Days and weeks had passed, July was followed by sultry August, and that,
too, was drawing to a close. The Spaniards still surrounded Leyden,
and the city now completely resembled a prison. The soldiers and armed
citizens did their duty wearily and sullenly, there was business enough
at the town-hall, but the magistrates’ work was sad and disagreeable;
for no message of hope came from the Prince or the Estates, and
everything to be considered referred to the increasing distress and
the terrible follower of war, the plague, which had made its entry
into Leyden with the famine. Moreover the number of malcontents weekly
increased. The friends of the old order of affairs now raised their
voices more and more loudly, and many a friend of liberty, who saw
his family sickening, joined the Spanish sympathizers and demanded
the surrender of the city. The children went to school and met in
the playgrounds as before, but there was rarely a flash of the merry
pertness of former days, and what had become of the boys’ red cheeks and
the round arms of the little girls? The poor drew their belts tighter,
and the morsel of bread, distributed by the city to each individual, was
no longer enough to quiet hunger and support life.
Junker Georg had long been living in Burgomaster Van der Werff’s house.
On the morning of August 29th he returned home from an expedition,
carrying a cross-bow in his hand, while a pouch hung over his shoulder.
This time he did not go up-stairs, but sought Barbara in the kitchen.
The widow received him with a friendly nod; her grey eyes sparkled as
brightly as ever, but her round face had grown narrower and there was a
sorrowful quiver about the sunken mouth.
“What do you bring to-day?” she asked the Junker. Georg thrust his hand
into his game-bag and answered, smiling: “A fat snipe and four larks;
you know.”
“Poor sparrows! But what sort of a creature can this be? Headless,
legless, and carefully plucked! Junker, Junker, that’s suspicious.”
“It will do for the pan, and the name is of no consequence.”
“Yet, yet; true, nobody knows on what he fattens, but the Lord didn’t
create every animal for the human stomach.”
“That’s just what I said. It’s a short-billed snipe, a corvus, a real
corvus.”
“Corvus! Nonsense, I’m afraid of the thing--the little feathers under
the wings. Good heavens! surely it isn’t a raven?”
“It’s a corvus, as I said. Put the bird in vinegar, roast it with
seasoning and it will taste like a real snipe. Wild ducks are not to be
found every day, as they were a short time ago, and sparrows are
getting as scarce as roses in winter. Every boy is standing about with a
cross-bow, and in the court-yards people are trying to catch them under
sieves and with lime-twigs. They are going to be exterminated, but one
or another is still spared. How is the little elf?”
“Don’t call her that!” exclaimed the widow. “Give her her Christian
name. She looks like this cloth, and since yesterday has refused to take
the milk we daily procure for her at a heavy cost. Heaven knows what
the end will be. Look at that cabbage-stalk. Half a stiver! and that
miserable piece of bone! Once I should have thought it too poor for the
dogs--and now! The whole household must be satisfied with it. For supper
I shall boil ham-rind with wine and add a little porridge to it. And
this for a giant like Peter! God only knows where he gets his strength;
but he looks like his own shadow. Maria doesn’t need anything more than
a bird, but Adrian, poor fellow, often leaves the table with tears in
his eyes, yet I know he has broken many a bit of bread from his thin
slice for Bessie. It is pitiable. Yet the proverb says: ‘Stretch
yourself towards the ceiling, or your feet will freeze--‘Necessity knows
no law,’ and ‘Reserve to preserve.’ Day before yesterday, like the rest,
we again gave of the little we still possessed. To-morrow, everything
beyond what is needed for the next fortnight, must be delivered up, and
Peter won’t allow us to keep even a bag of flour, but what will come
then--merciful Heaven!--”
The widow sobbed aloud as she uttered the last words and continued,
weeping: “Where do you get your strength? At your age this miserable
scrap of meat is a mere drop of water on a red-hot stone.”
“Herr Van Aken gives me what he can, in addition to my ration. I shall
get through; but I witnessed a terrible sight to-day at the tailor’s,
who mends my clothes.”
“Well?”
“Two of his children have starved to death.”
“And the weaver’s family opposite,” added Barbara, weeping. “Such nice
people! The young wife was confined four days ago, and this morning
mother and child expired of weakness, expired, I tell you, like a
lamp that has consumed its oil and must go out. At the cloth-maker
Peterssohn’s, the father and all five children have died of the plague.
If that isn’t pitiful!”
“Stop, stop!” said Georg, shuddering. “I must go to the court-yard to
drill.”
“What’s the use of that! The Spaniards don’t attack; they leave the
work to the skeleton death. Your fencing gives an appetite, and the poor
hollow herrings can scarcely stir their own limbs.”
“Wrong, Frau Barbara, wrong,” replied the young man. “The exercise and
motion sustains them. Herr von Nordwyk knew what he was doing, when he
asked me to drill them in the dead fencing-master’s place.”
“You’re thinking of the ploughshare that doesn’t rust. Perhaps you are
right; but before you go to work, take a sip of this. Our wine is still
the best. When people have something to do, at least they don’t mutiny,
like those poor fellows among the volunteers day before yesterday. Thank
God, they are gone!”
While the widow was filling a glass, Wilhelm’s mother came into the
kitchen and greeted Barbara and the young nobleman. She carried under
her shawl a small package clasped tightly to her bosom. Her breadth was
still considerable, but the flesh, with which she had moved about
so briskly a few months ago, now seemed to have become an oppressive
burden.
She took the little bundle in her right hand, saying “I have something
for your Bessie. My Wilhelm, good fellow--”
Here she paused and restored her gift to its old place. She had seen
the Junker’s plucked present, and continued in an altered tone: “So you
already have a pigeon--so much the better! The city clerk’s little girl
is beginning to droop too. I’ll see you to-morrow, if God wills.”
She was about to go, but Georg stopped her, saying: “You are mistaken,
my good lady. I shot that bird to-day, I’ll confess now, Frau Barbara;
my corvus is a wretched crow.”
“I thought so,” cried the widow. “Such an abomination!”
Yet she thrust her finger into the bird’s breast, saying: “But there’s
meat on the creature.”
“A crow!” cried Wilhelm’s mother, clasping her hands. “True, dogs and
cats are already hanging on many a spit and have wandered into many a
pan. There is the pigeon.”
Barbara unwrapped the bird as carefully, as if it might crumble under
her fingers, gazing tenderly at it as she weighed it carefully in her
hand; but the musician’s mother said:
“It’s the fourth one Wilhelm has killed, and he said it would have been
a good flier. He intended it specially for your Bessie. Stuff it nicely
with yellow paste, not too solid and a little sweetened. That is what
children like, and it will agree with her, for it is cheerfully given.
Put the little thing away. When we have known any creature, we feel
sorry to see it dead.”
“May God reward you!” cried Barbara, pressing the kind old hand. “Oh!
these terrible times!”
“Yet there is still something to be thankful for.”
“Of course, for it will be even worse in hell,” replied the widow.
“Don’t fall into sin,” said the aged matron: “You have only one sick
person in the house. Can I see Frau Maria?”
“She is in the workshops, taking the people a little meat from our
store. Are you too so short of flour? Cows are still to be seen in the
pastures, but the grain seems to have been actually swept away; there
wasn’t a peck in the market. Will you take a sip of wine too? Shall I
call my sister-in-law?”
“I will seek her myself. The usury in the market is no longer to be
endured. We can do nothing more there, but she is already bringing
people to reason.”
“The traders in the market?” asked Georg.
“Yes, Herr von Dornburg, yes. One wouldn’t believe how much that
delicate woman can accomplish. Day before yesterday, when we went about
to learn how large a stock of provisions every house contains, people
treated me and the others very rudely, many even turned us out of doors.
But she went to the roughest, and the cellars and store-rooms opened
before her, as the waves of the sea divided before the people of Israel.
How she does it, Heaven knows, but the people can’t refuse her.”
Georg drew a long breath and left the kitchen. In the court-yard he
found several city soldiers, volunteers and militia-men, with whom
he went through exercises in fencing. Van der Werff placed it at his
disposal for this purpose, and there certainly was no man in Leyden more
capable than the German of supplying worthy Allertssohn’s place.
Barbara was not wrong. His pupils looked emaciated and miserable enough,
but many of them had learned, in the dead man’s school, to wield the
sword well, and were heartily devoted to the profession.
In the centre of the court-yard stood a human figure, stuffed with tow
and covered with leather, which bore on the left breast a bit of red
paper in the shape of a heart. The more unskilful were obliged to thrust
at this figure to train the hand and eye; the others stood face to face
in pairs and fought under Georg’s direction with blunt foils.
The Junker had felt very weak when he entered the kitchen, for the
larger half of his ration of bread had been left at the unfortunate
tailor’s; but Barbara’s wine had revived him and, rousing himself, he
stepped briskly forth to meet his fencers. His doublet was quickly
flung on a bench, his belt drawn tighter, and he soon stood in his white
shirt-sleeves before the soldiers.
As soon as his first word of command was heard, Henrica’s window closed
with a bang. Formerly it had often been opened when the fencing drill
began, and she had not even shrunk from occasionally clapping her hands
and calling “bravo.” This time had long since passed, it was weeks since
she had bestowed a word or glance on the young noble. She had never
made such advances to any man, would not have striven so hard to win a
prince’s favor! And he? At first he had been distant, then more and more
assiduously avoided her. Her pride was deeply wounded. Her purpose of
diverting his attention from Maria had long been forgotten, and moreover
something--she knew not what had come between her and the young wife.
Not a day elapsed in which he did not meet her, and this was a source of
pleasure to Henrica, because she could show him that his presence was
a matter of indifference, nay even unpleasant. Her imprisonment greatly
depressed her, and she longed unutterably for the open country, the
fields and the forest. Yet she never expressed a wish to leave the city,
for--Georg was in Leyden, and every waking and dreaming thought was
associated with him. She loved him to-day, loathed him tomorrow, and did
both with all the ardor of her passionate heart. She often thought of
her sister too, and uttered many prayers for her. To win the favor of
Heaven by good works and escape ennui, she helped the Grey Sisters, who
lived in a little old convent next to Herr Van der Werff’s house, nurse
the sick whole they had lovingly received, and even went with Sister
Gonzaga to the houses of the Catholic citizens, to collect alms for the
little hospital. But all this was done without joyous self-devotion,
sometimes with extravagant zeal, sometimes lazily, and for days not at
all. She had become excessively irritable, but after being unbearably
arrogant one day, would seem sorrowful and ill at ease the next, though
without asking the offended person’s pardon.
The young girl now stood behind the closed window, watching Georg, who
with a bold spring dashed at the leathern figure and ran the sword in
his right hand through the phantom’s red heart.
The soldiers loudly expressed their admiration. Henrica’s eye, also
sparkled approvingly, but suddenly they lost their light, and she
stepped farther back into the room, for Maria came out of the workshops
in the court-yard and, with her gaze fixed on the ground, walked past
the fencers.
The young wife had grown paler, but her clear blue eyes had gained a
more confident, resolute expression. She had learned to go her own way,
and sought and found arduous duties in the service of the city and the
poor. She had remained conqueror in many a severe conflict of the heart,
but the struggle was not yet over; she felt this whenever Georg’s
path crossed hers. As far as possible she avoided him, for she did not
conceal from herself, that the attempt to live with him on the footing
of a friend and brother, would mean nothing but the first step on the
road to ruin for him and herself. That he was honestly aiding her by a
strong effort at self-control, she gratefully felt, for she stood heart
to heart with her husband on the ship of life. She wished no other
guide; nay the thought of going to destruction with Peter had no
terror to her. And yet, yet! Georg was like the magnetic mountain, that
attracted her, and which she must avoid to save the vessel from sinking.
To-day she had been asking the different workmen how they fared, and
witnessed scenes of the deepest misery.
The brave men knew that the surrender of the city might put an end to
their distress, but wished to hold out for the sake of liberty and their
religion, and endured their suffering as an inevitable misfortune.
In the entry of the house Maria met Wilhelm’s mother, and promised
her she would consult with Frau Van Hout that very day, concerning the
extortion practised by the market-men. Then she went to poor Bessie, who
sat, pale and weak, in a little chair. Her prettiest doll had been lying
an hour in the same position on her lap. The child’s little hands and
will were too feeble to move the toy. Trautchen brought in a cup of new
milk. The citizens were not yet wholly destitute of this, for a goodly
number of cows still grazed outside the city walls under the protection
of the cannon, but the child refused to drink and could only be induced,
amid tears, to swallow a few drops.
While Maria was affectionately coaxing the little one, Peter entered
the room. The tall man, the very model of a stately burgher, who paid
careful heed to his outward appearance, now looked careless of
his person. His brown hair hung over his forehead, his thick,
closely-trimmed moustache straggled in thin lines over his cheeks, his
doublet had grown too large, and his stockings did not fit snugly as
usual, but hung in wrinkles on his powerful legs.
Greeting his wife with a careless wave of the hand, he approached the
child and gazed silently at it a long time with tender affection. Bessie
turned her pretty little face towards him and tried to welcome him, but
the smile died on her lips, and she again gazed listlessly at her doll,
Peter stooped, raised her in his arms, called her by name and pressed
his lips to her pale cheeks. The child gently stroked his beard and then
said feebly:
“Put me down, dear father, I feel dizzy up here.” The burgomaster, with
tears in his eyes, put his darling carefully back in her little chair,
then left the room and went to his study. Maria followed him and asked
“Is there no message yet from the Prince or the estates?”
He silently shrugged his shoulders.
“But they will not, dare not forget us?” cried the young wife eagerly.
“We are perishing and they leave us to die,” he answered in a hollow
tone.
“No, no, they have pierced the dykes; I know they will help us.”
“When it is too late. One thing follows another, misfortune is heaped
on misfortune, and on whom do the curses of the starving people fall? On
me, me, me alone.”
“You are acting with the Prince’s commissioner.”
Peter smiled bitterly, saying: “He took to his bed yesterday. Bontius
says it is the plague. I, I alone bear everything.”
“We bear it with you,” cried Maria. “First poverty, then hunger, as we
promised.”
“Better than that. The last grain was baked today. The bread is
exhausted.”
“We still have oxen and horses.”
“We shall come to them day after to-morrow. It was determined: Two
pounds with the bones to every four persons. Bread gone, cows gone, milk
gone. And what will happen then? Mothers, infants, sick people! And our
Bessie!”
The burgomaster pressed his hands on his temples and groaned aloud. But
Maria said: “Courage, Peter, courage. Hold fast to one thing, don’t let
one thing go--hope.”
“Hope, hope,” he answered scornfully.
“To hope no longer,” cried Maria, “means to despair. To despair means in
our case to open the gates, to open the gates means--”
“Who is thinking of opening the gates? Who talks of surrender?” he
vehemently interrupted. “We will still hold firm, still, still----There
is the portfolio, take it to the messenger.”