some
foundation of truth, as I afterwards learned by experience. If you
suppose this heart-breaker bore any resemblance to the gay, curly-haired
minions of fortune, on whom young ladies lavish their love, you are
mistaken; Don Luis was a grave man with close-cut hair, who never wore
anything but dark clothes, and even carried a sword, whose hilt, instead
of gold and silver, consisted of blackened metal. He resembled
death much more than blooming love. Perhaps this very thing made him
irresistible, since we are all born for death and no suitor is so sure
of victory as he.
“The padrona had not been favorably disposed to him at first, but
this mood soon changed, and at New Year’s he too was admitted to small
evening receptions of intimate friends. He came whenever we invited him,
but had no word, no look, scarcely a greeting for our young lady. Only
when it pleased the signorina to sing, he went near her and sharply
criticised anything in her execution that chanced to displease him.
He often sang himself too, and then usually chose the same songs as
Fraulein Anna, as if to surpass her by his superior skill.
“So things went on till the time of the carnival. On Shrove-Tuesday
the padrona gave a large entertainment, and when I led the servants and
stood behind the signorina and Don Luis, to whom her excellenza had long
been in the habit of assigning the seat beside her niece, I noticed that
their hands met under the table and rested in each other’s clasp a long
time. My heart was so full of anxiety, that it was very hard for me
to keep the attention so necessary on that evening--and when the next
morning, the padrona summoned me to settle the accounts, I thought it
my duty to modestly remark that Don Luis d’Avila’s wooing did not seem
disagreeable to the young lady in spite of her betrothal. She let me
speak, but when I ventured to repeat what people said of the Spaniard,
angrily started up and showed me to the door. A faithful servant often
hears and sees more than his employers suspect, and I had the confidence
of the padrona’s foster-sister, who is now dead; but at that time
Susanna knew everything that concerned her mistress.
“There was a bad prospect for the expectant bridegroom in France, for
whenever the padrona spoke of him, it was with a laugh we knew, and
which boded no good; but she still wrote frequently to the marquis and
his mother, and many a letter from Rochebrun reached our house. To be
sure, her excellenza also gave Don Luis more than one secret audience.
“During Lent a messenger from Fraulein Van Hoogstraten’s father arrived
with the news, that at Easter he, himself, would come to Brussels from
Haarlem, and the marquis from Castle Rochebrun, and on Maundy Thursday
I received orders to dress the private chapel with flowers, engage
posthorses, and do several other things. On Good Friday, the day of our
Lord’s crucifixion--I wish I were telling lies--early in the morning of
Good Friday the signorina was dressed in all her bridal finery. Don Luis
appeared clad in black, proud and gloomy as usual, and by candle-light,
before sunrise on a cold, damp morning--it seems to me as if it were
only yesterday--the Castilian was married to our young mistress. The
padrona, a Spanish officer and I were the witnesses. At seven o’clock
the carriage drove up, and after it was packed Don Luis handed me a
little box to put in the vehicle. It was heavy and I knew it well; the
padrona was in the habit of keeping her gold coin in it. At Easter the
whole city learned that Don Luis d’Avila had eloped with the beautiful
Anna Van Hoogstraten, after killing her betrothed bridegroom in a duel
on Maundy-Thursday at Hals on his way to Brussels--scarcely twenty-four
hours before the wedding.
“I shall never forget how Junker Van Hoogstraten raged. The padrona
refused to see him and pretended to be ill, but she was as well as only
she could be during these last few years.”
“And do you know how to interpret your mistress’s mysterious conduct?”
asked Wilhelm.
“Yes sir; her reasons are perfectly evident. But I must hasten, it is
growing late; besides I cannot tell you minute particulars, for I was
myself a child when the event happened, though Susanna has told me many
things that would probably be worth relating. Her excellenza’s mother
was a Chevreaux, and my mistress spent the best years of her life with
her mother’s sister, who during the winter lived in Paris. It was in the
reign of the late King Francis, and you doubtless know that this great
Prince was a very gallant gentleman, who was said to have broken as
many hearts as lances. My padrona, who in those days was very beautiful,
belonged to the ladies of his court, and King Francis especially
distinguished her. But the young lady knew how to guard her honor, for
she had early found in the gallant Marquis d’Avennes a knight to whom
she was loyally devoted, and for whom she had wept bitterly many a
night. Like master, like servant, and though the marquis had worn
the young lady’s color for years and rendered her every service of an
obedient knight, his eyes and heart often wandered to the right and
left. Yet he always returned to his liege-lady, and when the sixth year
came, the Chevreaux’s urged the marquis to put an end to his trifling
and think of marriage. My mistress began to make her preparations, and
Susanna was a witness of her consultation with the marquis about whether
she would keep or sell the Holland estates and castles. But the wedding
did not take place, for the marquis was obliged to go to Italy with the
army and her excellenza lived in perpetual anxiety about him; at that
time the French fared ill in my country, and he often left her whole
months without news. At last he returned and found in the Chevreaux’s
house his betrothed wife’s little cousin, who had grown up into a
charming young lady.
“You can imagine the rest. The rose-bud Hortense now pleased the marquis
far better than the Holland flower of five and twenty. The Chevreaux’s
were aristocratic but deeply in debt, and the suitor, while fighting in
Italy, had inherited the whole of his uncle’s great estate, so they
did not suffer him to sue in vain. My mistress returned to Holland. Her
father challenged the marquis, but no blood was spilled in the duel, and
Monsieur d’Avennes led a happy wedded life with Hortense de Chevreaux.
Her son was the signorina’s hapless lover. Do you understand, Herr
Wilhelm? She had nursed and fostered the old grudge for half a life
time; for its sake she had sacrificed her own kinswoman to Don Luis, but
in return she repaid by the death of the only son of a hated mother, the
sorrow she had suffered for years on her account.”
The musician had clenched the handkerchief, with which he had wiped the
perspiration from his brow, closely in his hand, and asked:
“What more have you heard of Anna?”
“Very little,” replied Belotti. “Her father has torn her from his heart,
and calls Henrica his only daughter. Happiness abandons those who are
burdened by a father’s curse, and she certainly did not find it. Don
Luis is said to have been degraded to the rank of ensign on account
of some wild escapades, and who knows what has become of the poor,
beautiful signorina. The padrona sometimes sent money to her in Italy,
by way of Florence, through Signor Lamperi--but I have heard nothing of
her during the last few months.”
“One more question, Belotti,” said Wilhelm, “how could Henrica’s father
trust her to your mistress, after what had befallen his older daughter
in her house?”
“Money--miserable money! To keep his castle and not lose his
inheritance, he resigned his child. Yes, sir, the signorina was
bargained for, like a horse, and her father didn’t sell her cheap. Drink
some wine, sir, you look ill.”
“It is nothing serious,” said Wilhelm, “but the fresh air will probably
do me good. Thanks for your story, Belotti.”