so imprudent as to speak thus unguardedly of your master’s defects to
one whom you saw to-day for the first time, and whose name, position,
and motives are unknown to you? Do you know that you put yourself in my
power by these words? But I will partly answer your question. I know
something of Count Stromwael, and what I know gives me the right to
offer you what I do; and as I happen to want your services—they will
never conflict with your outward allegiance to your patron—I make you
the only proposal, as an equivalent, for which you care. If you cared
for the common things—women, money, position—you would not be the
person I want; such vassals can be bought by the cart-load, in every
station in life, from the Countess of Flanders or the first lord of her
household down to the ragged beggars or the sleek hypocrites who crowd
the city. I want you, my fancy has chosen you, and I ask you will you
buy success at the price of ten years of your life?”
“But why,” persisted the eager but uneasy Nicholas, “only ten years?
Why not ask for my whole life?”
The stranger laughed oddly. “And your future life too?” he said. “Yes,
I see what you are thinking of: that I want your soul. I will not deny
your imputation; you flatter me by identifying me with one whose power
is as dread as you have been taught to believe the devil’s to be, but I
am quite truthful in saying that I do not crave more than a promise of
ten years’ faithful and blind service. You may, if you can, redeem the
sacrifice by a long after-life—I only ask ten years; at your age it is
not much to give.”
“And if I should die before the ten years are over?”
The stranger raised his eyebrows, but without opening his eyes
perceptibly wider.
“You insist on continuing the parallel?” he asked. “I only said ten
years of life; if you die you escape me, but you lose your own chance.
What should I want with a dead man? The loss would be as much mine as
yours.”
“If you can guarantee, as you said, that I should be in danger but
should not be struck down, perhaps you can promise me that I shall not
die till our contract is fulfilled on both sides?”
“My dear friend, one would need to be deathless one’s self to make such
a promise. Even a doctor could only promise life provided such and such
circumstances were certain.”
“If you can dispose of Count Stromwael’s will and property,” said
Nicholas doggedly, “you can ensure me ten years’ life.”
“Is your life dearer to you than your success, then?”
“No; but the latter depends on the former, and if _you_ must hedge in
business by conditions, _I_ must be sure that I do not give you in
advance all you want without being sure of my reward at the end.”
“I should not have expected so much foresight in you; I respect you for
it. I will see that you have this assurance, but how do I know whether
you will believe in it? You see you are so much shrewder than ordinary
enthusiasts that I may be taking a spy or a critic into my service.”
“I have never thought about business or guarantees before, because I
care for nothing but the success of my organ, and only that would have
made me eager to bind you to your promise,” said Nicholas, still
uneasily; “but since you only ask ten years’ service, I think I may
safely say yes.”
The stranger smiled again, as oddly as before, and drew out a roll of
parchment from a little bag. “According to tradition, you should sign
this with your blood,” he said, “but I shall be quite content if you
sign it with common ink. Here is a horn and a pen; only write your
name. But first read the bond.”
Nicholas looked suspiciously at the stranger, who calmly handed him the
paper; the latter’s face showed neither interest nor triumph. The deed
was very simply worded: “I, Nicholas Verkloep, promise to owe unfailing
and unquestioning obedience in all things to Marcus Lemoinne for the
space of ten years from this day and hour, in return for the success of
my organ at the end of that time, and for all the help he may give me
in the interval.” The date was already filled in, being the day on
which the above conversation took place, and the hour was marked two
hours after noon. Nicholas glanced at the clock behind him in the
chapel; the hands pointed to ten minutes to that hour. The stranger
followed his glance, quietly rose from the bench, and turning his back
upon him, knelt down on the narrow board fixed for this purpose to the
front of the tribune.
Nicholas quickly turned things over in his mind: as to his silence
about it when the promise was signed he had decided; as to his
fulfilment of his obligations to the letter he was as loyally certain;
as to the individual whom this man either was or represented he had
very little doubt. Very few in his time would have thought otherwise;
perhaps few would have hesitated so much after having made up their
minds not to ask the advice of any one either before or after the
contract was made. Nicholas was only an average Christian, and had no
strong feelings except on the subject of his art; everything was in
favor of his giving ten years’ life for the success of his scheme. As
the clock struck the hour the stranger rose, touched his shoulder, and
said, “Well?”
Nicholas, with something like a start, took the pen and signed his name
as quickly as he could, whereupon the other also wrote in a fair and
scholarly hand these words: “I, Marcus Lemoinne, promise to ensure the
success of Nicholas Verkloep’s organ at the end of ten years, in return
for his obedience to me during that time.”
No commonplaces passed at parting, and Nicholas went home soon after.
His old master noticed that he was a little more excited than usual,
and began to make plans and preparations with more energy, but he was
used to these phases of mind. The young man (he was now twenty-three)
procured beautiful and costly wood for carving, besides ivory, paints,
and other materials, and set to work on a complete model. Now began the
oddest experiences of his life: his mind seemed doubled, for he was
conscious of a never-ceasing expectation, an alertness, and a
watchfulness hitherto unknown to him. In the streets, in church, in bed
at night, he was always looking for Lemoinne or ready to obey his
summons, yet his attention, when he bestowed it on his work, was not
disturbed or lessened by this parallel current of thought. His mind
grew stronger, brighter, quicker, more ingenious; his fanatical
devotion to his art increased daily, and with it his powers, until his
fame grew to be just such as the stranger had foretold. This stimulated
him further, and he made unheard-of progress, so that his old friend
and teacher was half-crazy with joy and pride. The count sent for him
to play in the hall before his guests on a small organ of no great
power or value, and Nicholas drew from it such sounds as the great men
of the profession could not draw from the most magnificent church
instruments. That they were jealous of him he knew, but he feared no
jealousy, as he courted no admiration. He refused repeatedly to take
advantage of his reputation and increase his fortune by travelling to
the various art-loving cities of the Netherlands and of Italy, or even
by performing in public on great occasions, so that the crowds of his
persistent admirers had to content themselves with hearing him at his
own old organ in the Stromwael chapel. Even the popular preachers of
the day were envious of him. Meanwhile, he worked first at the model,
then at the separate pieces of his future organ. The count had given no
permission, nor hinted at any, and Lemoinne had made no call on his
time, but his belief in the efficacy of the bond never flagged for a
moment. It did not occur to him to wonder why he never heard the man’s
name mentioned as among those who, whether merchants, artists, or
statesmen, had public or secret power; his unspoken suspicion of his
identity prevented all such ideas, but it did strike him as odd that
for ten months after the signing of the contract nothing was required
of him. He felt morbidly that he did not belong to himself, and knew
that, do what he would, a secret influence sat within, master of his
heart and will, master even of his dreams, and, he feared, of his art
also. Was it himself that he put forth in his compositions? When the
ten years were ended he would be able to tell, but it was a long time
to look forward to. Yet during that time his fame would have been made,
and if his power then suddenly deserted him and his suspicions came to
be confirmed, he could easily retire on his former laurels and compose
no more. Retire at thirty-three? Well, there was the monastery; many
men had made a second career, more creditable even than the first, by
devoting their worldly gifts, their wealth, and their fame to religious
purposes when circumstances made the world distasteful to them at an
earlier period than usual. If his suspicions should be true, an
after-life of atonement would be fitting, and it would give him time
for studies which he longed to undertake, but had no leisure or
opportunity for at present. The spiritual element counted for nothing
in his calculations; there were many doors still closed in his nature.
As he wandered in fancy, his fingers worked and produced beautiful or
weird things. The face of Lemoinne, so constantly present to his mind,
often came out in wood under his touch, and always, when finished, gave
him a start of surprise; for, surely, that was not the expression he
remembered? And yet, in carving the likeness, he must have had the
recollection before him? A year after the interview in the chapel his
old teacher the organist died, and the first strange thing that he had
ever said to his pupil he said on his death-bed.
“My son,” he began, as he lay with his hand in that of Nicholas, “there
is one thing I feel I must say to you before I go; it is my duty, and
young men sometimes forget it. With you it is more dangerous than with
most. Be your own master; do not lose the ownership of yourself. Men
who do generally commit crime, and, if the slavery be to a woman, they
often do base, mean things. I have sometimes feared that you were
losing the mastery of yourself, and yet at other times I saw you
absorbed in what has been your only idol for twelve years or more.”
“There is no woman that shares that idolatry,” answered Nicholas
evasively, starting at the old man’s anxious looks and awakened
insight.
“Well,” said the dying man, “I do not grudge you a wife, but I fear any
one, man or woman, whose influence over you is not entirely supported
and controlled by reason. In God’s name, Nicholas, and as a dying man,
I beseech you, if you are in any toils, break through them as quickly
as you can.”
“My dear master,” said his pupil, “when you are in heaven pray that I
may be guided aright, for I shall have lost the only guide on earth
whose help or advice was of use to me.”
“That is no answer, Nicholas,” said the old man reproachfully and
wearily; “but remember what I said.”
“Yes, I will remember it,” said the other in an altered tone, “and, if
I can, I will heed it.”
After the old man’s death Nicholas led a very lonely life, but his
increasing labors at his organ cheered him and occupied his time. His
fame kept at its high pitch, and the jealousy of his brother artists
was well known.
Fourteen months after his first interview with Lemoinne the latter came
again, this time to his home (possibly the attic before described).
Nicholas told him how surprised he had been at hearing nothing from him
for so long.
“One does not use one’s best and rarest tools often,” said the other
with his indescribable smile, “though the highest price paid for them
is none the more begrudged on that account; and, again, the finest
instruments are used to do what seems the least important work. You
know how a glass-cutter uses a diamond? Now, all I want you to do is to
ride to a certain place and deliver this letter; you will find the
horse ready saddled at St. Martin’s Gate; you have twelve hours to do
it in, and by daybreak you will find the same man ready to take the
horse at the same place from which you start. The fleetest government
messenger would take sixteen hours; but I know the horse and his
powers; of his rider I know enough to make me trust him equally.”
The implied trust flattered Nicholas, who took the letter, and, seeing
the direction, started a little, but said: “If you say it can be done,
it can, but the distance would take a common rider nearer twenty hours
than sixteen. Shall I go at once?”
“Yes, and remember your trust goes no further than the delivery of this
package to whoever opens the door of that house to you.”
It would take too long to describe the night ride, or even the state of
mind in which Nicholas found himself while careering along at a
headlong speed towards his goal. This was the first service he had
performed for his strange master—an easy and safe one apparently,
though secret; the man’s fascination of manner or voice—which was
it?—had evidently not lessened since his last appearance. Nothing
special occurred; he gave the letter to a commonplace looking person at
the door of an ordinary, rather shabby house, and returned by dawn. As
to curiosity concerning his errand, it struck him as odd that he should
feel none; yet he had never been of a gossipy turn of mind, and these
things were, after all, only details in the scheme. This business of
Lemoinne’s was probably connected with politics, about which he cared
nothing. He did not see his patron again for months, and his work
progressed wonderfully.
The next figure which bore the man’s likeness was that of a physician,
pouring a liquid from one vial into another, and the expression was
that of absorbed attention. The organ-case was to be ornamented with
figures representing various saints, the patrons of music, of the
Stromwaels, of the chapel, and of the city; then figures typifying the
various city guilds; then nine figures emblematic of the traditional
nine choirs of angels; but a space was left in the centre, just over
the key-board, for the crowning masterpiece. A rose-tree hedge was to
run round the instrument, and the pedals were each to be carved so as
to represent the seven deadly sins, which, by being trodden under foot,
contribute to make the music of the soul before God. Fantastic ideas
and odd devices were constantly springing up in his brain and being
realized beneath his touch, and in these he encouraged himself to
indulge. In one corner of the case, however, was to stand a beautiful,
dignified, venerable figure, the glorified likeness of his old master,
with no corresponding figure opposite, and robed like a prophet,
holding a tablet on which in letters of gold were to be carved in Latin
these words: “Be master of thyself.”
His life as a solitary artist and mechanic was a monotonous one to
record; even his few tests of obedience to Lemoinne were neither
romantic nor terrible. Once he was sent in the disguise of a page to a
court entertainment, with orders to follow and observe a high official
of the state (who afterwards was proved a traitor and put to death
accordingly); another time he was instructed to detain for half an hour
a professor of one of the great universities, by which delay the man
lost an appointment he much coveted; and another time he was sent to a
young man of great position and wealth, but an orphan, to recommend a
servant to him. From this, however, sprang some other circumstances
worth recording. The young man, Count Brederode, took a violent fancy
to him, visited him at his home, entered into his hopes and plans, and
begged him to be a friend and brother to him. Nicholas felt drawn to
the count, but reminded him of the difference between their stations,
and only agreed so far as circumstances would allow. This young man was
his very opposite—bright, garrulous, sociable. He always had a love
affair on hand, and always confided it to Nicholas, whose words on the
subject were never, however, very encouraging. He wasted his money in a
way that distressed his prudent friend, and his time in a thousand
pursuits for which he had no better excuse than that “gentlemen
generally did so and so.” The best-employed part of his day was that
which he sometimes spent watching Nicholas at work. At last one day he
said suddenly:
“Do you know I am to marry Count Stromwael’s favorite niece, whom he
brought up as a sister with his own only daughter? And upon this
occasion I am going to ask him a favor, which I am sure he cannot
refuse: to let you put up your organ in place of his, which I will take
for my chapel in the country.”
Nicholas stared at him in silence. Was this a roundabout fulfilment of
Lemoinne’s promise, or a wild, boyish freak, likely to result in
nothing?
“Your organ is sufficiently far advanced to put up and play on, is it
not?”
“It will be in six months.”
“Then six months hence you shall transfer your workshop to the chapel
tribune,” said Brederode confidently.
Nicholas said nothing, but the other was used to that. The famous
musician grew more silent every day; things got complicated in his
mind, and he was always puzzling himself. His brain was clear only for
his work; at all other times he walked in a dream of expectation,
conjecture, and dread. Each day the seemingly light burden weighed more
upon him; the horror of being entangled in conspiracies of which he was
ignorant, and concerned in wrongs which he could neither prevent nor
reconcile to himself, haunted him; and yet in actual facts there was
nothing to complain of, nothing even to describe. It seemed
incomprehensible to him that Lemoinne should have made so solemn an
appeal and promise for so little reward, and should have used his power
so sparingly. The very blandness of the passing years made him fear
some awful test towards the last. Meanwhile, Brederode’s generous,
boyish friendship cheered and soothed him. But a year after he first
knew him, and two months after Count Stromwael had yielded to his
nephew-in-law’s vehement pleading for the Verkloep organ, Nicholas, at
work in the chapel, saw him enter with an unusually serious face. The
young man began to make dark confidences on political subjects, which
Nicholas instinctively repelled, and, without knowing why, he said:
“I entreat you, Count Brederode, do not make me the repository of plans
and intentions that may end dangerously for you. I wish to know nothing
of anything which is likely to make the state rake up all your habits
and intimacies, and use them as the Philistines did Delilah.”
“I would sooner trust you than my own wife,” laughed the young man,
“and no one will suspect such a maniac as you are, you know!”
“If you insist upon it,” said Nicholas sadly, “let me at least solemnly
swear to you, by my hope of salvation, that nothing shall make me
betray you in the slightest thing.”
“I would trust you without an oath,” cried Brederode.
“Then you are not of the stuff of which conspirators are made,” said
Nicholas, “and I wish you would retire from a position unsuited to you.
You have no interest even in it.”
“None but the fun of secrecy and excitement—except this,” he added more
seriously: “that having once promised to give others the shield of my
name and the support of my money, I am bound in honor not to run away.”
“True, but break with them honorably and frankly.”
“I cannot.”
“You _will_ not?”
“No, it is not that; there are other games almost as exciting, but my
wife’s brother is involved, and I must stand by him. Let us treat it
only as an escapade; I want to tell you about it.”
“I repeat my oath, then, and pray Heaven to strike me deaf, dumb, and
palsied before I have anything to do in this to your disadvantage.”
“You make it so serious that it loses its fun. But....” And Brederode
went on to explain a scheme which the spirit of the times and its
prejudices alone made dangerous, but which, if frustrated and
discovered, surely entailed capital punishment. Nicholas listened
moodily, striving to abstract his mind, endeavoring not to take in his
friend’s talk, and all the while feeling a miserable consciousness
that, however it might come about, he was nearing one of the tests of
his hateful bondage. The day passed, and he still felt uneasy; each
step on the stairs frightened him; he could hardly work. At night
Lemoinne came to see him. Few words passed; Lemoinne bade him in the
same cool, metallic voice, indifferent yet compelling attention,
denounce Brederode and his fellow conspirators. He pleaded his oath.
“No oath that conflicts with your promise is worth anything.”
“But he is my friend, and his wife the niece of my patron.”
“No harm shall come to you through denouncing him; your name will be
unknown. You shall appear only as an agent—my agent—and not even
Brederode himself shall have the chance of upbraiding you.”
“But, since you know the whole affair, why not act yourself?”
“I do not know the whole, but you do, and I mean you to tell me and
write it down; I will sign it alone. I am known and have power in many
places, but it is useful to have instruments; I have bought mine, and
only wish to use what I purchased. Sit down and write.” Nicholas stood
sullen and silent. “Do you fancy, because your organ is partly built
and placed, that no accident may happen to it? I can do more than you
think; you weigh an act with which no one but I shall be acquainted
against the possible destruction of your favorite, the fall of your
ambition, the collapse of your whole life.”
“No one can put it to me more forcibly than I have done to myself,”
said Nicholas moodily; “but, unluckily for me, I have a conscience
left.”
“Forget it for twenty-four hours.”
“You do not ask me to forget it, but to disregard it, to gag it. I know
what I lose in breaking my bond, and I believe in your power
sufficiently to be sure that even my friend would not have opportunity
to rebuke me in life.”
“Why do you talk about it?” interrupted Lemoinne with the cold smile
peculiar to him. “To discuss a thing, and weigh _pros_ and _cons_, is
to yield; you do not reason against what you have made up your mind to
refuse.”
Nicholas gazed at the man in horror. Who was he to go thus mercilessly
to the heart of the question, to see his hidden thoughts, to interpret
the secret of all the uneasiness he had felt ever since his friend had
spoken those light but fatal words? Who? A master stronger than
himself; one whom it was little use to resist now, no doubt, since he
had not had the fortitude to resist him at first. It ended in his
yielding, but not without the most terrible self-contempt;
self-reproach was nothing to it. He wrote what he knew; as he wrote it
all came back to him, much as he had honestly tried not to hear or
understand the details. Lemoinne alone signed the paper, and bade him
take it to a certain address before morning.
“If you change your mind or try to deceive me, I shall know it,” he
said coldly as he left, “and all the difference will be that you will
lose your hopes, as well as Brederode his life.”
Nicholas did as he was bidden, and from that day the little peace he
had had before fled. The day of the execution came, and he could not
resist going to see his friend pay the penalty of _his_ treachery. His
tongue was parched and his eyes bloodshot; he skulked behind people in
the crowd, and wore his cap as low as he could over his forehead; but
nothing availed him, and when the axe fell he felt as if his own soul
had been under it instead of the head of his friend. Feverishly and
recklessly, all but despairingly, he returned to his work, but though
his brain and hands had not lost their cunning, the impressions of that
day clouded everything else in his mind, and he had no heart for
anything. Two years sped on, and Nicholas Verkloep, with his glowing
reputation, was more of an enigma than ever; but it would be impossible
to describe the many phases of his mental _delirium tremens_ during
that time. The organ was near completion, and Count Stromwael was now
as proud of it as the maker. Lemoinne visited Nicholas once more before
the end, and this time at the place where the contract was first made.
It was the same hour, too. He began by congratulating him on his
success so far, then examined the carvings, and smiled as he noticed
his own face repeated many times.
“And here is Brederode’s,” he said, as he pointed to the figure
personifying the Choir of Thrones. “What made you put him in?”
“Because, as you well know, his face is always with me,” said Nicholas,
emboldened by his very complicity with his terrible master. “It was a
relief to me to make the image a sort of reality, to give tangible
expression to my remorse.”