A story is told of a condemned man, whom his cruel executioner cast into
a prison of ingenious structure. Each day the walls of this cage grew
narrower and narrower, each day they pressed nearer and nearer to the
unfortunate prisoner, until in despair he died and the dungeon became
his coffin. Even so, league by league, the iron barriers of the Spanish
regiments drew nearer and nearer Leyden, and, if they succeeded in
destroying the resistance of their victim, the latter was threatened
with a still more cruel and pitiless end than that of the unhappy
prisoner. The girdle Valdez, King Philip’s commander, and his skilful
lieutenant, Don Ayala, had drawn around the city in less than two days,
was already nearly closed, the fort of Valkenburg, strengthened with
the utmost care, belonged to the enemy, and the danger had advanced
more rapidly and with far more irresistible strength, than even the most
timid citizens had feared. If Leyden fell, its houses would be delivered
to fire and pillage, its men to death, its women to disgrace--this was
guaranteed by the fate of other conquered cities and the Spanish nature.
Who could imagine the guardian angel of the busy city, except under a
sullen sky, with clouded brow and anxious eyes, and yet it looked as gay
and bright at the White Gate as if a spring festival was drawing to
a close with a brilliant exhibition. Wherever the walls, as far as
Catherine’s Tower, afforded a foothold, they were crowded with men,
women, and children. The old masonry looked like the spectators’ seats
in an arena, and the buzzing of the many-headed, curious crowd was heard
for a long distance in the city.
It is a kind dispensation of Providence, that enables men to enjoy a
brief glimpse of sunshine amid terrible storms, and thus the journeymen
and apprentices, women and children, forgot the impending danger and
feasted their eyes on the beautifully-dressed English soldiers, who were
looking up at them, nodding and laughing saucily to the young girls,
though part of them, it is true, were awaiting with thoughtful faces the
results of the negotiations going on within the walls.
The doors of the White Gate now opened; Commissioner Van Bronkhorst, Van
der Werff, Van Hout and other leaders of the community accompanied the
British colonel and his trumpeter to the bridge. The former seemed to be
filled with passionate indignation and several times struck his hand on
the hilt of his sword, the Leyden magistrates were talking to him, and
at last took leave with low bows, which he answered only with a haughty
wave of the hand. The citizens returned, the portals of the gate closed,
the old lock creaked, the iron-shod beams fell back into their places,
the chains of the drawbridge rattled audibly, and the assembled throng
now knew that the Englishmen had been refused admittance to the city.
Loud cheers, mingled with many an expression of displeasure, were heard.
“Long live Orange!” shouted the boys, among whom were Adrian and the
son of the dead fencing-master Allertssohn; the women waved their
handkerchiefs, and all eyes were fixed on the Britons. A loud flourish
of trumpets was heard, the English mounted officers dashed towards the
colonel and held a short council of war with him, interrupted by hasty
words from several individuals, and soon after a signal was sounded. The
soldiers hurriedly, formed in marching array, many of them shaking their
fists at the city. Halberds and muskets, which had been stacked, were
seized by their owners and, amid the beating of drums and blare of
trumpets, order arose out of the confusion. Individuals fell into ranks,
ranks into companies, gay flags were unfurled and flung to the evening
breeze, and with loud hurrahs the troops marched along the Rhine towards
the south-west, where the Spanish outposts were stationed.
The Leyden boys joined loudly in the Englishmen’s cheer.
Even Andreas, the fencing-master’s son, had begun to shout with them;
but when he saw a tall captain marching proudly before his company, his
voice failed and, covering his eyes with his hands, he ran home to his
mother.
The other lads did not notice him, for the setting sun flashed so
brightly on the coats of mail and helmets of the soldiers, the trumpets
sounded so merrily, the officers’ steeds caracoled so proudly under
their riders, the gay plumes and banners and the smoke of the glimmering
matches gained such beautiful hues in the roseate light of sunset, that
eyes and ears seemed spellbound by the spectacle. But a fresh incident
now attracted the attention of great and small.
Thirty-six Englishmen, among them several officers, lingered behind the
others and approached the gate. Again the lock creaked and the chains
rattled. The little band was admitted to the city and welcomed at
the first houses of the northern end by Herr Van Bronkhorst and the
burgomaster.
Every one on the walls had expected, that a skirmish between the
retreating Englishmen and Castilians would now take place before their
eyes. But they were greatly mistaken. Before the first ranks reached
the enemy, the matches for lighting the cannon flew through the air, the
banners were lowered, and when darkness came and the curious spectators
dispersed, they knew that the Englishmen had deserted the good cause and
gone over to the Spaniards.
The thirty-six men, who had been admitted through the gates, were the
only ones who refused to be accessory to this treason.
The task of providing quarters for Captain Cromwell and the other
Englishmen and Netherlanders, who had remained faithful, was assigned
to Van Hout. Burgomaster Van der Werff went home with Commissioner
Van Bronkhorst. Many a low-voiced but violent word had been exchanged
between them. The commissioner protested that the Prince would be highly
incensed at the refusal to admit the Englishmen, for with good reason he
set great value on Queen Elizabeth’s favorable disposition to the cause
of freedom, to which the burgomaster and his friends had rendered bad
service that day. Van der Werff denied this, for everything depended
upon holding Leyden. After the fall of this city, Delft, Rotterdam and
Gouda would also be lost, and all farther efforts to battle for the
liberty of Holland useless. Five hundred consumers would prematurely
exhaust the already insufficient stock of provisions. Everything had
been done to soften their refusal to admit the Englishmen, nay they had
had free choice to encamp beneath the protection of the walls under the
cannon of the city.
When the two men parted, neither had convinced the other, but each felt
sure of his comrade’s loyalty. As Peter took leave, he said:
“Van Hout shall explain the reasons for our conduct to the Prince, in
a letter as clear and convincing as only he can make it, and his
excellency will finally approve of it. Rely upon that.”
“We will wait,” replied the commissioner, “but don’t forget that we
shall soon be shut within these walls behind bolts and bars, like
prisoners, and perhaps day after to-morrow no messenger will be able to
get to him.”
“Van Hout is swift with his pen.”
“And let a proclamation be read aloud, early tomorrow morning, advising
the women, old men and children, in short, all who will diminish the
stock of provisions and add no strength to the defence, to leave the
city. They can reach Delft without danger, for the roads leading to it
are still open.”
“Very well,” replied Peter. “It’s said that many girls and women have
gone to-day in advance of the others.”
“That’s right,” cried the commissioner. “We are driving in a fragile
vessel on the high seas. If I had a daughter in the house, I know what
I should do. Farewell till we meet again, Meister. How are matters at
Alfen? The firing is no longer heard.”
“Darkness has probably interrupted the battle.”
“We’ll hope for the best news to-morrow, and even if all the men outside
succumb, we within the walls will not flinch or yield.”
“We will hold out firmly to the end,” replied Peter resolutely.
“To the end, and, if God so wills it, a successful end.”
“Amen,” cried Peter, pressed the commissioner’s hand and pursued his way
home.
Barbara met him on the steps and wanted to call Maria, who was with
Henrica; but he forbade it and paced thoughtfully to and fro, his lips
often quivering as if he were suffering great pain. When, after some
time, he heard his wife’s voice in the dining-room, he controlled
himself by a violent effort, went to the door, and slowly opened it.
“You are at home already, and I sitting quietly here spinning!” she
exclaimed in surprise.
“Yes, child. Please come in here, I have something to say to you.”
“For Heaven’s sake! Peter, tell me what has happened. How your voice
sounds, and how pale you look!”
“I’m not ill, but matters are serious, terribly serious, Maria.”
“Then it is true that the enemy--”
“They gained great advantage to-day and yesterday, but I beg you, if you
love me, don’t interrupt me now; what I have to say is no easy thing, it
is hard to force the lips to utter it. Where shall I begin? How shall
I speak, that you may not misunderstand me? You know, child, I took you
into my house from a warm nest. What we could offer was very little,
and you had doubtless expected to find more. I know you have not been
happy.”
“But it would be so easy for you to make me so.”
“You are mistaken, Maria. In these troublous times but one thing claims
my thoughts, and whatever diverts them from it is evil. But just now
one thing paralyzes my courage and will-anxiety about your fate; for who
knows what is impending over us, and therefore it must be said, I must
take my heart to the shambles and express a wish.--A wish? Oh, merciful
Heaven, is there no other word for what I mean!”
“Speak, Peter, speak, and do not torture me!” cried Maria, gazing
anxiously into her husband’s face. It could be no small matter, that
induced the clear-headed, resolute man to utter such confused language.
The burgomaster summoned up his courage and began again:
“You are right, it is useless to keep back what must be said. We have
determined at the town-hall to-day, to request the women and girls to
leave the city. The road to Delft is still open; day after to-morrow
it may no longer be so, afterwards--who can predict what will happen
afterwards? If no relief comes and the provisions are consumed, we shall
be forced to open the gates to the enemy, and then, Maria, imagine what
will happen! The Rhine and the canals will grow crimson, for much blood
will flow into them and they will mirror an unequalled conflagration.
Woe betide the men, tenfold woe betide the women, against whom the
conqueror’s fury will then be directed. And you, you--the wife of the
man who has induced thousands to desert King Philip, the wife of the
exile, who directs the resistance within these walls.”
At the last words Maria had opened her large eyes wider and wider, and
now interrupted her husband with the question: “Do you wish to try how
high my courage will rise?”
“No, Maria. I know you will hold out loyally and would look death in the
face as fearlessly as your sister did in Haarlem; but I, I cannot endure
the thought of seeing you fall into the hands of our butchers. Fear for
you, terrible fear, will destroy my vigorous strength in the decisive
hours, so the words must be uttered--”
Maria had hitherto listened to her husband quietly; she knew what he
desired. Now she advanced nearer and interrupted him by exclaiming
firmly, nay imperiously:
“No more, no more, do you hear! I will not endure another word!”
“Maria!”
“Silence it is my turn now. To escape fear, you will thrust your wife
from the house; fear, you say, would undermine your strength. But will
longing strengthen it? If you love me, it will not fail to come--”
“If I love you, Maria!”
“Well, well! But you have forgotten to consider how I shall feel in
exile, if I also love you. I am your wife. We vowed at the altar, that
nothing save death should part us. Have you forgotten it? Have your
children become mine? Have I taught them, rejoiced to call myself their
mother? Yes, or no?”
“Yes, Maria, yes, yes, a hundred times yes!”
“And you have the heart to throw me into the arms of this wasting
longing! You wish to prevent me from keeping the most sacred of vows?
You can bring yourself to tear me from the children? You think me too
shallow and feeble, to endure suffering and death for the sacred cause,
which is mine as well as yours! You are fond of calling me your child,
but I can be strong, and whatever may come, will not weep. You are the
husband and have the right to command, I am only the wife and shall
obey. Shall I go? Shall I stay? I await your answer.”
She had uttered the last words in a trembling voice, but the burgomaster
exclaimed with deep emotion:
“Stay, stay, Maria! Come, come, and forgive me!” Peter seized her hand,
exclaiming again:
“Come, come!”
But the young wife released herself, retreated a step and said
beseechingly:
“Let me go, Peter, I cannot; I need time to overcome this.”
He let his arms fall and gazed mournfully into her face, but she turned
away and silently left the room. Peter Van der Werff did not follow her,
but went quietly into his study and strove to reflect upon many things,
that concerned his office, but his thoughts constantly reverted to
Maria. His love oppressed him as if it were a crime, and he seemed to
himself like a courier, who gathers flowers by the way-side and in this
idling squanders time and forgets the object of his mission. His heart
felt unspeakably heavy and sad, and it seemed almost like a deliverance
when, just before midnight, the bell in the Tower of Pancratius raised
its evilboding voice. In danger, he knew, he would feel and think of
nothing except what duty required of him, so with renewed strength he
took his hat from the hook and left the house with a steady step.
In the street he met Junker Van Duivenvoorde, who summoned him to the
Hohenort Gate, before which a body of Englishmen had again appeared; a
few brave soldiers who, in a fierce, bloody combat, had held Alfen and
the Gouda sluice against the Spaniards until their powder was exhausted
and necessity compelled them to yield or seek safety in flight. The
burgomaster followed the officer and ordered the gates to be opened
to the brave soldiers. They were twenty in number, among them the
Netherland Captain Van der Iaen, and a Young German officer. Peter
commanded, that they should have shelter for the night in the town-hall
and the guard-house at the gate. The next morning suitable quarters
would be found for them in the houses of the citizens. Janus Dousa
invited the captain to lodge with him, the German went to Aquanus’s
tavern. All were ordered to report to the burgomaster at noon the next
day, to be assigned to quarters and enrolled among the volunteer troops.
The ringing of the alarm-bell in the tower also disturbed the night’s
rest of the ladies in the Van der Werff household. Barbara sought Maria,
and neither returned to their rooms until they had learned the cause of
the ringing and soothed Henrica.
Maria could not sleep. Her husband’s purpose of separating from her
during the impending danger, had stirred her whole soul, wounded her
to the inmost depths of her heart. She felt humiliated, and, if not
misunderstood, at least unappreciated by the man for whose sake she
rejoiced, whenever she perceived a lofty aspiration or noble emotion in
her own soul. What avail is personal loveliness to the beautiful wife of
a blind man; of what avail to Maria was the rich treasure buried in her
bosom, if her husband would not see and bring it to the surface! “Show
him, tell him how lofty are your feelings,” urged love; but womanly
pride exclaimed: “Do not force upon him what he disdains to seek.”
So the hours passed, bringing her neither sleep, peace, nor the desire
to forget the humiliation inflicted upon her.
At last Peter entered the room, stepping lightly and cautiously, in
order not to wake her. She pretended to be asleep, but with half-closed
eyes could see him distinctly. The lamp-light fell upon his face, and
the lines she had formerly perceived looked like deep shadows between
his eyes and mouth. They impressed upon his features the stamp of heavy,
sorrowful anxiety, and reminded Maria of the “too hard” and “if I can
only bear it,” he had murmured in his sleep the night before. Then he
approached her bed and stood there a long time; she no longer saw him,
for she kept her eyes tightly closed, but the first loving glance, with
which he gazed down upon her, had not escaped her notice. It continued
to beam before her mental vision, and she thought she felt that he was
watching and praying for her as if she were a child.
Sleep had long since overpowered her husband, while Maria lay gazing at
the glimmering dawn, as wakeful as if it were broad day. For the sake
of his love she would forgive much, but she could not forget the
humiliation she had experienced. “A toy,” she said to herself, “a work
of art which we enjoy, is placed in security when danger threatens the
house; the axe and the bread, the sword and the talisman that protects
us, in short whatever we cannot dispense with while we live, we do
not release from our hands till death comes. She was not necessary,
indispensable to him. If she had obeyed his wish and left him,
then--yes, then--”
Here the current of her thoughts was checked, for the first time she
asked herself the question: “Would he have really missed your helping
hand, your cheering word?”
She turned restlessly, and her heart throbbed anxiously, as she told
herself that she had done little to smooth his rugged pathway. The vague
feeling, that he had not been entirely to blame, if she had not found
perfect happiness by his side, alarmed her. Did not her former conduct
justify him in expecting hindrance rather than support and help in
impending days of severest peril?
Filled with deep longing to obtain a clear view of her own heart, she
raised herself on her pillows and reviewed her whole former life.
Her mother had been a Catholic in her youth, and had often told her how
free and light-hearted she had felt, when she confided everything that
can trouble a woman’s heart to a silent third person, and received from
the lips of God’s servant the assurance that she might now begin a new
life, secure of forgiveness. “It is harder for us now,” her mother
said before her first communion, “for we of the Reformed religion are
referred to ourselves and our God, and must be wholly at peace with
ourselves before we approach the Lord’s table. True, that is enough, for
if we frankly and honestly confess to the judge within our own breasts
all that troubles our consciences, whether in thought or deed, and
sincerely repent, we shall be sure of forgiveness for the sake of the
Saviour’s wounds.”
Maria now prepared for this silent confession, and sternly and
pitilessly examined her conduct. Yes, she had fixed her gaze far too
steadily upon herself, asked much and given little. The fault was
recognized, and now the amendment should begin.
After this self-inspection, her heart grew lighter, and when she at last
turned away from the morning-light to seek sleep, she looked forward
with pleasure to the affectionate greeting she meant to offer Peter in
the morning; but she soon fell asleep and when she woke, her husband had
long since left the house.
As usual, she set Peter’s study in order before proceeding to any other
task, and while doing so, cast a friendly glance at the dead Eva’s
picture. On the writing-table lay the bible, the only book not connected
with his business affairs, that her husband ever read. Barbara sometimes
drew comfort and support from the volume, but also used it as an oracle,
for when undecided how to act she opened it and pointed with her finger
to a certain passage. This usually had a definite meaning and she
generally, though not always, acted as it directed. To-day she had been
disobedient, for in response to her question whether she might venture
to send a bag of all sorts of dainties to her son, a Beggar of the Sea,
in spite of the Spaniards encircling the city, she had received the
words of Jeremiah: “Their tents and their flocks shall they take away:
they shall take to themselves their curtains and all their vessels and
their camels,” and yet the bag had been entrusted early that morning
to a widow, who intended to make her escape to Delft with her young
daughter, according to the request of the magistrates. The gift might
perhaps reach Rotterdam; a mother always hopes for a miracle in behalf
of her child.
Before Maria restored the bible to its old place, she opened it at the
thirteenth chapter of the first Epistle of Paul to the Corinthians,
which speaks of love, and was specially dear to her. There were the
words: “Charity suffereth long and is kind, charity is not easily
provoked;” and “Charity beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth
all things, endureth all things.”
To be kind and patient, to hope and endure all things, was the duty love
imposed upon her.
When she had closed the bible and was preparing to go to Henrica,
Barbara ushered Janus Dousa into the room. The young nobleman to-day
wore armor and gorget, and looked far more like a soldier than a
scientist or poet. He had sought Peter in vain at the town-hall, and
hoped to find him at home. One of the messengers sent to the Prince
had returned from Dortrecht with a letter, which conferred on Dousa the
office made vacant by Allertssohn’s death. He was to command not only
the city-guard, but all the armed force. He had accepted the appointment
with cheerful alacrity, and requested Maria to inform her husband.
“Accept my congratulations,” said the burgomaster’s wife. “But what will
now become of your motto: ‘Ante omnia Musae?’”
“I shall change the words a little and say: ‘Omnia ante Musas.”
“Do you understand that jargon, child?” asked Barbara.
“A passport will be given the Muses,” replied Maria gaily.
Janus was pleased with the ready repartee and exclaimed: “How bright and
happy you look! Faces free from care are rare birds in these days.”
Maria blushed, for she did not know how to interpret the words of
the nobleman, who understood how to reprove with subtle mockery,
and answered naively: “Don’t think me frivolous, Junker. I know the
seriousness of the times, but I have just finished a silent confession
and discovered many bad traits in my character, but also the desire to
replace them with more praiseworthy ones.”
“There, there,” replied Janus. “I knew long ago that you had formed a
friendship in the Delft school with my old sage. ‘Know thyself,’ was
the Greek’s principal lesson, and you wisely obey it. Every silent
confession, every desire for inward purification, must begin with
the purpose of knowing ourselves and, if in so doing we unexpectedly
encounter things which tend to make our beloved selves uncomely,
and have the courage to find them just as hideous in ourselves as in
others--”
“Abhorrence will come, and we shall have taken the first step towards
improvement.”
“No, dear lady, we shall then stand on one of the higher steps. After
hours of long, deep thought, Socrates perceived--do you know what?”
“That he knew nothing at all. I shall arrive at this perception more
speedily.”
“And the Christian learns it at school,” said Barbara, to join in the
conversation. “All knowledge is botchwork.”
“And we are all sinners,” added Janus. “That’s easily said, dear madam,
and easily understood, when others are concerned. ‘He is a sinner’
is quickly uttered, but ‘I am a sinner’ escapes the lips with more
difficulty, and whoever does exclaim it with sorrow, in the stillness of
his own quiet room, mingles the white feathers of angels’ wings with the
black pinions of the devil. Pardon me! In these times everything thought
and said is transformed into solemn earnest. Mars is here, and the
cheerful Muses are silent. Remember me to your husband, and tell him,
that Captain Allertssohn’s body has been brought in and to-morrow is
appointed for the funeral.”
The nobleman took his leave, and Maria, after visiting her patient and
finding her well and bright, sent Adrian and Bessie into the garden
outside the city-wall to gather flowers and foliage, which she intended
to help them weave into wreaths for the coffin of the brave soldier. She
herself went to the captain’s widow.