Between twelve and one o’clock on the 26th of May, Ascension-Day,
the ringing of bells announced the opening of the great fair. The old
circuit of the boundaries of the fields had long since given place to
a church festival, but the name of “Ommegang” remained interwoven with
that of the fair, and even after the new religion had obtained the
mastery, all sorts of processions took place at the commencement of the
fair.
In the days of Catholic rule the cross had been borne through the
streets in a soleum procession, in which all Leyden took part, now the
banners of the city and standards bearing the colors of the House of
Orange headed the train, followed by the nobles on horseback, the city
magistrates in festal array, the clergy in black robes, the volunteers
in magnificent uniforms, the guilds with their emblems, and long joyous
ranks of school-children. Even the poorest people bought some thing new
for their little ones on this day. Never did mothers braid their young
daughters’ hair more carefully, than for the procession at the opening
of the fair. Spite of the hard times, many a stiver was taken from
slender purses for fresh ribbons and new shoes, becoming caps and
bright-hued stockings. The spring sunshine could be reflected from the
little girls’ shining, smoothly-combed hair, and the big boys and little
children looked even gayer than the flowers in Herr Van Montfort’s
garden, by which the procession was obliged to pass. Each wore a sprig
of green leaves in his cap beside the plume, and the smaller the boy,
the larger the branch. There was no lack of loud talk and merry shouts,
for every child that passed its home called to its mother, grandparents,
and the servants, and when one raised its voice many others instantly
followed. The grown people too were not silent, and as the procession
approached the town-hall, head-quarters of military companies,
guild-halls or residences of popular men, loud cheers arose, mingled
with the ringing of bells, the shouts of the sailors on both arms of the
Rhine and on the canals, the playing of the city musicians at the street
corners, and the rattle of guns and roar of cannon fired by the gunners
and their assistants from the citadel. It was a joyous tumult in jocund
spring! These merry mortals seemed to lull themselves carelessly in the
secure enjoyment of peace and prosperity, and how blue the sky was, how
warmly and brightly the sun shone! The only grave, anxious faces were
among the magistrates; but the guilds and the children behind did not
see them, so the rejoicings continued without interruption until the
churches received the procession, and words so earnest and full of
warning echoed from the pulpits, that many grew thoughtful.
All three phases of time belong to man, the past to the graybeard, the
future to youth, and the present to childhood. What cared the little
boys and girls of Leyden, released from school during the fair, for
the peril close at hand? Whoever, on the first day and during the great
linen-fair on Friday and the following days, received spending money
from parents or godparents, or whoever had eyes to see, ears to hear,
and a nose to smell, passed through the rows of booths with his or her
companions, stopped before the camels and dancing-bears, gazed into
the open taverns, where not only lads and lasses, but merry old
people whirled in the dance to the music of bagpipes, clarionets and
violins--examined gingerbread and other dainties with the attention
of an expert, or obeyed the blasts of the trumpet, by which the quack
doctor’s negro summoned the crowd.
Adrian, the burgomaster’s son, also strolled day after day, alone or
with his companions, through the splendors of the fair, often grasping
with the secure sense of wealth the leather purse that hung at his
belt, for it contained several stivers, which had flowed in from various
sources; his father, his mother, Barbara and his godmother. Captain Van
Duivenvoorde, his particular friend, on whose noble horse he had often
ridden, had taken him three times into a wafer booth, where he eat till
he was satisfied, and thus, even on the Tuesday after Ascension-Day, his
little fortune was but slightly diminished. He intended to buy something
very big and sensible: a knight’s sword or a cross-bow; perhaps
even--but this thought seemed like an evil temptation--the ginger-cake
covered with almonds, which was exhibited in the booth of a Delft
confectioner. He and Bessie could surely nibble for weeks upon this
giant cake, if they were economical, and economy is an admirable virtue.
Something must at any rate be spared for “little brothers,”--[A kind
of griddle or pancake.]--the nice spiced cakes which were baked in many
booths before the eyes of the passers-by.
On Tuesday afternoon his way led him past the famous Rotterdam
cake-shop. Before the door of the building, made of boards lightly
joined together and decked with mirrors and gay pictures, a stout,
pretty woman, in the bloom of youth, sat in a high arm-chair, pouring
rapidly, with remarkable skill, liquid dough into the hot iron plate,
provided with numerous indentations, that stood just on a level with her
comfortably outspread lap. Her assistant hastily turned with a fork
the little cakes, browning rapidly in the hollows of the iron, and when
baked, laid them neatly on small plates. The waiter prepared them for
purchasers by putting a large piece of yellow butter on the smoking
pile. A tempting odor, that only too vividly recalled former enjoyment,
rose from the fireplace, and Adrian’s fingers were already examining the
contents of his purse, when the negro’s trumpet sounded and the quack
doctor’s cart stopped directly in front of the booth.
The famous Doctor Morpurgo was a fine-looking man, dressed in bright
scarlet, who had a thin, coalblack beard hanging over his breast. His
movements were measured and haughty, the bows and gestures with which he
saluted the assembled crowd, patronizing and affable. After a sufficient
number of curious persons had gathered around his cart, which was
stocked with boxes and vials, he began to address them in broken Dutch,
spiced with numerous foreign words.
He praised the goodness of the Providence which had created the marvel
of human organism. Everything, he said, was arranged and formed wisely
and in the best possible manner, but in one respect nature fared badly
in the presence of adepts.
“Do you know where the error is, ladies and gentlemen?” he asked.
“In the purse,” cried a merry barber’s clerk, “it grows prematurely thin
every day.”
“Right, my son,” answered the quack graciously. “But nature also
provides it with the great door from which your answer has come. Your
teeth are a bungling piece of workmanship. They appear with pain,
decay with time, and so long as they last torture those who do not
industriously attend to them. But art will correct nature. See this
box--” and he now began to praise the tooth-powder and cure for
toothache he had invented. Next he passed to the head, and described in
vivid colors, its various pains. But they too were to be cured, people
need only buy his arcanum. It was to be had for a trifle, and whoever
bought it could sweep away every headache, even the worst, as with a
broom.
Adrian listened to the famous doctor with mouth wide open. Specially
sweet odors floated over to him from the hot surface of the stove before
the booth, and he would have gladly allowed himself a plate of fresh
cakes. The baker’s stout wife even beckoned to him with a spoon, but he
closed his hand around the purse and again turned his eyes towards the
quack, whose cart was now surrounded by men and women buying tinctures
and medicines.
Henrica lay ill in his father’s house. He had been taken into her room
twice, and the beautiful pale face, with its large dark eyes, had filled
his heart with pity. The clear, deep voice in which she addressed a few
words to him, also seemed wonderful and penetrated the inmost depths
of his soul: He was told one morning that she was there, and since that
time his mother rarely appeared and the house was far more quiet than
usual; for everybody walked lightly, spoke in subdued tones, rapped
cautiously at a window instead of using the knocker, and whenever Bessie
or he laughed aloud or ran up or down-stairs, Barbara, his mother, or
Trautchen appeared and whispered: “Gently, children, the young lady has
a headache.”
There were many bottles in the cart which were warranted to cure the
ailment, and the famous Morpurgo seemed to be a very sensible man,
no buffoon like the other mountebanks. The wife of the baker, Wilhelm
Peterssohn, who stood beside him, a woman he knew well, said to her
companion that the doctor’s remedies were good, they had quickly cured
her godmother of a bad attack of erysipelas.
The words matured the boy’s resolution. Fleeting visions of the sword,
the cross-bow, the gingerbread and the nice little brothers once more
rose before his mind, but with a powerful effort of the will he thrust
them aside, held his breath that he might not smell the alluring odor of
the cakes, and hastily approached the cart. Here he unfastened his purse
from his belt, poured its contents into his hand, showed the coins to
the doctor, who had fixed his black eyes kindly on the odd customer, and
asked: “Will this be enough?”
“For what?”
“For the medicine to cure headache.”
The quack separated the little coins in Adrian’s hand with his
forefinger, and answered gravely: “No, my son, but I am always glad to
advance the cause of knowledge. There is still a great deal for you to
learn at school, and the headache will prevent it. Here are the drops
and, as it’s you, I’ll give this prescription for another arcanum into
the bargain.”
Adrian hastily wrapped the little vial the quack handed him in the piece
of printed paper, received his dearly-bought treasure, and ran home. On
the way he was stopped by Captain Allertssohn, who came towards him with
the musician Wilhelm.
“Have you seen my Andreas, Master Good-for-nothing?” he asked.
“He was standing listening to the musicians,” replied Adrian, released
himself from the captain’s grasp, and vanished among the crowd.
“A nimble lad,” said the fencing-master. “My boy is standing with the
musicians again. He has nothing but your art in his mind. He would
rather blow on a comb than comb his hair with it, he’s always tooting
on every leaf and pipe, makes triangles of broken sword-blades, and not
even a kitchen pot is safe from his drumming; in short there’s nothing
but singsong in the good-for-nothing fellow’s head; he wants to be a
musician or something of the sort.”
“Right, right!” replied Wilhelm eagerly; “he has a fine ear and the best
voice in the choir.”
“The matter must be duly considered,” replied the captain, “and you, if
anybody, are the person to tell us what he can accomplish in your art.
If you have time this evening, Herr Wilhelm, come to me at the watch
house, I should like to speak to you. To be sure, you’ll hardly find me
before ten o’clock. I have a stricture in my throat again, and on such
days--Roland, my fore man!”
The captain cleared his throat loudly and vehemently. “I am at your
service,” said Wilhelm, “for the night is long, but I won’t let you go
now until I know what you mean by your fore man Roland.”
“Very well, it’s not much of a story, and perhaps you won’t understand.
Come in here; I can tell it better over a mug of beer, and the legs
rebel if they’re deprived of rest four nights in succession.”
When the two men were seated opposite to each other in the tap-room, the
fencing-master pushed his moustache away from his lips, and began: “How
long ago is it-? We’ll say fifteen years, since I was riding to Haarlem
with the innkeeper Aquarius, who as you know, is a learned man and has
all sorts of old stuff and Latin manuscripts. He talks well, and when
the conversation turned upon our meeting with many things in life
that we fancy we have already seen, remarked that this could be easily
explained, for the human soul was an indestructible thing, a bird that
never dies. So long as we live it remains with us, and when we die flies
away and is rewarded or punished according to its deserts; but after
centuries, which are no more to the Lord than the minutes in which I
empty this fresh mug--one more, bar-maid--the merciful Father releases
it again, and it nestles in some new born child. This made me laugh;
but he was not at all disturbed and told the story of an old Pagan, a
wonderfully wise chap, who knew positively that his soul had formerly
lodged in the body of a mighty hero. This same hero also remembered
exactly where, during his former life, he had hung his shield, and told
his associates. They searched and found the piece of armor, with
the initials of the Christian and surname which had belonged to the
philosopher in his life as a soldier, centuries before. This puzzled me,
for you see--now don’t laugh--something had formerly happened to me very
much like the Pagan’s experience. I don’t care much for books, and
from a child have always read the same one. I inherited it from my dead
father and the work is not printed, but written. I’ll show it to you
some time--it contains the history of the brave Roland. Often, when
absorbed in these beautiful and true stories, my cheeks have grown
as red as fire, and I’ll confess to you, as I did to my
travelling-companion: If I’m not mistaken, I’ve sat with King Charles
at the board, or I’ve worn Roland’s chain armor in battle and in the
tourney. I believe I have seen the Moorish king, Marsilia, and once
when reading how the dying Roland wound his horn in the valley of the
Roncesvalles, I felt such a pain in my throat, that it seemed as if it
would burst, and fancied I had felt the same pain before. When I frankly
acknowledged all this, my companion exclaimed that there was no doubt
my soul had once inhabited Roland’s body, or in other words, that in a
former life I had been the Knight Roland.”
The musician looked at the fencing-master in amazement and asked: “Could
you really believe that, Captain?”
“Why not,” replied the other. “Nothing is impossible to the Highest. At
first I laughed in the man’s face, but his words followed me; and when I
read the old stories--I needn’t strain my eyes much, for at every line I
know beforehand what the next will be--I couldn’t help asking myself--In
short, sir, my soul probably once inhabited Roland’s body, and that’s
why I call him my ‘fore man.’ In the course of years, it has become a
habit to swear by him. Folly, you will think, but I know what I know,
and now I must go. We will have another talk this evening, but about
other matters. Yes, everybody in this world is a little crackbrained,
but at least I don’t bore other people. I only show my craze to intimate
friends, and strangers who ask me once about the fore man Roland rarely
do so a second time. The score, bar-maid--There it is again. We must see
whether the towers are properly garrisoned, and charge the sentinels
to keep their eyes open. If you come prepared for battle, you may save
yourself a walk, I’ll answer for nothing to-day. You will probably pass
the new Rhine. Just step into my house, and tell my wife she needn’t
wait supper for me. Or, no, I’ll attend to that myself; there’s
something in the air, you’ll see it, for I have the Roncesvalles throat
again.”